The Unspooling.

A short story.

The first thread of her sanity was yanked when she was 13.

It was one of those days, warm and sultry. The air was hot and humid, and the heat wrapped itself around every inch of her, squeezing sweat out of her pores. Music from a nearby church drifted in through the single window in the kitchen and she fervidly wished a tiny breeze would slither in through that window.

Teni was washing the dishes from breakfast when she heard footfalls approaching the kitchen, and she stiffened. She wished she didn't have to live with her Uncle Tunde, he made her uneasy. With his restless hands touching her in places that brought a sick feeling to her stomach. But Uncle was sponsoring her education, because her father could not afford to send her to school with his mechanic job. She so badly wanted to be a nurse, so she would endure his groping and leering. She would endure it. 

Uncle did not have a wife or children yet, so Teni did all the chores and made their meals. Once, she made rice and it was salty. Uncle got so angry that his nostrils flared as he spoke. She just stood there, and watched the widening of his nose as he yelled at her. At night, she prayed that the years would flit by so she could go to university and away from Uncle. A thirteen year old girl, and she believed in prayers. Until she didn't.

Uncle entered the kitchen, and she turned. He beckoned her with a crook of his finger. But she could not move, her feet felt like lead. There was something in his eyes, something dark and sinister. Then he narrowed those eyes in disapproval, and he trudged towards her. She stilled, and braced herself for the fondling. Instead, fetid breath washed over her face before his lips dropped to hers. Her heart thudded against her chest, thundered in her ears as his tongue invaded her mouth. She tried to push against him, but he just shoved her against the kitchen counter. He was so much bigger than her, and she felt small. Her eyes met the knife in the rack, so close, yet so far away.  She folded screams for help in her belly, his beard tickled her as teeth sank into skin. Hungry hands devoured her thighs, sliding into barred places. Her legs quivered, and she stopped being.

 

Years later, Teni grapples with her sanity on gossamer-thin thread. She succumbed to more hands. Hands that have a history of getting their way. The weaker giving way. There is a constant reincarnation of that hot afternoon. Men that do not believe in asking took from her until there was nothing left to give. They called her a slut without words. Her dreams were a grave of memories, and the bottle offered blessed numbness. The pills offered rest and she took it. A man told her he loved her, but he spent more time looking at her breasts than her face.

On another afternoon, in another kitchen with another counter, hands grip her from behind and the years fall away. She becomes the girl with shaky legs in the bathroom scrubbing her body to erase the imprints of something unspeakable. The last thread of her sanity is yanked, and she falls apart.

P.s : April is Sexual Assault Awareness Month, and this very short story is written in honour of that. Sorry, it's coming late.

Till I write to you again.❤️