When the Sun Dies by Tathagata Banerjee

 The thing that you need to understand is, living beings die.

It’s not welcome, yeah. It is not something to look forward to, but it does happen. And, at times, it is kinda funny.

When daddy killed the deer, I found it funny how she toppled over the ground and crumpled on its back. There is something intricately funny about tragedy, seeing something regal just fall and shatter. When, at the end, the sun dies, I think God will also sit back and have a merry little chuckle.

This was Texas some 20 years ago, so guns and goons used to cohabitate pretty nicely. Dad was a sheriff who had a knack for hunting. Animals. Humans. He used to tell me and Jerry stories of waiting behind the glass window in the interrogation room, to see how the suspects broke down under questioning. He would wait unseen and pass judgements on who he thought did good. Both the interrogators and the suspects. They called him Mr. Mirror behind his back, I came to know later. ‘Mirror, mirror, on the wall’, someone spray painted on our house wall the day after the scandal broke. A drug ring was going on in the city, using arrested convicts as mules. Apparently dad was one of the higher ups of the ring. To be honest, he was always ambitious.

Jerry was thirteen then. Nice bloke, if you ask me. He believed in the myth of dad more than I did. When the scandal broke, Jerry ran away. Walked straight into the traffic, and a truck crushed him over. The next day, while he was out on bail, dad went hunting on his own. They found his body with brains blown out in the jungle. To be honest, he was coward enough to kill himself in his own house.

I was ten. I found it funny how the house was so full of people and it suddenly became mom and me. Mom was stoic through and through, never seen her cry throughout the period. I missed Jerry, but it was relaxing. The competition was over. I told Jerry someday I would win. In everything. And now I did. In life. I survived. But that sucker did deliver a gut punch before calling it a day. Dad chose to die for him, and not to live for me.

But I guess dad thrived like that. Picking and choosing. Making us compete for his love. We had to be the best. I had to be the best. In everything. When he was sick, I would try to do more than mom did to make me seem like his man friday. His hunting trips, I would carry the bags with ammunition. I would help him carry the trophies. Like Pavlov, he trained me to only feel alive when he acknowledged me. And he would only acknowledge me if I was best at it. At everything. So I became the best at everything. I was class topper, swimming champion, chess tournament winner. But there was this inkling suspicion that I was not his favorite. Not yet. Not yet.

And then the son of a bitch died. And fucking Jerry died before him. I was lost. “I am taking a walk, sistah’, ” he told me that day before walking into traffic. Sistah, he used to call me in an intentionally heightened Texan accent. I guess he didn’t lie. As I said, death is funny sometimes.

I have remained the best at everything. College. University. Job. Became the Regional Manager of our branch in less than six months from when I first joined. I think that has to be some sorta record, eh, Guinness? I moved away from Texas, settling in Milwaukee and becoming a full-fledged Bucks fan.  Lost touch with mom over the years, until she also wrapped up her story some three years back. When mom died, I felt nothing. I guess dad won that way. He wanted utmost devotion. He wanted me to be only his. And he succeeded in that. He was many things, that man. The Sheriff. Mr. Mirror. A hunter. A drug lord. A sociopath who liked to condition the people around him. But mostly, unfortunately, he was my father. And none has ever appreciated me like he did.

Dad taxidermied the deer head. It was hung over our dining table. When I left Texas, that is the only thing that I have taken with me. It’s still hanging over my dining table. The house I bought after mom passed, selling off the Texas home. This one has a nice balcony, basement, and porch. It’s the best house in the locality. Always, the best.

They are looking for a new Managing Director at my place currently. I am the best choice, because of course I am. They will run a background check about the possible candidates, so I am wondering if I should declare my relation with David to the HR to ensure there are no issues.

David Ratcliffe was a junior associate at the branch who joined around a year ago. He was good looking, despite that weird Boston accent that was absolutely off-putting. But it was that voice, truly, that got me hooked.

He was good with words, and the way he talked had a hypnotic rhythm about it. He was working directly under me, and dude had a wide-eyed astonishment about him, like a deer caught in the headlight. He is a few years younger than me, and frankly seemed kinda ill-prepared for the tasks at hand. I took him under my wings. And he appreciated me. Appreciated everything about me. My work ethics, my leadership. Hell, my guy was drunkenly praising my vocal skills when I belted out I Want to Break Free during the office karaoke party.

I liked having him around. It felt warm and fuzzy around him. He was so appreciative of me. His words felt like the words I have been searching for a long while. He acknowledged me.

