DARK LOVE ❤️

Living in a village like ours was extremely stressful, especially with the arrival of all these criminal gangs and others who terrorized us. We lived constantly in fear. Every day brought new anxieties, and every night we prayed that nothing would happen to us or our loved ones. That particular Friday, I was at home with my mother. We were in the kitchen, preparing lunch together as usual. My father was supposed to return soon; being Friday, he usually came home earlier than on other days. However, as the clock struck 1 p.m., there was still no sign of my father. "Why is your father taking so long? He’s going to be late for church," my mother said, a note of concern in her voice as she looked out the window. "He’s probably on his way," I replied, trying to reassure her while serving myself a plate of food. "Hey, it's already time for prayer. You can eat after the service," she said firmly, leaving no room for discussion. "Okay, Mama," I answered, setting my plate aside and following her to the prayer. After the prayer, we returned home, hoping to find my father waiting for us. But he still hadn’t come back. My mother’s face grew tense with worry. "Mom, don’t worry. He might be out looking for some plants for the people who asked him for remedies. I’ll go check on him," I offered. You see, my father, Jack Obson, was a traditional healer. He spent long hours in the bush, searching for medicinal plants to make his remedies. He had taught me so much about nature and its countless wonders, things that many could hardly imagine. Healing was a family legacy. In my father's lineage, every man had been a healer, and they passed their knowledge down from generation to generation—but always to the boys. But I was his only child. Even though many villagers disapproved of him teaching a girl, even mocking us behind our backs, my father never cared about their opinions. He loved me and taught me everything he knew. I learned to identify every plant, to know its uses, its healing properties, and how to prepare the correct remedies to treat people. In addition, he taught me how to fish, to hunt, and to survive in the wilderness. Many villagers called me a “failed boy” or said my father raised me like a son because he had wished for one instead of a daughter. Their words hurt, but I tried to ignore them, focusing on the special bond I shared with my father. That afternoon, I set out for the fields where my father usually worked. It was about a fifteen-minute walk from our home. When I arrived, I didn’t see him. My heart sank a little, but I reminded myself that he often ventured deeper into the forest to find rarer herbs. Determined, I made my way to the nearby forest, one of his favorite spots for foraging. I walked for about eight minutes into the woods, my eyes scanning for any sign of him. The deeper I went, the more silent the forest seemed. Every little noise made me tense up. “Dad…” I called softly, my voice barely above a whisper, but the forest offered no reply. I wandered around, calling out again and again, but there was no answer. The tension in my chest grew heavier with every step. I then decided to head toward a swampy area about ten minutes away — another place where my father often gathered specific plants. When I arrived at the edge of the swamp, I spotted him from afar. He was lying on the ground, completely still. My breath caught in my throat. A deep sense of dread gripped me as I ran toward him, my heart pounding furiously in my chest. As I reached his side, the horrible scene unfolded before my eyes — my father was lying in a pool of his own blood. His throat had been savagely slit. “Das…” I whispered again, my voice trembling as I knelt beside him, hoping—praying—for some sign of life. He did not respond. I shook him gently, then more frantically. "Dad, please, don’t leave me," I begged, tears streaming down my face. "I need you, Dad, I need you so much..." My cries pierced the air as I sat beside his lifeless body, trembling uncontrollably. Soon, strangers appeared, rushing toward me. They were men I didn’t recognize. "Over here!" one of them shouted. "There’s another victim here!" "Who? Who did this to my father?" I asked desperately. "Calm down, young lady," one of the men tried to comfort me. "They were terrorists, I believe. They have killed several people in these fields." As I sat there, still sobbing, a familiar face appeared. Christophe, our neighbor, had arrived. "Oh no... not Jack," Christophe gasped as he laid his eyes on my father's motionless body. He turned to me, his face filled with sorrow. "Heather..." "They killed him!" I cried, my vision blurred with tears. Christophe gently took me in his arms, holding me as I wept uncontrollably. A few minutes later, my mother arrived with several people from the village. The moment she saw my father’s lifeless body, she let out a heart-wrenching scream. "Mama… they killed him," I sobbed as I ran into her arms. She held me tightly, both of us crying together in utter despair. The pain was unbearable. Our village had been suffering frequent attacks from terrorists for quite some time. The security situation in our country had worsened drastically, especially in our region, which lay dangerously close to the border. These criminals would come into our villages, throw grenades in crowded areas to maximize casualties, kidnap young girls and boys, and slaughter innocent people without mercy. After the funeral, my mother and I were left to face a life full of grief and emptiness. My father was not only my parent, but also my best friend and mentor—the person I spent most of my time with and who had taught me everything. My mother was just as broken as I was. She cried day and night. The official mourning period lasted three days. Once it was over, the people who had come to comfort us gradually returned to their own homes and lives. And that’s when my real suffering began. I could no longer sleep peacefully. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the terrifying image of my father’s body lying in blood. My nights were filled with nightmares. The trauma haunted me, and I began to fear sleep itself. Two weeks went by. My mother and I tried our best to adapt to life without him, but every little thing reminded us of his absence—small habits, like not preparing his meals, or not hearing his voice in the house. Everything felt so empty and cold. To be continued