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The Slaughter Room.

She was finally in love, the hot passionate love of a teenager; the consuming, flaming love of a young woman, a girl at the prime of life. Her prince charming was everything she could dream of—tall, dark, handsome, hot body, an eye candy actually; with eyes, deceptive brown eyes and lovely ways of making a girl feel loved. He told her beautiful lies that captured her young heart, well framed lies that made her believe him. She was lost in that world of bliss.

He wrote her poems, beautiful romantic poems that she read over and over each night clutching to her bosoms till sleep enveloped her. He sent her chocolates and flowers, and mi senorita was lost, hopelessly lost. The long moments spent on the phone, my lady was being brainwashed by his perfumed lies. Que romantico! Aplauso to the cunning devil.

She told him the condition: no sex! My girl was from a strict, Christian home and had been grounded on the belief that sexual intimacy was for the married. He smiled and assured her that he was never after sex anyway and my beautiful angel believed the devil.

It was not easy luring her into the lion’s den, but at last she was enticed in, she came in all innocence and purity. “My parents want to see you,” he lied and she believed him. She went alone, she trusted him.

He should have drugged her, he should have made the experience less traumatic and painful for her. But no, the beast yelled. Take her, use her, ravage her, she is all yours. She pleaded, she begged, she cried, but animals are deaf to human language right? She called on Jesus, the Son Of God, the Sacred Being, but I sincerely doubt if beasts reverence that name.

She struggled, she fought him but could she really keep off that load of masculinity from her innocence? She yelled till her voice got hoarse, but who would hear above the generator sounds? She gave the fight everything she had; she did everything to protect her innocence. She clawed at him and she bit him, but the beast didn’t seem to mind. It was just a scratch from a teeny weensy girlie. The clothes were ripped off, her body slammed into the bed, a firm hand over her mouth and the stronger person got what he wanted.

She bit into the pillow as she tried to endure the torture, was this sex? Was this torture what everybody has been talking about? The hunter went on possessing his kill.

Jesus wept, she wept.

When it was finally over, the entire place looked like a slaughter house, everything that could bleed bled. She lay there, spent, like a sucked orange, beautiful in humiliation.

“This would be our little secret agape mou,” he warned. “Remember the shame if people get to hear about it.” She shuddered convulsively and he watched her slide in her clothes. A pang at his conscience? Nah, beasts don’t have consciences. He pushed her out.

She wobbled out, another unknown record. She wobbled out, mind, body and soul damaged. She wobbled out, chola, tough girl.
My sister, let it go. Rapụba ya, don’t weep anymore. Let the One Who Never Sleeps avenge you. Mira! A pleasant future awaits. Entiendes? Adelante! The new rains will soon come down.

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About Victoria Nathaniel

Victoria Onyinye Nathaniel hails from Oraifite in Ekwusigo LGA, Anambra State, Nigeria. She's presently an undergraduate of Nnamdi Azikiwe University, Awka. She's a feminist and humanist. A lover of Chimamanda Adichie, John Grisham, James Hadley Chase works. She loves reading, music (Ed Sheeran, Adele and Sia's songs) and writing.

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