They started yanking each other monstrously to their own respective directions, one struggling to move forwards and the other backwards. The chains rattled and clinked under the strain but didn’t look like they’ll be giving way, not for a long time. These two buffoons were supposed to be the manifestation of a sin. And I must say they did a pretty darn good job. Because this is exactly how senseless Wrath is. There is no need for reason or rhyme to be angry. Simply anything that doesn’t go in your direction is a possible ignition to turn a decent conversation into an emotionally-charged brawl.

And the whole struggle took them all over the toilet, taking down with them all those plastic sheets covering the basin they crashed into, the shower doors they smashed, and the countless panels of mirrors they shattered. That wasn’t all that the plastic sheets concealed. A wooden chest was sitting naked quietly at one of the corners that just seemed out of place from all the lavatory utilities around. Now that’s just asking to be opened. Seeing that I’m in relative safety from the two muscled goons engrossed with getting their backs off each other, the curious side got the better of me. I ran for that corner like I’ve never run before. And just seconds after I left my spot they rammed my corner at such an intensity to obliterate any living thing unfortunate enough to remain there.

Unlike those typical wooden chests that perhaps contained some treasure of immense value usually locked by ridiculously big and dense metal padlocks, this wooden chest was humble in design; something that wouldn’t be too out of mind as a container to keep old toys. But it was sealed shut by some strange form of tape that I could swear had an uncanny resemblance to skin. The human skin. I tried to rip it open with my bare hands to no avail. And that’s when I realized I was still holding on to my trusty razorblade. It was finally its time to prove its worth.

As the blade smoothly cut an opening in the tape, the skin-like seal now seemed so vulnerable and frail. And my hand followed the blade as it glided through the length of the tape, with a raw sense of primitive fulfillment running through my mind. Like that faint murderous thirst quenched under your innocent visage as you crush the little ants crawling in your backyard when you were still a kid. A feeling that somehow seemed all too familiar to me.

I couldn’t quite know what to make out of its contents. It contained all sorts of crude instruments, yet hidden around the chest I could spot a couple of odd items out. Like a bottle of chocolate syrup. At first I thought it contained dining cutlery, but the forks were just too rusty to be used. Then I saw a sterilized scalpel, wrapped in a sheet of bubble wrap. But it was highly unlikely to be a surgeon’s toolbox. Drilled rods. A container of gasoline. These were absolutely random items. If those things weren’t random enough, I then saw a fish ball, of all things to find in this condemned box. As I carefully retrieved it, one of my fingers was suddenly pricked by something sharp and shiny. And I didn’t need to look at it anymore to know what it was. I knew then exactly what these objects were, and that they weren’t placed there by sheer chance. It was my arsenal of dysfunctional killing tools.

A great shadow loomed overhead, and I rolled out of the way as the dynamic duo collapsed on the chest. But as terribly tough as it was for them get back up, with them chained up and all, they simply refused to give it a rest and went straight into the fight again. Their faces contorted like Spartans at war as the fight got fiercer and their heads got hotter. This would have been a commendable sight, but now it has just trespassed into the realm of foolish persistence. But it was this expression that I recognized I was making during all the absurd fights and thoughtless arguments that I get myself into as a selfish son, brother and friend. Like those times when I should’ve listened a little bit more but was too proud to. Or said those few words that mattered but didn’t know the language. Or acknowledge that not everyone may understand the workings of a peculiar mind.

Alas, absolution will not come easy for a sin so deeply rooted in me. I can give up on the likelihood that this encounter was going to end like some children’s tale where I just tell the two goons to stop squabbling and lecture them with some words of wisdom. It’d be such a phony way to bring an end to this; it deserved something… grander. The situation at hand here, though, is that not even the necessary coexistence of these polar opposites could survive the destructive instability of rage. Something had to be done to these two guys away from each other.

Then I heard a loud sickening crack. No, make that two. The two giants crashed onto the floor, and laid still. I thought it was over. I tread carefully towards the heap of muscle lying there to see what the whole lack of commotion was all about. The debris crackled under my rubber slippers. A bead of sweat rolled down my chin. I could feel my heart beating in my fingertips. And they so conveniently sprung back to life to scare the shit out of me as I was just a foot away from them. But it was somehow not as vigorous anymore, and a closer inspection brought the reason to light: both of their hands on one side were broken. Yet they continue battering their angry heads against each other; against this barrier of wretchedness that was impenetrable to reason, trying to see who’ll outlast the other, even as they’re in pain. If they could even feel it, that is.

Now this was really getting nowhere. This was like one of those silly arguments your kids have with each other that you find funny at first but slowly becomes a senseless war that you want to stop because it’s embarrassing you. Heck, I even took a quick look around the room to make sure nobody else was there to see the part of me that was on display now, beating the crap out of each other; it was that embarrassing. It was pride again that tamed this wrathful demon, even if it was just to spare myself from this humiliating satire of my own anger. And I was going to be surprised by just what I was capable of to get out of the light of mockery. The spoons and forks clattered.

