Truth

He came back home. The thoughts of what had happened earlier kept coming back to him. Without uttering a word to anyone, he called his father, who was at work, to let him know what had happened. He hung up and proceeded to his balcony. He needed a cigarette. Cigarettes seemed to be the only thing capable of clearing his mind. He wondered what his next step should be. Everyone would be home soon and would want to inform the police. He knew that the police would be of no use. He had lived in this country, all his life and knew that this was not how things worked. For a second his attention shifted to the cigarette in his hand and he took a long last drag watching the tobacco burn as he inhaled a cloud of smoke.   He needed to clean up. There was no alcohol where he lived. No one used to drink in his family. It was against his religion. He went to his father’s bedroom to look for any sort of antiseptic for the cuts or maybe some aftershave.   Having found a plastic bottle containing Savlon he hurried to wash up. His head was spinning and he turned on the cold shower. He took off his half torn shirt and started to pour the plastic bottle of Savlon on the cuts on his back. He was not sad, he was not frustrated, but as the deep cuts from his back started to burn, tears rolled down his eyes. He was not one of those guys who cried. He never thought that crying was silly or girly, no, he had grown up learning that all were equal. But he didn’t cry. He had not cried when close family had passed away. He was sad, in grief, in pain but he had not cried. He had not cried when he left the one girl he had ever loved. It had nearly killed him. But this was different. There was no grief or sadness, only the pain from the deep cuts burning him.   After empty to plastic bottle he got into the cold shower and sat down just under it. He stared at the wall opposite thinking things over. He had gone out early in the morning to help a friend run a charity event. On his way back, he had been...