A writing challenge for the African writers' book club.
7/09/2020

Dear life,

"He's never going to be good for you, my love," my mother's voice rang loud, but the slap rang louder, my ears shattering from the sheer force it was delivered with.

"Why won't you listen to us? We are for parents, we gave birth to you, we can take care of you," my father's tight voice and eyes balancing with unshed tears, delivered a punch to my aching heart, but the punch to my ribs hurt more.

"I can take care of myself, and my affairs," in the hazy darkness surrounding me, I heard my own voice, overpowering theirs. Overbearing. "I love him, and I'm going with him. I'm pregnant."

The sheer look of shock on my parents' faces did nothing abate my already made up mind, or melt my ice-cold heart.

"We will take care of you...and the baby," in the midst of my muddled flashbacks, I hear sirens ringing in a distance, but help wasn't coming fast enough. My hands fumble around blindly, attempting to find something to hold onto, a ray of hope. My fingers close around the plastic hilt of a kitchen knife.

"You lied to me," my fiance's voice is louder than the voices in my head, louder than the beating he is giving me, kill him, and you'll be free from all this, the voice in my head overpowers his. "That child you're carrying is not even mine."

"I never lied, you're just listening to the wrong people," I bite back, flinching when he raises his hand,  hitting me across the face, blood sputtering from my already broken upper lip. You don't have to go through all this. The voice in my head screams again.

My free hand brushes my thighs, a thick warm liquid coat my fingers, probably a sign of a miscarriage, but I can't bring myself to be angry.

I'm just sad.

Sad that I was told he wouldn't treat me right, but I still wouldn't listen. Sad that I was told he was an addict who needed help, but I still went with him. Now I'm paying for my sins, and I deserve it, but the child I was carrying doesn't.

He kicks my stomach again, but this time the knife in my arm is raised, getting him in between the knee caps, paralyzing him. He trips falling forward, the knife between our bodies stabbing him squarely in the stomach.

He's limp on top of me, but I can't stop. I raise the knife again, jabbing at his neck. That's for all the months you've come home late, neglecting me.

Again, that's for the lies you told me.

Again, that's for making me not listen to the voice of reason.

Again, that's for giving me a love so fake, I could feel it breaking every time.

Again, that's for every punch and kick you've imprinted on my skin.

Again, that's for killing our helpless baby.

Again, that's for shattering me apart again and again.

Thirty-six times I stab him repeatedly before help arrives. I know I'll probably go to prison for manslaughter, but I can't bring myself to regret any of it.

The only regrets I have, are for not listening to the voice of reason when it was given. How I wish I had listened to my friends, how I wished, I had listened to my head instead of my heart. As darkness comes, for the very last time, how I wish I had listened to my parents.

With love,
Ayanna.