Bugs Bite

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Oh, The Haunt

'No,' he sobbed. 'No.'

'It's okay, Daddy.' Radha leaned over and planted a firm kiss on his cheek, even though she swiftly receded because of the rank. 'You can cry in front of me. I don't mind.'

Avish did. She really didn't mind. Radha was too much like her mother. A good thing, too. If she was like her father, she'd probably grow to become a coke-addict or something. But she was mature, serene, composed.

And then he entered a rasping spate of coughs - extremely aggressive coughs. His face grew red and hot and he coughed and coughed until he was on fire and his brain was being squeezed into nothingness and his ears fought to fall off his face and his chest was quaking like an egg that's about to hatch and his eyes popped and his joints groaned and his armpits itched and none of that even bothered him; what bothered him was the sweat and the tears and the pain. The pain, worst of all. In his stomach, in his ribs, in his every body part, in fact, each muscle, each tissue -

Radha brought him a glass of water. Standing in front of him, short and pretty, playing with her braids.

Avish smiled. For her, he had to. He accepted the water and controlled the coughs best as he could.

'Are you fine, Daddy?'

'Yeah.'

'You look sick. You should see a doctor.'

'Daddy has already seen a doctor, hon.'

'So you'll be fine soon?'

It hurt to lie to your child. It hurt more than any physical injury could ever concoct, more than any betrayal or loss or disease ever could. But how could he tell her that he probably won't be there for her upcoming birthdays and PTMs and whatnot, no matter what verve the doctors put to it?

'Yes,' he managed. 'Don't worry about Daddy.'

'Can I sit in your lap, Daddy?'

A lump blocked his throat. Avish nodded.

Radha crouched on his lap, clearly looking uncomfortable but wanting to be with her sick father.

'I thought you were a little too old to be sitting on my lap.'

She shrugged in a "who cares" manner. It pleased Avish. To no end.

'Honey, can I ask you something?'

'Yes, Daddy?'

'Could you . . .'

Don't do this to your own child.

'. . . could you live without me?'

Radha looked at him like it was the most notorious thing she'd ever heard. 'Will I have Mommy?'

'Yes, sure.'

'Then I probably could. I don't know. But I would miss you. A lot.'

Avish needed to cry, desperately. He faked some coughs and told her he needed to rest in order to recover. Once locked in his room, he cried his eyes out.

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Mirror Avish stared at him. Dead, by appearance. Dying, by anatomy.

Real Avish couldn't meet his eyes.
A parade was masquerading the bazaar of bad dreams in his head. Deafeningly loud foghorns blaring in unison.

So real Avish instead stared at the blade - the one he used to shave, at times, his unkempt beard - lying beside the sink. What a petty little object. And to think that it could kill you.