I eyed their motionless hands. And I rummaged through the weapons scattered all over the filthy toilet floor to find those that were… suitable. Desperate times called for desperate measures. Because the moment I threw away the obsolete razorblade for a drilled rod and a butcher knife, I threw away all regards for the inhumanity of the task. With a swift blow to their heads, the rod knocked both of them out. I kneeled down beside Mr. Mute Smiley with my legs ready like a sprinter (just in case) and held down his left hand. And I just remained there looking at it for a very, very long time. The massive knife grew heavier in my right hand. When that blade made its entry into the skin, though, someone else took over. Someone who was comfortable sawing through flesh like he has done it a thousand times. I sit there surprised at how easy it was. It was when I got to the bone that it became a drag. But there was some strange beastly drive to follow through as the warm red began painting my hands.

Sometimes we have to become a killer to kill the very thing that could kill us.

I believe that everyone goes through a phase in their lives where it is determined whether they would go on to be a serial killer. Everybody has that potential in them. The moment we discover the ability to end lives, which isn’t so hard to do, by the way, we’ve been contemplating what we can do with that newfound power, because we haven’ really learnt about the taboo of taking another person’s life. I remember a time when as a kid I almost strangled Ally to death; I can’t exactly remember why, but I think what was going through my head was “I wonder what will happen if I keep strangling her until she stops moving.” That was, of course, before I realized that something like that just can’t be undone. There’s no Ctrl + Z for murder.

And so what we are today is just how much of the killer in us that we’re hiding, or showing for that matter, after all by taught by the family, school and society that killing is wrong. But what happens when sometimes the only way to right a wrong is to kill?

Mr. Mute Smiley’s left fist lay lifeless and bloodied on the floor, and went straight to work on my next butchering after taking the chain off his wrist. But halfway through working on the other twin’s right hand, Mr. Mangled Smiley’s stirred. Not good. He was still dizzy from the whack to his head, though. And somewhere under his groaning which I think was supposed to imply pain, he managed to say something that would actually bring hope of the possibility of redemption of this seemingly endless self-sustaining sin.

“End it for us. Please.” He said with a resigned look under the face that was all wrinkled up from being angry far too long.

“And be careful with that thing. I‘m only in my boxers.” He eyed the knife that was sawing through his limp hand.

I would have cracked a grin right then if I wasn’t the one holding that knife.

But it was his first statement that had me. And it occurred to me that maybe angry people weren’t as mindless as I thought they were. Maybe there was a little boy under the harsh words and stupid actions that was crying out for help. And maybe the only way of getting out of this vicious cycle lies in that cold-blooded killer in you that you try so hard to hide. In the hope that the part of you that keeps you heartless and detached will be steady when you need to destroy the things that might destroy all that you love. And that you’ll be merciless enough to come marching into the place where you keep all your rage and anger and pain that you seem to hold so dearly with a butcher knife and amputate it. To cut the part off.

His severed hand dropped to the toilet floor with a thud, and the chains came off easy, with all the red lubricating the area. Right about then, they were sober enough to pick themselves up. There for the first time the twins stood facing each other. And each took a good look at the other; at the man he has been fighting against all this while, just to see the exact same face staring right back at him.

That was the first word that came out of a Mr. Mangled Smiley with a newly discovered composure and a missing hand. Which doesn’t exactly say much.

Mr. Mute Smiley replied, looking a whole lot more stable without his left hand too.

And they continued standing there, embarrassed and awkward. Like those times when you turned your whole room upside down to find your pencil eraser just to find it in your own hand. The dust settled, and the air was still. But I wasn’t going to stick around to see the twins run into each other’s arms and start crying over old times or anything. The knife in my hand still had some screen time. I walked towards the door and hacked down the lock. As I stood at the exit to this unpleasant place, I turned around to see if they still stood at their spots. That was when I saw something for the first time.

These are people who have never seen their own faces before. They’ve never seen anyone else express emotions through their faces. They were standing blind without any idea what an expression of joy would look like. That’s how I knew that smile that filled their faces was how a man would smile when he was truly happy. It was a smile that got through from somewhere far inside but didn’t lose even one bit of the joy along the way.

The knife fell to the floor with a loud clang. I walked out the door.

Sometimes you fall out with yourself when you feel that you simply can’t get along with the worse side of you. It’s that side of you that you no longer recognize as it gets distorted by all the things you keep telling yourself that makes you angry, weak and small. You look in the mirror and all you see is some kind of monster, condemning you for giving it life. So you cover all your mirrors with thick plastic sheets and you think you can walk the world safely even with that monster inside you, just as long as you don’t see it. Like that Dorian fellow. But we all will grow weary of fighting our own wrath eventually; our hands will lose their grip on the valve holding it all back. And it will start manifesting itself; abrupt bursts of frenzy in its initial stages, and continues to degenerate into an uncontrollable state of berserk. And it’s so hard to fight its advances as it spreads deeper and deeper like a cancer. Because it’s never easy to stop something that you started yourself. But the moment you kill that monster is the moment you reconcile with it. That’s when all the beauty is restored to the face in the mirror.

That’s when you find yourself again.

Ok, my bladder really needs to get to a proper toilet bowl now.