AMANII wake up and the first thought that crosses my mind is “dang, this bed is comfortable as hell.”The second thought is; “fuck, I’m so sore.”And I’m not even joking.My thighs and crotch hurt like I was involved in some kind of heavy labour the previous night. My eyes slowly flutter open and for the next ten seconds, I stare at the bright white ceiling and luxurious chandelier, wondering where the fuck I am.“Dang, my head hurts.” I mutter into the quiet room as I struggle to sit up. The moment I sight the luxurious decor and floor-to-ceiling curtains, all my memories come rushing back like a goddamn geyser.Giving Bhyron a bath.Stupidly taking off my pants.Letting him kiss me.Bhyron cuffing me to his gym equipment.Bhyron… fucking me with a cucumber.My cheeks heat and redden like a roasted tomato. I bury my face in my palm and let out a long, muffled groan.Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! I’m so so stupid.“You’re a foolish, foolish girl, Amani.” I mutter to myself.Hot, vivid ima
AMANIIt takes me about ten seconds to realize that this isn’t a kitchen. It’s a… studio? Production house?The room is decorated like a kitchen with all the fancy cooking equipment, shiny countertops, the big ass refrigerator and of course, the food that’s simmering on the stove. But there are cameras everywhere. And lighting equipment. And two men who appear to be studio professionals.But that isn’t why my mouth dropped open in awe. Behind the stovetop is Bhyron. A black apron with the inscription; “More cooking, less brawn” is tied around his waist to protect his crisp white shirt from food stains. His hair is slicked back and tied out of the way in a ponytail, and wait for it… he’s stirring the pot of stew on the stove and saying something to the cameras.And then, the big shocking surprise. There’s a woman by his side. And she’s none other than Sharon Armstrong. She looks nothing less than perfect, as usual. Her dark hair is also tied in a ponytail, like Bhyron’s, and she has
AMANIOur financial situation has been horrible for the past few days. I can barely keep up with my rent and I have to save up just to afford food everyday.Why am I saying this?I’ve been so broke that I wasn’t able to afford a proper headstone for my son’s grave. I already planned to have a beautiful headstone installed for him next month when I had enough money. Right now, I stare at that same grave that was just a heap of sand the day before, my mouth half open in shock.“Who did this?” I whisper in disbelief.It’s beautiful.Someone built a tombstone for my son overnight. It’s in the shape of his favourite cartoon character, Lightning Macqueen. Yes, the tomb is shaped like a toy car. It even has headlights, and there’s a small rectangular opening in the middle for his casket.I’ve never seen anything like it in my entire life.When my shock finally abates, I cannot help the smile of pure happiness that curves my lips. I'm sure Little Dave is probably giggling and clapping his ha
“Mommy, where’s daddy? He promised he’ll be here for my birthday. Is he working again?” I swallow the painful lump in my throat and turn to my three-year old son. The hospital air is already depressing enough, but watching my frail son tethered to so many wires threatens to break the dam that holds my tears. “Your father will be here soon, sweetheart. He promised us, didn’t he? I’m sure he’s on his way right now.” I say those words without any iota of hope whatsoever. It’s already eleven PM and I’ve been calling my husband since sunrise with no response. “It’s almost midnight.” Dave argues weakly. “Is he spending time with Miss Laura and her daughters again? But he promised to stay with me throughout today.” His eyes fill with tears and my heart tightens painfully. No longer able to bear his sad face, I plaster a fake smile on mine, get to my feet and wipe his cheeks. “You know what? I’m sure daddy is waiting outside right now. I’ll go out there and bring him in, ok
I’m shaking. I can’t breathe. I can’t even speak. The birthday decorations are still hanging from the ceiling and the cake that Dave refused to eat without his daddy still lies there, untouched. All that doesn’t faze me, but the moment I see my little boy covered from head to toe in a white cloth, a horrible, painful pang shoots through my chest. I’m shaking like a leaf as I lift the sheets and look at his frail face and closed eyes. Eyes that will now be closed forever. “N-no.” I whisper, tears falling in torrents down my face. “God, please no. Take me instead. Please take me and bring back my little boy. Please…” I lay my head on his chest, hoping to hear a heartbeat. Nothing. Dave is not breathing anymore. He’s really gone. My baby was diagnosed with brain cancer at just two years old. So far, we’d tried our best to give him the best medical care possible but three months ago, the doctor informed us that he only had six months to live. I run my shaky fingers ov
It’s been three days since my son died. Three days of keeping myself holed up in my new apartment and crying myself to sleep every night. Three days of darkness and gloom. I wake up frowning because the rising sun currently peeks through the sheer white curtains, bathing the room in brightness when all I want is to keep wallowing in darkness and grief. It suddenly hits me that I’ve not received any response from Henry ever since I served him our divorce papers more than forty eight hours ago. I pick up my cell phone and scroll through the endless list of missed calls. There’s none from my soon-to-be ex-husband. Henry never called me even once. Suddenly driven by anger and frustration, I dial his private number and wait impatiently for him to respond. I end the call when I get no response twenty seconds later and get to my feet. Henry still thinks I was playing around when I asked for a divorce. I’ll pay him a visit today and illustrate just how serious I am about leaving his
At exactly three PM the next day, I stand outside my matrimonial home, clutching the strap of my bag in a death grip. Henry had called me an hour ago with news that he’d finally decided to sign the divorce papers, but I was expected to pick it up at our house. I didn’t want to come here but he was adamant. I can already feel tears pricking my eyes. This house holds too many memories of my dear David. I finally summon the courage and knock once. The door opens almost immediately and Zeya, our house keeper, appears. “Who is it…?” Her eyes widen in surprise when she sees me. “Mrs. Amani! Oh, it’s so wonderful to see you again. How’ve you been?” The middle aged woman pulls me into a bear hug and I almost burst into tears as her familiar peach scent fills my nostrils. “It’s wonderful to see you too, Zeya.” With my best friend in another country and my aunt always busy with work, Zeya was always my only companion on those nights when Henry never made it home because he was too b
AMANII can swear on the single sunflower that keeps growing atop my parents’ graves that wild banshees just held a concert in my brain. I peel my eyes open with great effort, hissing as the blinding white lights assault my poor eyeballs. I try to lift my hand but little pin pricks of pain shoot through my entire body. “It hurts…” I whimper helplessly.As if on cue, the sound of shuffling feet reaches my ears and seconds later, my aunt’s face fills the peripheral of my vision.“Amani, you’re awake! Oh, darling. I was so worried about you. What happened?” Her worried tone snaps me to the present and I wince in pain as she helps me to a sitting position.“Aunt… what are you doing here?”She pulls me into a bear hug and despite the fact that my entire body is sore, I draw comfort from her warm embrace. Tears prick my eyes as I suddenly realise how much I’ve missed her.“Aunt…”“Hush, my darling. That’s enough.” She pulls back and gives me a wobbly smile, running her fingers over my fa