Windfall

The child has been crying for the last hour and his patience is wearing thin. He had tried all ways and means to pacify that little devil, but to no avail. Milk didn't work. Toys didn't work. Even carrying and patting him - a deed he detests very much - was futile.

There are so many things in his mind, and like a garbage bin filled to the brim - not with rubbish but troubles, in his case - he feels like he is going to explode. He is high-strung and the incessant cries of the child are not giving him any relief either. Something has to give soon.

He had opened the letterbox earlier in the day and thought he had opened Pandora's box when he saw the stacks of envelopes. White, with officious-looking logos emblazoned on them; the envelopes spelled authority. Unforgiving authority. Authority with ultimatums hanging over his head if he does not pay the outstanding bills by when and when.

He had taken the lift up with the pile of envelopes crushed into a ball in his fists. Rage simmering all the while as his bloodshot eyes took in the slowly blinking numbers on the lift panel display. The stench of someone's yesterday's urine stuck to the firmament of the lift. Some vandal had scrawled a fresh set of expletives on the lift walls, commingling with earlier gems like "Free Fuck, call XXXXXXXXX", "GOVT IS SHIT" and a whole host of unprintables.

When he entered the living room, the child started crying from its cot. He shouted for her to attend to the child, but there was no response. Goddamit, she is out again, he thought. How many times have I told her not to leave the child alone?

He looked at the ashtrays and visually counted eight butts, one of them slowly dying in its embers. She has been smoking a lot lately. It must have been the list of neverending troubles plaguing them. He threw the ball of envelopes into the child's cot and picked him up.

Made him a milk. Threw toys into the cot. Carried and patted him. And yet the child still keeps bawling. Every little cry seems like another shovel of blame being cast into the grave of his uselessness and worthlessness. A useless and worthless father who could never hold down a job for long. Who impregnated his girlfriend (now wife) when he could barely support himself. Who is months behind payment for the housing bills, utilties bills and whatnot.

He lights up a cigarette and puffs away, all the while looking at the child. His cries seem to rise a notch, and the tether of his tolerance loosens slightly over the cauldron of his immeasurable rage which he is always capable of. A cauldron of rage fed by the troubles that never seem to end, a life that has been nothing but a dead end, and now this crying child - another mouth to feed, another burden for him to bear.

The tether holding him back surrenders its hold and he plunges into the cauldron of his burning rage, rage devouring his senses and sanity.

He puts down his cigarette. He picks up the child and starts shaking him violently. He slaps the child across the face. The cries worsen. Another slap, and the cries continue. Fed up, he throws the child back into the cot. He takes the cigarette and jabs it into the child's soft, fleshy leg....

The phone starts ringing in the background of the child's wails. The child is wailing like a banshee. He leaves the child alone, and ventures to the coffee table to pick up the phone. Amidst the static of the phone, and the child's cries; someone is telling him about some prize he had won.

There is an intermission in the child's caterwauling as his young eyes spy something. He sends his little fingers on an expedition to retrieve that something he sees. His fingers grasp the lit cigarette and the heat scorches them, causing the child to instinctively fling the cigarette onto the crushed ball of envelopes residing in his cot.

The tendrils of orange, blue and crimson embrace paper...whilst the child's father, with his back turned, can hardly believe the good news of his windfall over the phone. His luck is about to change, exciting thoughts race through his mind about how the money is going to engender a new beginning for him and his family.

When he plops down the phone and turns his back to the cot, wondering why the child has stopped crying; horror seems to have garrotted his neck....