My breathing is short and labored. No, this is not breathing. This is more like puffing. I think English people would call this puffing. And Lord knows I could use a cigarette. But why can’t I breathe properly?
My lungs need oxygen (and nicotine). The former more urgently.
Add to that shortness of breath. This can’t be good.
This does feel like a bed doesn’t it? It is a bed. Not bad maybe? I’m lying on my back. My neck is folded in an awkward angle with my head. Could be a right angle or 45 degrees’ angle. Who knows. I never was good in mathematics. Maybe English and Kiswahili. English mostly. Maths, not so much.
My neck rests stiffly, forcefully, against what feels like the headboard of the bed. That should explain the pain in my neck.
But there is another kind of pain.
The sore, throbbing kind.
This one is between my legs.
Throb throb throbbing away.
I fling them eyes open.
I try to rectify the awkward head-neck adjoining. This is not as easy as expected. For some reason I cannot move. I move my eyes around the room instead. Not a familiar one at all. There is no other furniture apart from the bed. I see an inbuilt wardrobe. I see two doors. One in the far end of the room, to my right, with a key in the keyhole. The other next to the wardrobe, to my left, with no key in the keyhole. This one leads to the bathroom. I can tell because it is ajar. I see what looks like a sink and mirror. The room is painted white. All white. No pictures on the wall. No clocks on the wall. No nails, nor hooks.
My neck hurts. I can’t adjust it.
I can’t breathe. I need to breathe.
I feel it. Something is pressing me down.
I shift my eyes to my body.
I see him.
His face is sweaty. He has a big nose – hard not to notice the nose. Hard because it is touching my left boob. Boobs, you wonder? Yes. I am naked. And so is this strange man on top of me.
He is heavy.
I can’t breathe.
My neck is killing me.
I grit my teeth. I lift him off and roll him to the other side of the bed.
He is now facing up. Too naked. More naked than normal. More naked than comfortable. He starts to snore. What do you know, that theory is accurate!
I get up from the bed. I turn my head around. To the left, to the right. Left. Right. What else will make my neck stop hurting? Any bright ideas?
I look around the room. No condom. Not on him. Not in the room. I feel myself to check if it slid out and got stuck somewhere in there. Nothing. Just fluids. Too much wetness. I need to wash off.
My lungs are filling with air faster now. My heart is beating even faster.
And I just had unprotected sex.
I draw back the curtains. I need an opening. A window, a door. Any. I need air.
I pull the curtains aside. It is pitch dark outside.
If this were a normal night, I would be in a hotel room somewhere in the city. There would be the ever-glaring lights and buzzing night life to see outside this window, any window in the city.
If this were a normal night.
There is stillness. There is silence. There is pitch darkness.
Where am I?
Who am I with?
Why did we not use protection. We always use protection.
Why isn’t his face ringing any bells?
I feel cold. I hug my body. The boobs. They always come in the way when exposed don’t they? They feel cold too. Too cold. The wardrobe mirror reflects my nudity back to me. Mirror mirror on the wall…shall we dare?
I draw back the curtains.
Something drops from the window seal.
I lift the flailing curtain and I see it.
A gun dropping from the window seal is akin to a gun falling from the sky, isn’t it? Especially if you don’t own one, have never seen one, or never known someone who had one.
Let’s see. What do I remember?
A naked man on top of my naked body.
(If the soreness between my thighs is anything to go by). The soreness between my thighs is something to go by.
What else do I remember?
Allow me a smile here. Of course I remember my name dummy!
Felicia. I am not ready to disclose my second name yet. But I remember that one too
I bend to pick the gun. The boobs. Again. They touch my knees. Do they always have to be so damn sensitive to the cold? I should put on some clothes.
I put the gun on the bed. No. Bad idea. Can’t trust the snoring motherfucker.
I place it on the window seal instead.
I need my clothes.
The bra is hanging on the headboard. Les pants are next to the snoring fool. Lace. Haha, I try. Fault me for anything else, but never for not trying. The dress, the dress, the dress. Oh! The dress is on the floor. Just next to the bed.
I secure the unruly boobs with the bra. Pull the dress over my head. Was it this short? Haha, of course it was. How else would I be here with him. Before I wear the last garment, I need to clean myself first. I need to use the bathroom.
I head to the bathroom. I remember to carry the gun with me – my mother did not raise a fool. Can’t trust the snoring mother…
Tell me something; why is there a man in the bathroom? And why is he seated on the floor. No. He is not seated. More like crumbled. Would the English call it crumbled, you think? Anyway, his head is leaning forward such that his chin is touching his chest.
This reminds me of the pain in my neck, the pain between my thighs, the ‘stuff’ I need to clean from my nether regions, the lethargic stranger on the bed, the gun I am holding in my right hand, the lace pants I am holding in my left hand, the cigarette I desperately need…
Why is there blood all over the bathroom floor?
…the cigarette I desperately need…
He is dead isn’t he?
…the cigarette I desperately need…
To be continued…