A CAGE CALLED LOVE

A Cage Called Love Chapter One “Uncle David, please stop. It hurts.” I don't know why I kept saying it. Maybe because some part of me still believed that if I begged enough, if I apologized enough, if I could somehow find the exact combination of words that would reach whatever piece of humanity was left inside him, he would finally stop. I had learned a long time ago that silence didn't protect me, but neither did crying, and begging was the only thing I had left. My voice shook as I curled myself against the kitchen floor, my arms covering my head while I waited for the next blow. “Please, Uncle David. I said I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you angry.” He didn't answer me. I heard his breathing instead, heavy and uneven, and somehow that frightened me more than his shouting. I knew that breathing. I knew what it meant when his jaw tightened and his shoulders became stiff, when he went quiet instead of screaming. It meant he was trying to decide whether he was finished. I had become an expert at reading him over the years, not because I wanted to understand him but because understanding him was how I survived him. I knew when to speak, when to disappear, when to lower my eyes and when to keep my mouth completely shut. I knew that apologizing too quickly could irritate him because he would accuse me of pretending to be innocent, but waiting too long could make him angrier because then he would say I didn't care about what I'd done. There had never been a correct answer with Uncle David. There had only been answers that hurt less. “Look at me when I'm talking to you.” My hands slowly dropped from my face. I looked up. I wish I hadn't. His expression made my stomach twist because there was no regret in his eyes, not even a little. There was only anger and disgust, the same look he had given me so many times that I had started wondering if that was all he had ever seen whenever he looked at me. Not his brother's daughter. Not the little girl who had been left without her parents. Just another burden that had somehow become his responsibility. “Do you know what your problem is?” he asked. I shook my head because I knew better than to answer. “You're useless.” The words shouldn't have hurt anymore. I'd heard them too many times. He had called me useless when I couldn't finish a chore quickly enough, useless when I got sick, useless when I asked for money for school, useless when I cried after he frightened me. Yet somehow the words still found a place inside me every single time. He took a step closer. “You should have died alongside your goddamn parents instead of coming into my life.” Everything inside me went still. For a moment, I couldn't hear the rain tapping against the kitchen window or the old refrigerator humming beside me. I couldn't hear my own breathing. I could only hear those words repeating inside my head. You should have died alongside your parents. I stared at him, and something painfully childish inside me wondered if he truly meant it. I knew the answer. Of course I did. But there had always been a foolish little part of me that hoped one day he would look at me differently. I had spent years imagining what it would be like to have an uncle who actually loved me, someone who would ask whether I'd eaten, whether I was doing well in school, whether I was frightened when thunderstorms came. I had watched other girls joke with their fathers and brothers and uncles and wondered what it would feel like to have someone in your family whose presence didn't make your stomach tighten. I had wanted that so badly that sometimes I hated myself for still wanting it. The next blow came before I could move, and pain spread through my side so sharply that I couldn't stop the cry that escaped me. I rolled onto my back, trying to pull air into my lungs, but every breath seemed to scrape against something inside my chest. I heard him curse, heard him tell me to stop making noise, and I tried. God, I tried. I pressed my lips together until they hurt, swallowing every sob because I knew that if he thought I was deliberately crying to make him feel guilty, he might start again. My cheek was against the cold kitchen tiles, and I could taste blood in my mouth. Somewhere beneath the pain, an odd thought passed through my mind. I still have to clean the floor. It was such a ridiculous thought that for one second I almost laughed. I was lying on the kitchen floor, bleeding, and I was thinking about cleaning. But that was what living with Uncle David had done to me. It had taught me to worry about everything except myself. I worried about dirty dishes because dirty dishes made him angry. I worried about coming home late because lateness meant questions. I worried about leaving my shoes in the hallway, about using too much electricity, about taking too long in the bathroom, about speaking too loudly, about speaking too softly. I worried about whether he had a bad day at work and whether that bad day would become my problem when he came home. I had become so good at anticipating his anger that I sometimes felt it before he did. The room went quiet. I didn't move. I heard his footsteps retreat across the kitchen floor, then the sound of keys being picked up from the counter. My heart began pounding again. I couldn't tell whether he was leaving or whether he was simply moving to get something else. I waited, barely breathing, until I heard the front door open. Cold air swept through the house. Then the door slammed. I remained on the floor. One minute passed. Then another. I kept waiting for him to return. When I reached ten minutes, I finally allowed myself to breathe properly. I turned my head toward the front door and stared at it. The house was silent but not peaceful. It never was. I had spent so many years afraid of that door opening that I never imagined there would come a night when I would be terrified of it staying closed. Slowly, I pushed myself onto my hands and knees. Pain shot through my body so suddenly that my arms gave out beneath me. I collapsed against the floor and squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the dizziness to pass. My palms were shaking. My knees were shaking. I wasn't sure whether I was weak from the beating or from fear. “Come on, Sawyer,” I whispered. My own voice sounded unfamiliar. I reached for the kitchen counter and pulled myself up. It took three attempts before I managed to stand. I leaned against the counter, breathing through my teeth, and looked toward the front door again. Something had changed. I didn't know what to call it at the time. I only knew that I couldn't stay. Maybe it was the way he had spoken about my parents. Maybe it was the sudden realization that there was no amount of patience that would make this house safe. Or maybe I had simply reached the point where fear could no longer outweigh