MUTATION

Heavy footfalls sound on the staircase. You roll off the bed and huddle behind the door. Your nightgown is caught on the bedpost in your haste, snagged on the jutting nail you've been meaning to hammer down. It rips, the sound resonating in the still room. You feel an alien pang, so tiny, you almost miss it. The nightgown was a gift from him, your beloved husband whose wrath you’re about to face.

You know what’s coming, but still you pray. You know that praying has not changed anything, not yet, at any rate. Praying did not calm him down the day he raged against you and poured ice water on your face in front of your children. Praying did not keep your hair glued to your head the night he yanked large chunks of it off your scalp and hit your head against the wall. Praying did not make the padlock on the front door magically unlock the night he locked you out of the house for returning late from the market. Praying did not render your hand immune to the flames when he held your wrist and forced your hand into the fire of the stove and you screamed and screamed and begged God to let you die. You rub the satiny scarring that covers the back of your right hand now and pray, regardless.

He bursts into the room and doesn't see you at first. His eyes roam over the bed and around the large bedroom. You shakily rise because you know that it will be much worse if he finds you crouching behind the door. His eyes light upon you and he approaches you in that almost quizzical way that you have come to dread. You know what is coming because you have come to know this man, to cast out what you knew he was and now know who he is, after the accident. You immediately begin to stammer out explanations, to explain that you didn't invite your sister over; you didn't know she would be coming. To reassure him that you share none of her sentiments about him. To apologize for the insults she hurled at him for his perceived mistreatment of you. To register how appalling you found her ridicule of his condition. To earnestly swear that you haven’t been telling her anything, that you've been true to nobody but him. To promise that you will forbid her from visiting ever again until she can keep a civil tongue in her head.

You never get to finish your profuse explanations because the back of his massive hand has just connected with your teeth. You taste blood and blink back tears and doggedly continue your appeal. He mutters under his breath and drags you by your hair to the center of the room. Your scalp screams in pain as you try to claw your way away from him. He pulls you back and slaps you so hard, you collapse to the floor and black spots dance before your eyes.

You feel the familiar fear now, dread filling your belly and rising up to choke you. You look up at his hulking form, the powerful build that once upon a time filled you with excitement filling you with terrible trepidation. His eyes are vacant, ruthless. He slams your head against the ground and stands up. The next thing you feel is the weight of his foot against your cheek, bearing down. You grunt in pain as you feel your tooth hang loosely from the gum. He hunkers down beside you and yanks you up to your knees. He forces your mouth open with one hand and reaches into your mouth with the other, pinching your tongue between two massive fingers. He pulls your tongue hard, all the while muttering unintelligibly. By now your tears are flowing hot and free, blood trickling down the side of your mouth. Your eyes meet his and he stills.

He stares at your tear-stained eyes as his erstwhile blank pair fill with tears of their own. You can’t tear your eyes away from those orbs as the tears leak down his face in twin rivulets. He lets go of your face slowly, gingerly. His fingers leave your tongue one first, then the other. He sinks to his haunches and buries his face in his palms, his great shoulders quivering. You don’t even register moving; you find yourself kneeling beside him, your arms going around him as much as they can. You place his head against your breasts as you sob with him, for him.

You pray, knowing that praying has not changed anything, not yet, at any rate. Praying has not given you strength and courage to stare him down and declare that enough is enough. Praying has not given him peace and acceptance of his acquired lot in life. Praying has not miraculously made his tongue grow back, since the day of the accident when he fell while at a building site and sustained several serious injuries, the worst being biting his own tongue off and rendering himself incoherent. Praying has not miraculously turned back the hands of time and restored him to the smooth-talking, playful man you married.

As you kneel there, cradling your sobbing, bitter husband, your face swollen, bloody, tear-stained and stinging, you know these things. Still, you pray.

I had this published online last year on Dancing Silhouettes and I decided to post it here for anyone who hasn't read it and may be interested in doing so. 

CRACKS IN MY FOUNDATION.

(based on a true story)

It rained this morning. I gazed out of my window, contemplating the clouds in the sky and the ones in my mind. Burdened with anxiety and depression, I rolled my shoulders and tried to summon the strength needed to face the day. Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I dressed listlessly, I detachedly observed the bleakness of my expression; my eyes were two disused tunnels.

I don’t know how many of you have been here before, but I’m here to tell you that it’s not for children. Whenever I sit in a group of people, forcing my face to go through the motions, my mind is shrouded in black velvet, dark, heavy.  For everyone else, life is moving on, getting better, getting brighter. For me, I am at a terminus. It is the end of an era. For me, I have been forced to grow up.

You see, just one short month ago, I was a well adjusted, happy young woman who had life in a firm grip. I was in my final year at the university and I couldn’t wait to graduate. I had finished my final exams and it was that anxious yet giddy time of waiting for results to be out. A group of us decided to stay back in school instead of spending the pseudo-break at home. You know how it is; trying to run away from the endless errands that is par for the course when you’re at home, doing nothing.

