It was one of the few days when Robert returned early from office. He had called his wife that afternoon and asked her not to cook dinner as he would be taking her out for dinner. “A meal with no dirty dishes to wash is one of the advantages of getting off work early”, he thought to himself as he started his car. With this thought in his mind, he smiled. He wondered why his wife had not called him that evening. It was customary of her to do that. He looked at his watch. It was 6 p.m. She would call at 5:30 p.m. every day. It was unlikely that she would forget to do so. Why hadn’t his wife called him that evening? Was something wrong? Did something happen to her? And just like that, his OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder) kicked in. He was obsessed. The illness was a boon and a curse for Robert. Probably that was what made him a “Damn good detective”, his boss exclaimed more than once. But now, he was obsessed for the wrong reasons. He tried to reason, rather unsuccessfully, with himself that she had forgotten to call on several occasions in the past. And that she would have a good reason as to why she had forgotten to call. He was unable concentrate on the road. “How could she forget?” he asked himself while swaying back and forth in his car seat. He was absolutely incapable of putting his mind, and now body, at ease. His lips mumbling some gibberish. It usually took him 20 minutes to reach home. But today, it took him 28 minutes. He looked at his watch and cursed his ailment for being late.
There was an unusual sense of calm in the building. He didn’t realize it till he had climbed up to the second floor. Two more floors to go. As he climbed further up, he grew more and more wary and his footsteps slowed down. By the time he reached the third floor, his footsteps were inaudible… looking around in all directions for signs of normalcy or the tiniest discrepancy. To his disappointment, he could find neither. His pulse was racing, but he tried to control it, like his doctor had taught him. By the time he had reached the fourth floor, the silence had become his fear. Just as he reached his apartment, he noticed that the door was ajar. His heart skipped a beat. His OCD had escalated to its zenith. His mind was imploding with questions. He was pretty confident something was wrong. It wasn’t a hunch but an almost certainty. He had his right hand on his revolver and his left hand had already drawn his knife, ready to strike anyone who would astound him. Very cautiously, he approached his apartment, trying his best to see as much as he could from the door opening. The room was dimly lit and that just made him more anxious. Suppressing his disorder, as he had done so often in the past, he leaned against the outer wall of his apartment, with the door to his left. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He thought of the beach where he had met his wife for the first time. It brought him peace… as it had done so often in the past. His pulse slowed down. He took another deep breath and filled his lungs. His muscles were now relaxed and his mind vigilant owing to the inrush of oxygen. As he opened his eyes, time seemed to slow down. He was ready. As he opened the door extremely cautiously with his left hand, he drew his revolver, and recalled that it was fully loaded. As he stepped in the apartment, his illness became his strength. The OCD was controlled. The price he had to pay for suppressing his illness for a span of ten minutes, in an intense situation, was a week-long migraine. After stepping into his living room, he saw it was empty. There was pin-drop silence. He paused there as he contemplated his next move. And suddenly, he heard a whimper. It was almost obviously from his bedroom. He had a mental image of every object that hindered his approach to the bedroom. Even if he were blinded, he could make his without making even the slightest of sounds. He started moving stealthily towards his bedroom. He had to focus on the situation. Any slight deviation in thoughts could create a million unanswerable questions, which would ultimately lead to a violent fit. Fortunately, he was used to these situations since he was a detective. Unfortunately, he had never encountered one with his own family. He had to focus. Just as he took the final step towards the bedroom wall, there was another sob. He leaned against the outer bedroom wall and took another deep breath. He was ready. He faced the door and took a step back. Then with utmost caution, he put his left leg forward. His right leg was now stretched behind his body. He tried to get as much momentum as he could and kicked the door open. The magnitude of the kick caused the hinges of the door to come off. The discharge of sawdust made the atmosphere hazy. He stepped into the bedroom and he was shocked at what he saw. His wife stared in awe at Robert. He stared back at her. He looked at the TV and it was the finale of Oprah’s career. So much for the perfect evening.
