Jealous Gore And The Victim

The Exams

There was no safe harbor in my tender years, only the vast, unpredictable ocean of chance. How could I, in this unfolding narrative of my life, find no reprieve from the relentless storm I’d navigated?

This should have been a time for quiet grief, for introspection, but the world we inhabited, this place teeming with humanity, offered no such solace. Selfishness, a pervasive fog, clung to every soul. We were molded by recklessness, honed by its sharp edges. There was no sanctity here, no sacred path, for everyone sought their own desperate crossing to the other side. We presented ourselves as beautiful before the world, yet harbored shadows within, evil cloaked in disguise. And love? A cruel jest, a precursor to hate at the very threshold of life’s journey toward the ethereal chase.

My father, in an effort to secure a life for me, had brought me to this orchard, a living space meant for peace. But the relentless tide of greed, a boundless current across this wide land, demanded I fight for my own small sliver of tranquility.

Aisha, my cousin, arrived, a balm for the gnawing loneliness that had begun to take root. In her presence, I found myself oscillating between old fears and burgeoning hopes, yet beneath it all, a new identity, fragile but insistent, began to surface. Life, when embraced, could be a tempestuous lover. Even within the confines of a lone cage, something always found a way to penetrate—good disguised as ill-fitting shoes that chafed our feet, and bad, like a burr in soft fur, that served as a cruel, yet vital, learning tool.

Aisha slept in my room that night, and it was a peaceful slumber. We chattered like fledgling birds, our voices a soft symphony, until sleep claimed us, a sweet oblivion.

I awoke with a lightness that morning, a quiet glee. The gnawing hunger of the previous day now a faint echo. I bustled into the kitchen, a hunter on a quest for sustenance. But the moment I laid eyes on the food, something shifted. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drum against bone. Aisha stood before me, her body rigid, her face a canvas of torment, as if demons clawed at her very soul, battling for dominion.

It was unlike anything I had ever witnessed. My mind, a whirlwind of confusion, scrambled for a solution. What could I do? How could I help? Fear, a cold serpent, coiled in my gut, propelling me from the room.

“Malam Abdullah, please come!” I shrieked, my voice tearing through the morning quiet. The security guard, a blur of motion, sprinted towards me. Words tumbled from my lips, a breathless torrent of terror.

He rushed inside, and a guttural cry ripped through the air. Aisha was n***d, her features contorted, her voice guttural, a beastly growl echoing through the apartment.

The Fulani man, his movements swift and practiced, seemed to understand. He darted back to his room, returning moments later with a spray bottle. A fine mist, pungent and acrid, enveloped Aisha’s face. She collapsed, breathless, a sudden, unnerving silence falling over the space.

Minutes stretched into an eternity. Then, a gasp. Aisha coughed, her eyes fluttering open, her gaze bewildered as she realized her nakedness. “What happened?” she whispered, her voice weak. But I was too afraid, too shaken by the raw, terrifying experience, to speak.

She stumbled towards the restroom, the door closing softly behind her. I remained outside with Malam Abdullah, a trembling shadow clinging to his side, until she emerged, dressed and looking remarkably composed, a splendid figure in her clothes.

Still, I instinctively shrank back, hiding behind the security guard.

“Aisha, Aisha!” Malam Abdullah called, his voice firm, repeating her name.

“Yes?” Her response, clear and normal, brought a wave of relief.

Abdullah turned to me. “She’s fine now. She was possessed by a demon, but they are gone.”

“How did you know they were gone?” I asked, my voice still a little shaky.

“She wouldn’t have responded to her name if they weren’t gone,” he explained simply.

Aisha stood a short distance away, her eyes fixed on me, a profound disappointment etched on her face. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and a sharp pain pierced my chest at her obvious misfortune.

“I’m cursed, but hoping to be cast away,” she sobbed, her voice raw with anguish. “Everyone runs away from me because of this, and I detest myself, living like this all my life. I thought they were gone, because for a very long time now, they haven’t visited. But I wonder why today… Please forgive me. I don’t mean to scare you off like that, but my bad never ceases to come this way, and I am so disappointed in myself in this little time I have left.” Her words, a torrent of self-loathing, tore at my heart. “I attempted suicide several times, but the demons saved me from it. I couldn’t kill myself; I have to live with it, with no choice anymore.”