Like dad did. Better than dad did.

David might be the sweetest guy I have ever met. I once joked that he was so sweet that I might have diabetes, and he laughed more than a Trevor Noah crowd ever did. That day I kissed him in the parking lot for the first time. The next day he and I came to the office earliest and we hooked up in the washroom. Bigger corporate office provides more washroom space. I don’t know if they have kept the possible make-out sessions in mind, but I appreciate the small wins that life gives.

With the promotion opportunity coming up, I call up David to ask whether we should go public for the sake of transparency. He laughs like a giddy thirteen year old. I chuckle, asking whether I should take that as a yes. He says yes a thousand times, like I have given a marriage proposal. I find myself twirling a lock with my finger. I whisper on my phone about something that we might do at my place tonight. Bring the handcuffs, I say. He forgot it in his cabin, he says, where it was used last time.

He is absent from the office today. I walk into his cabin to pick it up. I open the drawer to take out the handcuff, but it gets stuck with something on the drawer ceiling. I close the door and take the drawer out. It is a burner phone taped on.

I see the deer dropping on her back when dad fires. I remember that I audibly laughed.

I wrap up the day and go home. I try to unlock the phone once, but nothing happens. Might trigger some response to another device, so I stop trying. Dad taught me to be the smartest in the room.

David comes by during the eve. I open the door and push him to the wall with our lips locked. We stumble towards the dining table where I cuff him with the kitchen racks. He looks hotter than he ever did, I swear to God, even if I don’t wanna admit that. Then I take out the burner phone.

What follows is an hour of nervous nonsense, a pathetic attempt of saying something meaningful. The man with words was running out of it. Damn that Boston accent made it even harder to understand his words with all the sobbing and all. What he said was that he was a professional con man, trying to gather information about our company which he would sell off at a high value to insider trading practitioners. Dude thought being close to the boss would help him get more info. The burner phone was also crucial in that regard. Long story short, he duped me.

Like dad did. Better than dad did.

Actually, not better than dad. He was still the best. My best.

I throw a champagne bottle in rage to the deer head hanging like a twisted version of Jesus, and it comes down crashing on the dining table, shattering it to pieces. On its final resting place. Now then, I think, resurrection.

Days pass by. The ongoing investigation of the sudden missing incident of David Ratcliffe continued by the Milwaukee police. I come clear that we were lovers. I cry like a heartbroken lady, pining for her man. It’s the story that this world gobbles up like a thirsty deer on a salt lick in a jungle. So, I play the role they want. I play it the best that one could.

Months go by. I get declared the Managing Director. Of course I do. I do it the best that one could.

Years go by. The curious case of missing David Ratcliffe goes unsolved. It resurfaces once when Buzzfeed Unsolved: True Crimes does an episode on it, moving away from their usual historical mysteries. But pop culture moves on, like it always does.

It has been a tiring day today, with so many meetings and everything. I feel like I need some words of encouragement to feel reinvigorated. I come home and run a hot bath. I get refreshed, pour myself some fine champagne, and walk down the stairs to the basement.

I kept the frame where dad’s deer was intact, pinned to the dividing wall in the basement. David’s head is put through the frame, where the deer used to be. He is handcuffed on the other side of the wall with iron bars that prevent his movements. There is a bucket behind him over which he can hover over to piss and shit. He did it outside of the box a few times, but tasers are basically magic wands. You can condition people as you like. Dad taught me that. He was good at it. But I am the best at it. It’s a shame that fucker didn’t get to see me all grown up. His head would have looked nice here.

David and I have an arrangement. I will feed him. I will clear his shit everyday. But he has to be nice to me. I will sit in front of his deer-frame, and say what has happened throughout the day. And he would say nice things about me. How good I have done my job, how well I have handled the meeting, how I really have a scope of becoming the CEO of the company down the line.

He has to say it. And he has to believe it. So that he can make me believe it.

And he does. Because he and I have an arrangement. I have promised him that if I believe every word he says one day, that day I will kill him. I will give him freedom from this purgatory. So, he says everything with utter conviction. Utter faith.

I know he is being truthful. More than he has ever been. He is now my number one cheerleader.

But I won’t kill him. I can’t. Because he is being truthful. More than he has ever been. He is now my number one cheerleader.

I sit down in front of his deer head. David looks at me with optimistic eyes. I start talking.

Mirror mirror on the wall…

Tathagata Banerjee

Image: Pixabay - hunting rifle