One murder
Five suspects
Unknown motive
And a sham marriage.
In a web of secrets and deceit, one murder shatters the facade of a sham marriage. With five suspects, each harboring their own hidden motives, the question remains:
'Who wielded the dagg...
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"She was untouchable like the stars but that didn't stop me from wishing."
•••
I was born into what I believed was a loving middle-class family, comprising three members: myself, my father and my mother. My father worked as a clerk whereas my mother was a housewife.
My parents' love story was ordinary yet heartwarming. They met in college, and it was love at first sight. Both were orphans, with my father growing up in an orphanage and my mother living with relatives. They married early, dreaming of a happy family life, much like a fairy tale. However, their once-happy life began to change after marriage.
At the age of seven, my world was shattered when my mother tragically lost her life in a hit-and-run accident, leaving only my father and me behind. With her passing, everything took a dark turn. My once-loving father spiraled into a life of illegal activities, including drugs, alcohol, and gambling. It felt as if my father had also departed, replaced by a seemingly different, destructive persona.
Over time, my father's gambling losses took a toll. At one point, he even prevented me from going to school, using my school fees for gambling. Eventually, he sold our house, and we ended up in a dilapidated two-room flat, struggling to make ends meet. But it didn't end there; ultimately, he made the unthinkable decision to sell me, his own 10-year-old son, all for the sake of money.
The man to whom he had sold me subjected me to harsh treatment, akin to that of a slave. After enduring this for several months, I made the decision to escape from that situation. Looking back, running away may have been one of the most regrettable choices I ever made.
At the tender age of 10, I believed that if I shared how they mistreated me with my father, he would protect me and keep me by his side. But I couldn't have been more wrong. The moment I escaped and ran to my father for help, he responded not with sympathy but with physical abuse. He would return home late, intoxicated, and unleash his fury on me, accusing me of being worthless and blaming me for my mother's death. I would plead for him to stop, but it only incited more brutality. It seemed like he derived pleasure from seeing me in pain, in a pool of my own blood. Over time, the pain and beatings became so routine that I stopped shedding tears, growing numb to the agony.
When I was 12 years old, our neighbor found me severely injured and covered in blood. They promptly contacted the authorities, leading to my rescue. The extent of my injuries included a fractured leg and three broken ribs. This incident revealed that my father was dealing with significant mental health issues.
