Observer

Today she killed the roach. 

Coldly, unfeelingly, unthinkingly- no contorted face, no scream, just a cold precise aiming of the killer chemical and watching of the insect writhe, and later sweeping it up, like it was just a piece of trash lying around.

This had to be the culmination. Of course it did. I have seen her cower and scream and pray when she chanced up on one of them in the night, I have seen her plead with others, all fast asleep, to please come and take care of it, I have seen her flee to safer havens when her pleas fell on ears that were fast asleep, comfortable in their ignorance.

I have heard the others discuss her helplessness, her shrieks, her running and cowering. I have heard their snickers and sometimes their pitying. Sometimes though, I have even seen empathy- someone quietly killing the roach as she flees. 
Mostly I have seen the reproach, the well meaning advice for her to stay out of trouble, or reprimands to keep the kitchen clean so the roaches don't fester and come to prey on her. Mostly the word of warning that she is responsible if the roaches come snooping on her and the nod of disappointment at her incredulous insistence that she was never in control of the roaches coming.

She had taken their signals smartly enough, I think. The next time she saw one, she picked up a broom and went after it, smashing it into smithereens with shaking hands and wiping the debris away with tears and groans. Then again, another, with firm hands this time, but still groaning, and then some more.

They warn her that the broom is not adequate. They mock her saying that it would kill only a very few of the large numbers lurking in the corners and that it can't get the roaches if they escape into their sneaky corners. They reprimand her for letting the roaches fester, they tell her she has caused the roaches to come there in large numbers and laugh at her for thinking that she can resist with a broom. 

I saw her face fall and I saw her look at her ally, the broom, with a quiet resolve. I almost think she is going to send it to self defence class or make it into a super broom. 
That's when she drops the broom.

The others laugh at her. I can feel the roaches watching too. I can see their anticipation at the unbridled freedom to ravage anything.  

The others are unaware what waits to creep up on them. They don't realise that the roaches don't understand their boundaries and that the roaches can sneak up on them in their sleep and nibble at their foods when they are fast asleep. They are either wilfully ignorant, or blissfully naïve. 

They warn her again to keep the roaches in check; their verbal warnings do little but harden the resolve in her eyes.

For sometime after, the roaches did have their unfettered freedom. Everything, from the plaster on my body, to the exposed wires, to any food left outside- everything had nibble marks. Everything had the quiet presence of looming danger. The roaches stopped waiting for the dark. 
She cowered in a corner, but she had learned to do better than go to the others' for help. She couldn't differentiate the empathetic ones, she never saw them herself and she knew better than to assume that she was safe to confide in someone. So she cowered alone, and she searched alone, her steely eyes glinting with resolve.

Then she found the killer chemical. She took it in her hands with some hesitation, carefully reading the labels. I could see her hands shake again, but there was no fear in  her eyes. Something shone in her eyes and I could see the faint smirk dawning on her face.

I stared at that face. This was different from the screaming one, this didn't at all look like the cowering one. This was a hardened one. She was different now.

Almost as a reflex, I saw her aim the killer when something moved near her. It took only seconds for the writhing to stop, and I saw her stare at the small fly that had become her victim. She stared for a few seconds, and I was waiting for the inevitable tears to emerge. But she just cleaned it up and walked away. No smirk, no tears, no sense of victory, nothing. 

Over the days, the steely glint in her eyes was replaced by a vacancy. And then, it happened.

She murdered the roach. Efficiently. Two hits of the chemical and the roach lay there writhing and she didn't wait for it to die to sweep it up and put it in the trash. 

Now a few of the others close in on her- voices high, concerns loud- at using a lethal substance, as she gears up to aim the nozzle at a pipeline wherefrom the roaches emerged.

She hears the noise, but her eyes are vacant still and she stares at them while she presses the nozzle at her intended aim. They bristle at the disrespect. One or two charge at her to snatch away the killer. In the next moment, her eyes glint again as her nozzle now turns towards them. Without hesitation, she presses the nozzle. That seems to stop the enthusiastic peacekeepers in their tracks. They seem wary of her, a little scared, I think. Now they seem to be cowering.

I might see her later teaching others like her to use the chemical and steadying their hands as they shiver at the potential killer in their hands.

They say walls have ears. We have eyes too. We see all that you do. We see your actions and your justifications. We see your opinions and your reasons. We watch the world. 

But watching is all we do. We keep to our boundaries and contain it all in ourselves. Our boundaries doom us to inaction, even as we quiver with feeling. 
Maybe it is just as well. What good is a conscience if it can only be chained and is always doomed only to see and never do!