Franklyn - Episode 2

 

Father had begun snoring when I returned, the pillow in my hand. His chest heaved as he snored, his head resting on the back of the couch.  

The television was still on, but he must have reduced the volume, for all I could hear was the ebb and flow of his snore. I advanced toward him, stealthily of course, on the balls of my feet. I felt my body stiffen, a sudden fever surged through me so that my hands trembled and my feet seemed spindly . My brain fogged. Father's snore accentuated into a deafening din.

Momentarily I felt a pang of guilt, an overbearing force pulling me back, trying to radicalize me. The room was dim, illuminated by light from the television, flickering as pictures rolled on screen. 

I was now over his head. His face was ugly upside down. His lower lip sagged, his nose so broad. Spittle was leaking from his mouth onto his shoulder. He seemed dead already, save he was snoring like an engine, revving harder and harder. 

I raised the pillow, wondering how Mother would react tomorrow morning when she finds his corpse. She would gasp like an asmathic then scream incessantly, throwing herself acrobatically up and down. How would Father's brother, Uncle Jack, react when he comes visiting with a nylon full of groceries? He would definitely stifle his tears and glower about in repressed agony. I had no idea how Benny would react

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. Maybe he wouldn't care. It's not like he loved Father, he just didn't have the balls to kill him, or abet killing him. 
 But I did. I pressed the pillow against his face. His snoring ceased. He began to groan. Then abruptly he went still. My moment of victory, success. He stopped breathing. The world stood still, amplifying the wall clock's ticktock, rendering the cricket chirping outside dreadful, causing a macabre throbbing in my head.

But my victory was fleeting. Father sprung up like a tiger and pounced on me. He was hyperventilating, cursing on top of his voice as he lashed out slaps to my face. 

‘Franklyn, what are you doing? You want to kill me?’

He didn't let me answer. He knocked me out with a punch to my face. 

It was the following day when I woke up to Benny dabbing my sweat-drenched forehead, that I realized the magnitude of my failure. It was woeful. I couldn't feel my face; I was numb. I'd failed like i'd done last year when I was asked to repeat primary four, making Benny and I classmates. That had been the most awful period of my very existence. My headmaster was savage: he asked me to mount the podium alongside the other two repeaters. After a lethal whooping which seemed to yank the flesh off my buttocks, he asked the school to clap for us because we had 'tried a lot.' The derisive clapping and booing was immortal. It took over my head, conscripted my thoughts to a battlefield of worries. Everywhere I went people booed. It shrunk me to a miniature size, a ball of scrunched paper. 

That was exactly how I now felt. It was from Benny I got details of the drama that had ensued after my knockout. Mother and Benny had rushed out to meet Father atop me. (Imagine it happen theatrically, for that's how it took place.) He sprung at Mother as soon as he saw her and fed her with blows, knocking her out as well. All the while screaming, 

‘You sent your son to kill me!’

‘I stood there,’ Kevin relayed, ‘I thought he would knock me out too. He made towards me. But then he noticed a trickle of Mother's blood on the floor. You should have really killed him, Franklyn.’

I almost wept. My brother was on my side. Had we worked as a team, we'd have killed the man and even had him buried like we'd done the flying cockroach that terrified mother in the kitchen. We'd caught the stupid insect, ripped off it's antennae, legs and wings, and buried it alive in our backyard. We were better off as a team. Had he been there with me while I pressed the pillow, things might just have turned out better. 

‘Where is Mummy?’ I asked. 

‘He took her to the hospital.’

‘The hospital people must be tired of seeing her everyday.’

Benny was silent. He looked at me with much pity. ‘Have you seen your face in the mirror?’ 

‘I don't won't to.’

He scratched his buttocks and looked out the window. I followed his eyes. It was dawn, cocks crowed. We were on my bed, silent.

‘We have to try again,’ Benny muttered. 

‘Try what?’ 

‘We have to kill him.’