the desperation to escape it. Whatever it was, the thought came quietly. I'm leaving. I stared at the floor. Then I thought it again. I'm leaving tonight. The idea terrified me. I had no plan. I had nowhere to go. I didn't know anyone outside this city well enough to ask them for help, and I had spent so long being isolated that even the thought of approaching a stranger made my stomach twist. I had some money hidden away, but not enough to build a new life. Twenty-three thousand. That was everything I had managed to save without him noticing. Twenty-three thousand naira and a bag of clothes. That was what my freedom was worth. I almost changed my mind. Then I remembered his voice. You should have died alongside your parents. I went to my room. I closed the door carefully behind me and stood there for several seconds, listening for footsteps. Nothing. I moved to my wardrobe and pulled out the small bag I kept hidden behind my clothes. I didn't take everything. I couldn't. Three shirts, two pairs of jeans, some underwear, my old sweater and the pair of sneakers I kept for special occasions. I stared at the things I'd chosen and realized how little I owned. A whole life reduced to what could fit inside one bag. I sat on the edge of my bed and stared at the photograph tucked beneath my mattress. I had kept it hidden for years. My parents were smiling in it. My mother was holding my hand, and my father had one arm around her shoulder. I couldn't remember where the picture had been taken. I was young enough that most of the details had disappeared from my memory, but I remembered my mother's smile. I remembered feeling safe. That was the part I missed most. Not the house. Not the clothes. Not the things I had lost. Safety. I pressed the photograph against my chest and closed my eyes. “I'm sorry, Mum,” I whispered. “I'm sorry, Dad.” I didn't know what I was apologizing for. Leaving? Staying so long? Not being strong enough? Maybe I was apologizing because some part of me still felt like I was abandoning them by choosing myself. I folded the photograph carefully and placed it inside my bag. Then I found the money. My hands trembled as I counted it. Twenty-three thousand. I counted it again. Still twenty-three thousand. I put it into the inside pocket of my bag and zipped it closed. For a moment, I sat there staring at the door. I could still stay. I could put everything away, clean the blood from the kitchen floor, go to sleep and wake up tomorrow pretending none of this had happened. That was what I had always done. It was familiar. Terrible, but familiar. Leaving was the unknown. And sometimes the unknown is more frightening than the thing that's killing you. I stood anyway. I walked out of my room and down the hallway, each step making my body ache. When I reached the front door, I stopped with my hand on the handle. I thought about my parents. I thought about every night I had cried myself to sleep. I thought about the first time Uncle David had hit me and the way I had spent the entire night convincing myself it would never happen again. I thought about all the times I had been wrong. Then I opened the door. The night air touched my face. I stepped outside. For several seconds, I simply stood there. Nothing happened. Nobody shouted my name. Nobody grabbed me. Nobody dragged me back inside. I was standing outside the house with my bag on my shoulder, and for the first time in years, I could choose where my feet would take me. I looked back once. The house stood exactly as it always had, dark and silent behind me. There was nothing remarkable about it from the outside. Someone passing by would never have guessed what happened behind those walls. They wouldn't know how many nights I had begged to be left alone. They wouldn't know how many mornings I had woken up wishing I hadn't. That was the cruelest thing about houses like that. They looked normal from the outside. I turned away. I walked until the house disappeared behind me. Then I walked farther. My feet began to hurt, but I didn't stop. The streets were unfamiliar, and every passing car made me nervous. I kept expecting to hear Uncle David's voice behind me. I kept imagining that he had somehow realized what I was doing and was coming after me. He never did. By the time I reached the bus station, dawn was beginning to push a pale light across the sky. I stood beneath the station lights with my bag pressed against my chest, feeling more alone than I had ever felt in my life. The ticket seller asked where I was going. I didn't know. I looked at the list of destinations in front of me and chose a city simply because I had never been there. “Here,” I said. He gave me the ticket. I paid him and watched the money disappear from my hand. I suddenly wanted to cry. Twenty-three thousand naira had already become less. A ticket. A little food. Transportation when I arrived. Maybe a cheap room if I was lucky. I didn't know how long it would last. I didn't know where I would sleep. I didn't know how I would find work. I didn't know what I was going to tell people if they asked about my family. I didn't know anything. But when the bus finally arrived, I climbed aboard. I found a seat beside the window and placed my bag on my lap. My body was exhausted, but my mind refused to rest. I watched the station slowly disappear as the bus pulled onto the road, and I pressed my forehead against the glass. I had imagined freedom differently. I thought it would feel like happiness. Instead, it felt like grief. It felt like fear. It felt like sitting alone on a bus with nowhere to go, carrying everything you owned on your lap and wondering whether you had just made the biggest mistake of your life. I wiped my face when the first tear slipped down my cheek. Then another came. I didn't bother stopping them. For once, nobody was there to tell me I was crying too much. I closed my eyes and whispered the only thing I knew for certain. “I left.” The words sounded strange. I opened my eyes and looked out at the road. “I actually left.” I didn't know what waited for me in that city. I didn't know that I would meet someone who would make me question the difference between being protected and being possessed. I didn't know that there was a man somewhere ahead of me who would look at the broken pieces of my life and decide that he could put them back together better than I ever could. At that moment, all I wanted was a room with a lock on the door. A bed that belonged to me. A life where nobody knew my name. I wanted freedom. I thought that was what I was running toward. I didn't know that sometimes the most dangerous cages don't have bars. Sometimes they look like safety. Sometimes they feel like love. And sometimes, when you've spent your entire life being hurt, the person who promises never to let anyone hurt you again can become the person you willingly hand the key to.