Standing in a puddle of red blood, clad in faded jeans and a Max T-shirt, Nonso moaned and began backing away still gripping the weapon in his hand, the weapon that ended everything. He could not understand how he did it, how he ended up on the floor mangled, with mouth agape as he pleaded for his life, begging for a second chance. Transfixed between the devil and the deep blue sea, he could hear the siren of the approaching police vehicles outside his balcony window but he had unconsciously woken the entire house who now stood behind the locked door that separated them from him and the gruesome scene of his crime. "Open the door," they demanded. He could make out the voices of his mother and elder brother but didn't hear the one person he wanted to hear, the one who he did it for. He could feel the pain gripping his chest and the guilt that followed soon after but it was not for the act he just committed. No, in fact he relished it. He knew the joy he felt slicing him open like meat about to be kebabbed, spilling his blood, the same that flowed in his veins and enjoyed the guttural screams that escaped his lips as he submerged his dagger into his fat juicy pharynx. "How could you?" he asked at the end as he held onto his neck, his danshiki rolling out in swells as he cascaded to the ground with a loud bang. His own father. No, he regretted not doing it sooner when the night visits and unwanted fondling started. He knew about it for some time now but he could not bear to stand the pain that would erupt if he had to confront her. He wanted to hear her voice now, and see the relief in her eyes knowing that her secret was safe. So he ran, past the questions and screams nearly knocking down his aged grandma, down to her room. She swung from a hurriedly wrung wire with a pregnancy test result on her bed and a note. "I'm sorry," she said. "Sorry for what?" he questioned, wiping the splattered blood from his brow and holding back his shocking sobs. For the first time in a long time he had to face the painful fact. He was late.
© Sedo Elijah Ebinne