To scoot off at 1.15 pm is pure bliss. It is escape of the most wondrous kind. I never thought I was able to pull it off, but amazingly I did. Finished all my work by 11.30 am and by 1 pm, was already packing this and that. Hurrah!

Everything went well until I smelt smoke. It was horribly strong. Eh...was the house on fire? Can't be. Perhaps my mother had forgotten to switch off the gas. But this wasn't the smell of gas. This was smoke. SMOKE, man. And it came from the kitchen. Did my mam reheat something and forget to attend to it?

Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering. How true.

For fearing that something bad had happened, I rushed to the kitchen. And there, to my horror of horrors, was my brother, seated by the sink cabinet, huddled over something. The cabinet door was ajar so I couldn't exactly spot the birdie. In any case, I simply yanked it further and then, *gasp*, I saw sparks. From a lighted match. In the hands of my brother.

Anger crept its way through. But I tried to remain calm. Merely questioned the little ass, "Were you playing with fire?" Of course, given the correct answer (and no prizes for it) I would have relented and calmed down further, but nooo...he HAD to lie. And damn it, how I hate liars. I HATE liars with a capital 'H'. I fucking hate them. I wasn't angry that he had played with fire for the fucking SECOND time, though the consequences would be terrible if something unwanted had happened. On the contrary, I was just angry that he had lied when he had been caught red-handed. Why bother to lie when I have seen the truth? That's what triggered the rage.

At that moment in time, I just hated him. I hated him for ever being born in this world. I wished he were dead. Yeah, I did, na'uzubillahiminzallik. I took back my words of course, for everything that you utter is a prayer. But it was as if the devil had taken control of me. The Dark Force, it was strong in me. Very very strong. I discovered strength that had been hibernating all the while. Um, probably. What did I do? Yanked my brother's head against the sink cabinet's door. Several times. Bloody violent aren't I?

And if hate really led to sufffering, well I guess my brother really suffered in my hands then. Not only did he receive such 'physical' abuse from moi, my eyes actually noticed the hockey stick lying in a corner. And the rest, they say, is history.

I plead my case: I am not a husband-beater.

P/S: I had a pep talk with him. He's alright. No scars, no bruises. I didn't hit him that hard. :p