Broken

the blue eyed monster

A punch to the face silenced me. A good respite to the pain I would have faced if I was awake.

The sound of my mother sobbing in my ear wakes me up.

The poor woman, I did not think she liked the ordeal of constantly kneeling at my bed side.

When she noticed I was awake, she quickly gets up and then as gently as possible cradle me in her arms.

All wrapped up, I barely noticed the presence of my extended family. Oliver...grandmother and grandmother children that I hadn't met. My uncle, Patrick and one of my aunties, kambilli, grandmother children I've never seen.

That didn't matter because for the next weeks I couldn't walk.

I had to have stitches down there, my previous clothing washed in blood from down there and blood from my struggles.

I was never left alone again.

Mother, uncle, aunty, grandmother all took turns staying with me.

Oliver would carry me around. She never tired of it. She would take me around the house if I whispered it.

She would cry too. Sometimes, it would be too much and in the midst of her walking around would stop to crouch and cry.

She would hold me tight and apologise for not saving me.

It helped me through the ordeal. I did not remember the incident. I chose not to. I could not even remember.

I refused to indulge in it. So soon, the happenings turned to large cuts of memories. A blank space. I did not remember anything but I knew.

It seemed I would not have time to rest because I was getting fitted for burial cloths.

An ordeal that would last two weeks, grandfather was very important and a lot of people would be here wanting to pay their respect.

My mother's siblings that I had never seen arrived. Kambili and Patrick.

They each had two children. A boy and girl.

Oliver did not have children and I was an only child. So five grandchildren.

I did not care to know their names. They were older than I.

We only saw each other in the fitting room where our bodies were measured and shades of cotton black given to me.

My female cousins wore a black gown with a golden sigil in front. A lion sigil. Mr George's sigil.

A veil too.

I was given a jacket with a fur collar and cape and black Jean and a white button shirt.

I was sat in the front along with my mother in the section of the only surviving children of Mr George.

Imagine that.

I was told about this at the burial. So we, my mother and I were the only surviving children of the blue eyed monster.

I reckoned the spinning in my head was from too much fruits. I was over fed with fruits to help with my injury.

But my violator was my grandfather. My mother was his daughter conceived of rape.

Apparently I wasn't the only one he was abusing.

Mother was his child too.

I pray and hope I do not blue eyes or blonde hair.

My hair was a curly fair brown. I pray it remains this way.

A further slap to my face if I bare the face of my nightmare.

I did not remember the ceremony.

We walked and walked for their funeral processions.

The priest prayed for their souls, telling everyone they were saints. How generous they had given to the house of God. How devoted the family had been.

Then the called me to talk about him. Mr George. My grandfather. They wanted me to talk.

"This is madness" Oliver whispers as she adjusts my jacket in preparation for an ill prepared speech.

Mother stands beside me, fluttering her hand fan above her chin.
"Of course it is. They want to embarrass us. We have gone through so much and we have to go through to the end"

Mother walks me to the pulpit and I was given a microphone.

I did not look up to crowd of strangers all decked in black and dark gold.

"I...he was very nice and he...Mr George. Oh ! My grandfather, Mr George was good to me.

He barely spoke to me but I shall not forget his touch.

He touched me in more ways than one. I will not soon forget. I hope..."

I raise my head up, the sea of faces...a sea because my vision was blurry with tears of humiliation and intrigue and truth I did not want to know.

"I hope...."

"I wish"

To curse him. To hurt him but I cannot, these were his people, we had to maintain face.

A wave of pity directed at me in my state.

My mother snatches the microphone away and pulls me away from the priest trying to comfort me.

"GET away from my child" She says, annoyed.

She helps me get down from the pulpit.

I was made to sit through out it all. The two weeks ordeal.

Made to sit through patting on my face from people saying I looked like George.

My face was a cold ice princess copy of his his face.

I needed out. Now!

The estates were divided accordingly among everyone. My auntie and uncle quickly left.

Taking their share. No one wanted the house. They needed to be out of there immediately.

They wanted no ties to the house.

Including me