I had known Kingsley for a long time. We were buddies, him and I, unencumbered by any pesky attraction or tension. He was one of my favorite people in the world, and considered him perfectly safe, contrary to the dire warnings of many of my friends. He was a bit of a skirt chaser, that Kingsley, and had a reputation that would make Solomon weep. He worked at a known nightclub for extra money and would often take me there on Thursdays. Everyone from the bartender to the bouncers knew who I was, and I spent many a Thursday night doing assignments smack dab in the middle of the club.

This Thursday in particular, my mother had called me to come home for a reason I can’t remember now. I blew her off, pleading that I had to tweak my project some more. We went to the club as usual, and Kingsley and I hung out at the bar. He always kept an eye on me, even if he was grinding against some girl in a corner. Today, he was called off to the VIP lounge to do some troubleshooting and I decided to go to the little girl’s room to fix my face. On my way out I bumped into someone. He steadied me and laughed, apologizing for his clumsiness. I noticed he was rather bright-eyed. I assured him I was fine, and made to brush past him, when he grabbed my hand and asked to buy me a drink. I agreed, and to this day, I question that decision.

We got to talking, and he was so witty and charming. He told me he was called Ade and he was an architect. He seemed so enamored of me, it was cute. He kept gazing at me and grinning like an idiot. I had never felt so powerful over a man. He suggested that we go outside to his car where it would be more quiet and private. I was a little apprehensive, and he laughed and promised that we would leave the car door open.

We were sitting in his car, talking and laughing, when I saw a shadow loom over me. I looked up to find Kingsley, his face thunderous. He asked me to step down from the car, that he wanted to speak to me. I wasn’t happy, but I went with him because I knew he wasn’t above creating a nasty scene. I apologized to Ade and told him that I would be back soon. I followed Kingsley to the little room off the back where the members of staff keep their personal effects. Immediately we got in, Kingsley started screaming at me about how I had no sense, that why would I follow a man I barely know into his car, if I was so sex-crazed that I was willing to get it anywhere. Of course, I wasn’t having it and I soon started screaming back. One thing led to the other and next thing I knew, my palm was tingling and he was staring at me, hand on his cheek.

The next few minutes I don’t remember much of. I remember him slamming me face forward against the wall. I remember tasting blood and screaming at him that what did he think he was doing. I remember him muttering over and again about teaching me a lesson and giving me what I was so desperate for. I could smell the overpowering scent of alcohol on his breath, his hands, all over. I remember I tried to kick him and he kicked me back so hard, my knees gave way. I struggled and tried to turn, but he backhanded me and pinned me against the wall. At that point, I left my outrage at the side and true fear filled me. I started begging Kingsley. I told him to remember who this was, who I was. He was beyond listening and as I felt the first sharp searing pain, I fell quiet.

Afterwards, I sat limply on the floor, staring into space. He sat beside me, hands on his knees, head bowed. I had nothing to say. Nothing left in me, no anger, no hatred, nothing. Kingsley lifted his head and started begging me. He was crying. I simply looked at him blankly. I struggled to get up, and he scrambled to his feet and lifted me, bundled me into his car, and we went back to school. I didn’t say a word throughout.

The next day I went home. I didn’t bother trying to act jolly; I basically shut myself up in my room. My folks were worried, but they assumed that I was flunking and I silently encouraged the assumption so that I could be left alone. I had ample time to think. I wondered where I went wrong. I wondered whether I secretly wanted it, maybe I could have fought harder. I wondered if I’d ever tell anyone and if I did, if anyone would believe me. A lot of people already assumed that Kingsley and I were friends with benefits. Above all, I cried. I cried and cried until I was so sure that my heart would break. I turned my phones off because Kingsley wouldn’t stop calling.

Yesterday, he came to my house. I was in my room when the gateman rang the bell and said there was someone outside to see me. The moment I saw it was him I almost ran back in. he grabbed my arm and the old fear came back. I had to remind myself that nothing would happen to me here. He knelt down there, outside my gate on the street and started crying, begging me. He said he was drunk that night, he said it was the devil, he said he had never forced anyone in his life. I asked him why he started with me. He cried harder, and begged me to forgive him. Strangely, I was not angry. You reading this may think me crazy, but this was Kingsley. I was disgusted and sad, deeply sad. I turned my back on him and locked my gate.

Inside my house, I crumbled. I lay on the floor in my room facedown with my hands on the back of my head and sobbed, deep wracking sobs. I didn’t know I still had any tears left in me. I cried for everything I had lost, my pride, my innocence, my naïveté, my trust. You hear of these things, but you never think it would happen to you. And if it does happen, it suddenly seems like there’s nothing you can do that will ever put things right again.  I knew what I had to do, but I was so afraid. What if I told people and they blamed me? Would anyone believe me? Plus, a part of me wondered what would become of Kingsley. I got absolutely no sleep last night. Instead I sat huddled in a corner of my bed, the enormity of my situation weighing on me.

This morning, it rained. I gazed out of my window and rolled my shoulders. I dressed and observed my face in the mirror. I walked out of my room, crossed the hall to my parents’ door, lifted my hand, and knocked.