Bana looked at the woman in front of her again and looked away.
This woman did not seem to have any help to offer.
Her five-year-old daughter, Raikya was of importance at the moment; she lay on the hospital bed unconscious and waking up at intervals to mutter words that no one seemed to understand.
“So tell me, how many males attended the event,” the woman asked.
Bana had had it at this point, she stood up and screamed at the police officer.
“I have said what I needed to say ten times over! Madam police, I don’t know which of the men in my house raped my baby, I don’t know how many men attended the event, it was my wedding anniversary, too many people came!”
The woman shook her head. “I understand your frustrations, madam, I just need to find this bastard and I need your help too.”
“I know, I know,” Bana said as her earlier angry look crumbled into one that showed defeat.
The woman touched Bana’s shoulders in reassurance.
Raikya twitched on the bed, and groaned.
Bana ran to her side. “Raikya, baby, are you okay?” Bana said, wiping tears which were running in quick successions down her face.
Raikya opened her eyes, she whispered the words “Five pm,” groaned and closed her eyes. The monitor beeped rapidly, then a long loud one as Raikya flatlined.
Bana punched the emergency button and screamed as her husband and her mother rushed in.
She kept shrieking as the doctor came in, did a few checks, and pronounced Raikya dead.
She screamed and threw herself at her husband. He hugged her tight as they both cried.
Few minutes later, they walked outside, Bana silent, her mother sobbing, her husband with a solemn face. As he turned to open the car, Bana looked at her husband, he was in the clothes he wore since last night, she pitied him. He had not even had a bath.
She touched his chest, then she saw it, written boldly, at the front of his shirt—’5:pm’.
Bana screamed and ran into the road, she did not see the truck.
There was no time.