Behind Closed Doors

Behind Closed Doors by Amara Victoria Iwuafor on ZenPens

I have learnt to cry without making sounds. Any sound at all. You just see the tears flow in rhythm to the rising and falling of my chest.

It started gradually, with muffled sounds inside my pillow, compressing the sound and allowing the tears, mucor and saliva to be deposited on it.

Now I just cry silently, I allow my tears to flow out of my heavy heart that seems like a huge milestone was placed on it, then I help by grabbing the place where I imagine my heart to be and squeeze to release heaviness, burden and well, the pain.

The first time he did it was in the shower. I had gone to take my bath. It was like he’d waited carefully to do the math; I imagined him sitting down perched on the sofa while he
calculated when I would be through with applying soap on my face. Then he came, grabbing my wrist, placing the handcuffs, then the blindfolds. It was when I began to scream that the whipping came, followed by doing the thing guys knew how to do best. That night was the night my fears embraced me.

Fear got me scared, but what I feared most was his laughter. That his noisy, throaty and hysterical laughter; he does it like the joker. Just laughing, then holding his mouth and he would feign trying not laugh. But you know that kind of laugh that has a life of its own, that laugh that springs from a sea of wickedness and no matter how hard you try to stop, it just keeps coming.

How can I tell you that this monster is my brother? Can I actually tell you, I mean did I just tell you ?

Please before you think of dialing emergency police number of 911… oh I just remembered,
we are in Nigeria; I meant 112, don’t ever forget what happened to Damien, the guy I killed, the guy that thought he could help me, but died even before calling for help. I just wished the last phone call he had made was to inform his loved ones to give him a befitting burial.

Can I remember how his death had occurred? Maybe I can try but don’t blame me, short memory circuit is now a part of me. Like I can’t remember certain things like how I got here in the first place or how old I am.

What I cannot forget is that I killed Damien. I remember that I had gained access to the beast’s phone and dialed the only number in my head. Damien had picked. He knew me because he had called my name, Gosife, and when I asked for his name he had told me
Damien Not like it made me remember him.

But even while I tried explaining what had happened to me, the tears wouldn’t let me. The tears kept coming without intervals in starts and stops.

He had caught me—the beast I mean—beating the living hell out of me before he punished me. I had blacked out that day, while Damien was killed that day by the beast. The beast had told me that he killed him and I believe him. But guilt of that kill haunted me. I feel like I actually killed him.

Dark sins lurk around a dark and lone night when saints are still asleep. I’m now afraid of faded and red blindfolds.

What he does is this: he first cuffs my hands, then the red blindfolds, ripping my clothes comes after that. Then the whips, and you ought to know now the part I loathe most.

At times I wonder if there are persons out there looking for me. Do I still have parents? A mum? A lover?

It’s amusing how I can’t recall certain things except the plain fact that Ikedinobi is my brother. This is the first time, since my stay in here as I can recall, for me to call him by name.

His presence live with me. his stench always lurks around me, his strong breath keeps stalking me.

I long to see the sun rays, I crave for fresh air, not air condition, I miss seeing what the stars look like at night and the true shape of the moon. Maybe I’m sounding too poetic but it’s a deep truth.

I might decide to kill something or someone tonight. Maybe his black cat, him or myself. But that scares the living grace out of me ’cause I will meet another hell in hell. Maybe
before I perish in hell I will commit murder and if God is so merciful, I will excuse that I did that to put an end to a darker sin—incest.

He would whisper slowly, “I love you. Allow me to love you.” Then he would give his signature laugh.

Can you imagine that?

I just smile each time he says so, now you should know what comes next: a thunder-sounding slap.

When he says these words ‘I love you’, he ignites a fire in me, a strong urge of bloodlust. A lust to kill.

The only surviving plan I have is to murder myself, but even that is difficult for me. I can’t kill him either, that is most difficult. The only weapon I have is the pieces of rope I had made from my torn skirt. My initial plan was to kill him when he was drowned in pleasure, that was the only time he could be weak and helpless. But I reminded my dumb self that I would strangle him with my hands cuffed. Let’s imagine my hands not being cuffed, what about his size? I’m so strong like a super girl that I could outweigh him and do the kill? The answer is no.

My body is now a map of scars,pain scars, fear scars and deep scars.

When you see me dear reader, I only have one stink: I stink so much, of fear.

I remember asking who I would kill tonight, I’m sure I’ve gotten my answer. The black cat is so innocent and clumsy for me to kill, so I will use my rope on myself.

My suicide note reads:

“Dear reader,

If you ever find this letter, just know that I’m dead and you will too, if the beast is still alive. But if he is dead, carry my raided body to see the morning rays and leave it there till night so it can see the stars and what shape the moon depicts.”

The door knob turns.

The beast is here, again. Another plan fails. It’s going to be another long night, but with a devil inside me.

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