Am I really mad?

                                   Am I Really Mad?

 Ladies and gentlemen of jury, permit me to commence my confession without any delay. I hope you all are ready now, are you not? Oops! I forgot that you people are always ready. Sorry, forgive my tongue for that huge blunder.

 Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it’s true that I murdered my wife employing the most ruthless method imaginable. And it’s also true that I loved her more than anything I would ever love in my life. The truth is I still love her. She was damn too gorgeous! However, respected ladies and gentlemen, don’t be in illusion to think that I regret what I did. I regret nothing, yes I don’t. Even when god would give me a second chance, I would still kill her the way I did, or perhaps more ruthlessly. Am I mad? Never!

You may think that I’m crazy but I can promise you that I am not. Neither I am under possession of any evil power. I’m as I was always. And to know how I was always, you most peep into my past through the window of my memory. Therefore, here I shall endeavour to recount the exact picture of my early life with no extra colours to veil anything. What I’m about to speak out is as true as the rain on a rainy day, and as clear as the cloudless sky. There is nothing to doubt, trust me.

I was raised in a prosperous family. My extremely intelligent and dreamy mother raised me for my father died when I was just one. What kind of social attitude one develops, as you all know, is entirely shaped by the encounters in childhood. My mother was a solitary woman who barely involved herself in any sorts of social circles. Infact, she was in grip of an obsession of literature, to be precise she was in love with Poe. She lived cocooned in an imagined world where she considered herself married to that unattractive, black haired writer – Edgar Allan Poe, already dead. To make her world more physical and realistic, she kept herself attached to his works. The horror story, the tell-tale heart, was her wine and her food. She read it at least ten times a day and made me do the same. By the age of fifteen I could recite the entire story by heart and I still can. Should I prove it? I don’t think we have much time and if any of you folks are dubious about it then please meet me later.

What I really want to emphasize here is that I grew in a world of extreme fantasy, deeply dominated by the horror writings of Poe. As time passed I began to consider myself as one of the characters of his stories. However, ladies and gentlemen, I blame neither my mother nor my mother’s dream husband for waking the murderer in me. I was born to kill that beautiful lady, my wife. These childhood experiences are just a false justification towards the theory of psychology of Sigmund Freud. So, any of you who regard my act as the result of my early life I suggest them to abandon that useless pursuit. The truth is some acts of human and some mysteries of universe are incomprehensible. To attempt to understand them is to chase a rainbow.
 The victim was the only woman I ever loved in my life and I know I still can’t stop loving her. I loved her more than anything. O lord, how can I make you all believe me! She had the finest manners and well refined attitudes that any husband would like to have in his wife. And no doubt she was the prettiest lady any of you have ever seen. She had delicately chiseled face, her nose was sharp and elegantly arched at its tip, her lips were red, and her eyebrows were like the wings of a sea-gull in flight. Her eyes, too, were extraordinary. I adored everything of her. Then, why did I kill her? I know, ladies and gentlemen, you are extremely desperate to know this. Let me ask you: why are you so interested about such a hideous story of mine? The fact is we, humans, by our nature love murders. When someone is killed, outside we show deep sympathy and concern but deep down within us our heart is keen to hear such news. We are all made like that.

It was her voice, yes, it was one of those voices that you dream to hear but never get to. Such a musical and enchanting voice she had that any male who came under its spell could never escape its magic. Sweetness has limits but her voice had crossed all. The softness, extreme delicacy of her voice made me crave for something harsh. Whenever she spoke as I held her in my arms, I felt myself suddenly go stiff. The way words floated out of her mouth made me feel fragile. It made me realize that she was the women who could get any type of husband she desired, that she might any moment run away from me and end everything. I just couldn’t stand this fear of losing her. Therefore I killed her, but then why did I kill her so wildly?
Initially I had planned to slice off her tongue so that she would never be able to speak again, so that nobody would ever again be bewitched by the music of her tongue. So, on a cold night of December I added a strong drug in her food which stole away her consciousness for few hours. Immediately I chopped her tongue with the same knife she used to cut vegetables. I had accomplished my task and I was about to exhale a sigh of relief when my eyes suddenly noticed the huge depth of her pale blue eyes. The old man’s vulture eyes in Poe’s story: the tell-tale heart. All of a sudden I was transformed into that young and frustrated character of his story. Instead of making her blind and dumb, I decided to murder her and make her mine, only mine forever.

Ladies and gentlemen of jury, the reason why I tore her chest open and ate her heart is simple. I devoured her blood soaked organ like a monster because I wanted her heart to blend with mine. Yes, because I wanted her to live in me. Because……because loved her.
“How can one kill someone he loves so much so brutally like a beast?” one of the men in jury inquires.

My honorable gentleman, I didn’t only love my wife- I did her something more than just loving. My craving for her was so intense that I couldn’t bear to see her talk or laugh or smile with anybody else. I wanted her to be only with me all the time. As a matter of fact I didn’t kill her brutally as far as I think. It was the most kindly way of making one immortal. You say I murdered my wife but I strongly insist that I made my love immoral. Yes, I gave my wife immortality.

The fact that I loved my wife is a self-evident truth. The fact that I still love her is also no exception. No, ladies and gentlemen, my wife is not dead; she is always with me. Yes, always. I dress her with all sorts of clothes I love to see on her, I decorate her in expensive ornaments, and then I worship her. My wife is my goddess, my life. Only I’m blessed to see her; I can only see her. Look! She is there standing by the door, smiling at me. Ah, now she is strolling up towards me. She is so close that I can feel the warmth of her breath on my cheeks. She is about to kiss me, please, ladies and gentlemen close your eyes if you don’t mind.
Am I mad? Really? Ha….ha…ha…NEVER!
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