She crumpled, her body wracked with sobs. Overwhelmed, tears pricked my own eyes. Despite the lingering fear, I stepped forward and embraced her.

I was fighting my own battle, and I thought it was over. But this new beginning, it has shrouded and clouded my mental health. A quiet thought formed in my mind. This is pitiful. I can’t reject her as everyone else does. I have to deal with this, even if they are going to kill me. We deserve each other.

A cold suspicion crept in. Dad was in the other house. Had he known about her condition before bringing her to join me? I wasn't sure.

My first exam loomed, set for 12:00 PM, and by 11:00 AM, I was ready. Or so I told myself. In truth, a heavy cloak of depression smothered my mind, leaving no room for coherent thought. I retreated into myself, a hollow shell, yet forced myself to prepare for school.

At school, every gaze seemed to pierce me. I couldn’t meet their eyes, couldn't bear the silent scrutiny. I sought refuge in the library, hoping to steal a few moments to refresh my memory before the exam, with only 30 minutes to spare.

Students dotted the library, absorbed in their books, oblivious to my entry. I slinked in, a phantom presence, until the librarian’s voice sliced through the quiet. “Salama, where have you been? I heard you were missing. How about that?” Her tone was accusatory.

“Well, if I was missing and not found, you wouldn’t see me in here today,” I snapped, the words barbed with a raw edge I hadn’t known I possessed. I strode towards a shelf of books, my movements abrupt.

Every student in the room, previously lost in their own worlds, paused. Their heads swiveled, eyes wide, as if a new, unexpected movie had just begun. My sharp reply had been a bombshell, especially coming from me, the shy, introverted girl everyone knew. They all seemed to shrink back, a wary fear in their eyes as I reached for a chemistry textbook.

The librarian followed me, her footsteps light, until she stood beside my chosen seat. “Sorry for the way I asked you without greetings,” she said, her voice softer now, contrite. “I missed you, even if others didn’t, because you are one of the students I adore. Your personality, your nature, your behavior. You were always the last and only person here whenever the building seemed like a ghost house. But you were absent for a while, not here, and I heard from the school authority that you were missing, as reported by your mom.”

“Thank you,” I replied, my voice hoarse. “I’m sorry too, for the way I responded. Right now, I’m not in a good state of mind, and I have to refresh my memory before the exams. I hope you understand.”

“Okay, no problem, enjoy yourself.” She retreated, leaving me to my thoughts.

I pulled the textbook from the shelf and opened it, aware of the lingering gazes, the lost card staring. I didn’t care for their damn curiosity. I plunged into the book, a desperate attempt to find something, anything, that might anchor my fragmented thoughts. But there was nothing new, nothing I didn’t already know. Every page was familiar.

I closed the book, returned it to its place, and headed for the exam hall.

I didn’t know who I’d sit with, and frankly, I didn’t care. But as I reached the doorway to the hall, a familiar voice cut through the murmur of pre-exam chatter. “Salama, Salama!”

I turned. It was my classmate, Khalifa Mohammed, the boy who always tried to force conversation, even when I desperately avoided it. He was my cousin, I remembered with a sigh, leaving me no choice but to engage.

“Hi, Khalifa, how have you been?” I asked, forcing a pleasant tone.

“I’m good, and you? Where have you been? I missed you so much, and you’re looking so beautiful in your new body size.” He beamed, oblivious to my discomfort.

“Please, let’s talk later, after exams,” I interjected, a wall between us.

“But we’re going to sit together for the exams.” He pointed. My seat number was 15, his 16.

“Wow,” I managed, a hollow laugh escaping me. “But please, don’t disturb me.”

He laughed, a booming sound that echoed in the quiet hall, and we entered, finding our seats. I settled in, trying to conjure focus from the swirling chaos of my mind, but it drifted. Khalifa, predictably, tried to talk. I shushed him, a sharp hiss. Finally, he got the message and, to my surprise, focused on his own impending battle.