Unquenched Thirsts

Unquenched Thirsts


Every day, I continue to hate the very first day our paths crossed. I curse at the cold morning, pushing me farther and farther out of town and clutching my bag tightly as I get off the bus. I curse at the morning lights, whisking me towards an unknown destination. I hate the searching of my eyes as I struggle to find a friendly face amidst the frenzy.

I hate, even more, the beating of my heart as I take my seat next to the driver, hoping he does not forget my destination. Once in a while, when I feel we have gone too long a distance for my 60 shillings, I throw him silent glances to ‘remind’ him that I do not know where I am headed.

I curse at the muddy stage, rendering my beloved boots a nasty site. Continually, I curse as I walk towards the house, making small talk, laughing at the corners of my mouth. I struggle to stifle the unexcitement of being in a new place. I struggle, even more, to pretend that the mud does not affect my mood. Deep down, the rage at the corners of my skin wants to burst into flames. The anger in my chest wants to explode. The discomfort in my tummy cannot take it anymore; I take a deep breath and when I exhale, I feel a gentle warmness at the base of my arse.

For the first time, I drink the nastiness that is green tea. I sit still as the ashiness that is its flavor wreaks havoc in my throat. I stifle an urge to throw up right in her face; my host. I sit still as its coldness finds rest at the bottom of my belly. There is a slight churn, and I almost beg my sphincter muscles to keep tight. It is too small a house. No foreign gases are allowed.

Two hours later, I curse at the tall buildings that continue to make my head go round and round. It is as if we are going around the same path over and over again, bumping shoulders with the crowded city streets. My ears ache from all the noise. There is a continuous ringing inside my head. Like that I have heard over and over again. Like a hammer pounding hard against metal. Like the church clock, calling congregants to mass.

Even though I cannot see, I know there is a darkness inside my eyes; that which only forms when I am tired of pretending that I am at peace. That which reminds me that I am constantly running away from myself. That which reminds me that I have let my guard down too long, and it is starting to weigh heavily on my shoulders.

Damn, I am tired of clutching so hard at my handbag because I fear getting robbed. I think my chest is on fire, ironically, because I forgot my sweater, so now I have to act cool and smile sheepishly anytime someone asks, ‘are you not cold?'.

I bite so tight at the emptiness between my teeth so they do not rattle because of the cold. Occasionally, I rub my left palm against my right upper arm so the goosebumps go away.

It doesn’t help.

Every day, I continue to hate that big brown table that sat, carelessly, between you and I. You busy on your phone, me, staring at the walls, wondering why the second hand of the clock is moving so slowly this evening. I hate the clank of the cup against the saucer, and the slurp sounds when the coffee finally meets your tongue, before summoning the waiter with more orders.

Even more, I hate the memory of the room; isolated and dark. Loud silence with silent hope. I hate, to a little extent, that my host stayed there, feeding me to the monster she knew you were. I hate that even now, after all that happened, she still calls to say, ‘You know I meant well. I really thought it would do you good.’

I hate that you picked at my brain. Made fun at the little circles I continuously drew on the table, partly because I was cold, and partly because I was dying to leave that room. I hate that you made me elaborate on the things that were well beyond your understanding, just so, in your words, you would see the extent of my diverse brain.

I hate that you looked at my host and said, ‘Excellent pick. I like this one,’ then stuffed a note in her palm as we walked down the stairs.

I hate that, even though I felt it coming, I could not get away from the ticking time bomb that you were.

The EXPLOSION

The hate in my blood, over the years, has changed into an unquenched thirst for revenge. The memory of my cold hands on that evening pushes me, over and over again, to clasp the blades of the knife in my palms. It is a bitter-sweet memory. One I try so hard to forget, yet I need it to fulfill all my desired plans. The tears on my face, right now, remind me of the rainfall that night, and how its pounding did an excellent job at drowning my screams.

I sniff, for the third time, and the coldness in my palm quickly reverts to anger, then hate, then a blinding rage that sends the knife right at you.

You scream, out of volition, and I try so hard not to laugh at the emptiness in your voice and the nakedness in your eyes. It is an impeccable sight. Reminds me of sticks and stones and puppy dog tails. Reminds me of blood and dust and sawdust. Reminds me of breathing, and the vitality of my mission.

I look at your face registering relief when you realize the knife missed your thigh just by an inch, but before you sigh, the knife finds its way right through your femoral artery, and I almost jump in jubilation as the blood gushes out and sprinkles onto my entire face.

I remember my blood on you that night, and how your eyes acted as if it was a sight to see. I remember your groans, almost similar to the ones you are making now, only that back then, they were devoid of pain. I remember the look in your eyes. I remember the devilish laughter, echoing through the room like a mocking bird. I remember your smirk, then your recoil, and the coldness thereafter.

I move closer to your face, so I feel the warmth of your last breaths on my neck. One last time, Ruby. One last time.

You groan, and it almost gets lost within your throat. You cough into my face and just then, I press my palm hard against the punctured artery.

Your breathing straightens, and you make as if to speak. You stutter too much, and when my half-full glass of patience runs out, I slide downwards, oblivious of your nudity, and caress your dick with the cold blade.

You cough. You beg, in stutters, for me to let go. It is my time to smirk, and laugh at your misery.

Slowly, without flinching, I let go of the artery, wrap my left palm around your dick and slowly, make as if I am sharpening a pencil.

I take turns; listening to your wails and pressing the artery so you get to catch a breath, and let a ray of hope shine on you. But then again, I lose my patience. Sleep is almost catching up, and my anger has started to die down.

I release the artery and chop what remains of your disheveled manhood. When my anger finally transforms into calmness, I stuff the pieces into your open mouth and find my way out of the jungle that is your life.

Well played, Ruby. Well played.

(I hope, someday, the dogs find you. I hope they make a good meal for themselves. I hope they live a happy ever after, with your dick in their mouths, just as you liked it)

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Revenge can be satisfying

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Meet Eunniah Mbabazi
Eunniah Mbabazi is an Electrical and Electronic Engineer with a deep passion for books and literature. She has authored Breaking Down, an anthology of short stories and If My Bones Could Speak, a poetry collection. She also co-authored Kas Kazi (a novel) and When a Stranger Called (an anthology of short stories).

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