KARMA | by Makinde Damilola Peter 


A lofty idea burrowed her thoughts, clouding the flowery memories which now served thorns churning pain and regret. The skin of her eyelids had shrunk, red from the incessant flow from her sockets. Goosebumps suddenly sprouted and tickled through her body, while her pale face gradually turned slyly gay. She reached for her moist face towel, sniffed, then kicked off the duvet. She puffed the last drag from the cigarette, drained the last shots of whisky, lazily tabling the bottle which lost balance and rolled off to splatter on the tiled floor. Then the lights went off.

The streets were deserted, with owls hooting in the shady trees and crickets having a field day, while the sound of her boots proved the only humanly conjured sound. The harmattan fed cold to her skin, regurgitating cozy nights in his warm embrace. Sturdy yet heavenly was his touch, gracing every end that connected her soul.

Aesthetically, he’d weave those words, weakening her tender defence. But that was nothing compared to the way he made her pulsate when he stared into her eyes, said her name, succeeding it with the synergy of those words – I love You.

‘Bastard’, she muttered, biting her lips as the taste of his tongue teasing hers between the matrimony of their lips, lingered. She quickened her steps, trying to feel the sheath tucked in her belt under her pullover.

The corners of her eyes brewed tears as his brown eyes flashed through her mind. His puppy eyes when apologizing was a deadly sedative to her resolve anytime. Just then, experiences under the doctor’s blades and the gulping of pills, riddled her consciousness, while she tried to rescue herself from the illusion of terminated fetuses letting out shrills in her ears. Preceded by dizziness, her limbs failed under the weight of her woes as she approached her destination.
Rubbing her eyes, she tried to regain full consciousness. 
She was being overwhelmed, courtesy of her sorrows. He had made her what she was. A drunkard, a drug addict, and tonight a pending murderer, she thought echoingly. With that, she mustered strength fueled by the thought of him ditching her, further surrendering herself to the gulf of anger and revenge.

The view of his ajarred door reminisced the last time he lifted her in his arms through that space. Only if his deceitful actions didn’t blind her from his intentions, she thought, sniffing to prevent threatening tears. She unsheathed the dagger, while her heart raced, heating up her blood, as she quietly stepped through the door.

There he was, half unclad, beside his lifeless mistress, sprawling for life. He pointed at the door, gasping for breath as blood streamed from the bullet drills in his belly and oozed from his mouth, managing to utter ‘she… ‘. The dagger clanked on the floor, as she ran towards him. ‘Who? She cried. ‘Who! Those were the last words he heard…

Was it love she felt or was it mere sympathy? 
Was it dissatisfaction or disssapointment that she wasn’t the executor of her plan? 

She couldn’t define the feeling as her eyes gave way to more tears.

**                                    *                                **

The murderer had once been a victim of his philandering escapades, killing him for the same reason she had planned to.

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