I’d woken up the next morning, drunk and pale. The rays of the rising sun from the east had passed through my curtain-windows, and I was returning from the deadman’s world. I was alive and upright to face the new day- I thought it was a fresh start, a new beginning of my life: I heard a knock on my door. I wasn’t expecting anybody except for the vendor who delivered my weekly Investigative stories- from the “Root Times.” The Root Times was a weekly investigative paper. Since I was a journalist working for MarkDauda Times, since I was also an investigative reporter, since I’d written many investigative stories for Sunday Times and Friday Times, I found interest in investigative stories even when I was at my worst.
I rushed to the door, and unbolted it. I was stunned, startled and paralzed all at once. I still couldn’t believe whom I was seeing. Was it a dream or what? I wasn’t dreaming- she was standing right in front of me, Haja, all-dressed in a greasy-darkened shirt, looking seductive and tempting. I refused to look at her. I folded my arms and waited for her. “Can I come in?” she asked. I slided sideway so that she could help herself in. She rose her eyes and looked at me through the eyes. I was fretted to say “get lost, I hate you, I hate that I chose you.” But I didn’t say a dime.
Obviously, there were many things playing in my head, they wanted to be liberalise, but I restrained my emotions and allowed her to say a word. I hope she had not come to apologise.
“I don’t know how to say this, but I just want to say I’m deeply sorry for everything that I’d put you through,” she said, “I’ve come here purposely to thank you for everything we’ve shared. You’re an amazing person.”
I gazed in her eyes and read her lips as she spoke: she drew closer to me, stood in front of me and hugged me. I didn’t touch her, my hands were dead and frozen- even my heart was silent and dead: my emotions, they were scary and muzzled.
“Our hearts were developed in parallel, parcelled in a precariously committed bond, until I discerned that I needed attention more than just love,” she said while crying.
“I wish I’d known how much you love me, I wish I’d not cheated on you because I found you so boring and so hard to love. I wish I’d not craved so much for attention over a loving man like you.” She was crying, and her tears could be felt on my chest: her tears were cold and hurrying, painful and dreadful.
However, I was utterly dead. She had killed me on that very day when I knew she was cheating on me, on that very day when I caught her with that lousy, yahoo guy who did so much packaging, and pretended to be more caring and loving. Women, no matter are tough they choose to be, they are vulnerable to any man when they are depressed and heartbroken- at this time, they crave for attention. And that’s the case of Haja.
“I love you Joseph. I still do love you. I made a mistake, a dirty mistake of cheating on you. I was wrong when I thought you were boring. I was wrong when I thought you were always busy, running after stories. I was wrong when I said you were unromantic. I have been wrong with everything.” She cried, and I started to feel alive, my hands began shaking, my heart came to life, and my emotions came to life. I held her waist, I squeezed her hair, and kissed her on the forehead. “Stop crying!” I said.
“You did what you thought was right,” I said, “Every woman can be that vulnerable at such instances, but you should have waited a bit more longer, you should have loved me the way I’m, but you didn’t” I cried. “What the fuck?You f**king cheated on me. You killed me since that day.” I shouted at her. “Why are you that weak?” I didn’t know how fury ruled over, but I was obviously uncontrollable and temperamental. I asked her in exasperation, in vigour. I pushed her away from my chest, she stumbled and fell backwards in my dressing-mirror and she began bleeding. I stood still, frozen and dead. I died in panic and in shock. Her blood splashed “Sphus-sphus-Sphus!” She shouted, “ Joseph!!!!!” I didn’t know what to do, I was allergic to blood. She was wasting so much blood. I rushed into my wardrobe, took one of my favourite black shirt, tried to tie the wound on the side of her neck. Could she survive? I wondered. “Please Babe? Stay alive for me.” The wound on her neck was large and deep, and so I had to tug my shirt in there. She held my hands, and I looked her in the eyes. She was panting, struggling to breath and I knew something wasn’t right. I was crying. “I’m sorry Jozzy. I’m sorry for ruining your life,” she esoterically said, “I died for love.” And indeed, she went silent. Her eyes were widely opened and yet, she couldn’t wink them. This couldn’t be. She just couldn’t die. I listened to her heart beat- no sound. She died in my hands, in my room. I killed her. I killed her with my own hands. I shouted for help, ran and called the police that I’d killed somebody.
© mohamedDk@Allahuakbarr