I dragged his body to where nobody could find him. first degree murder. I dragged his lean frame to a place by the chiseled cliffs, where the water met the golden sand. It would hum a tune as the ocean swallowed him. and carried him to a place beyond hands, beyond limbs and beyond voices. It was the only way to remove Silky Robinson from your life. Emotional abusers are like plankton. Silky was the flesh eating kind. he'd suck the joy right out of you through a child's straw and blow bubbles with it. Watching your pain bounce up and down, your emotions become unsteady, and joy become alien in your perfect Nevada. Life with him was regimented. A concentration camp. Reality, different version's of pain. It was clear to me that no amount of running would help me escape him, his scent sea moss, the memories that framed our bedside painting an image of bliss. Yet the illusion was not real. I waited desperately for the sands of time to deplete their resources.

It was the only way to remove Silky Robinson from your life. Emotional abusers are like plankton. Silky was the flesh eating kind. he'd suck the joy right out of you through a child's straw and blow bubbles with it. Watching your pain bounce up and down, your emotions become unsteady, and joy become alien in your perfect Nevada. Life with him was regimented. A concentration camp. Reality, different version's of pain. It was clear to me that no amount of running would help me escape him, his scent sea moss, the memories that framed our bedside painting an image of bliss. Yet the illusion was not real. I waited desperately for the sands of time to deplete their resources. At times I became hysterical, looking for myself in him, the self he wanted me to be. I became she , the she I did not recognise. The she who fit into all my clothes, who stole my voice yet a little smaller sometimes it was a bubble in me, sometimes I was a speech bubble in a room desperate to be an exclamation mark. This her slipped awkwardly unfolding herself into seats before him, ironing out every flaw he had told her he did not like. Martial , warden. If it made her prettier before him why not, there was a time when she was prettier before him. When his gaze set upon her and his malt brown eyes were of hunger, yet she had learnt of that hunger. Not of to love, to own as you do a possession. As you do a pretty thing claim it so it knows it is yours stash it away, yet sometimes you feel it has forgotten you. The look has changed, the look is less warmth, you are like a uniform, old and worn, unappreciated ,buttons not seen for their shine, cut not awed at. Instead you are to be folded, and unfolded, yet with silky she was stuffed, ripped, torn, shredded, and dumped on the floor. Ignored for new pretty things, and there were so many new pretty things. Liza had of recent waited with trepidation for the weekend, this weekend in particular where she would become the different one. Put on the Shadow of makeup thick clunky eye shadow, a polish of foundation, the shoulder length midnight wig with the streak of purple the all black slim fit catsuit and become her. Someone foreign yet someone known, like a character or a femme fatale in a novella. Enchanting ,hypnotic, seductive and dark, yet it was all for the lure, all for the thrill, the blood roaring ,heart beating, pounding in her ears, all for the kill. It would end with him, but it started with the cab driver pulled up outside the phone box with a cigar in his mouth . She'd said " Why a cigar, and not a cigarrette?" he looked her up and down wetted his lips, " Everybody likes to pretend," his voice became hushed. He eyed her slender frame. " Creeping out this late at night gets good girls in trouble." She smiled feigning sheepishness feeling something dark coiling in her stomach extending itself like a hand into her throat , opening her mouth like a mouth piece. " If the ride is complimentary , the dame is complimentary," she winked feeling a jitter of nerves. His name had been Graham Barton, he was her first kill with the kitchen knife she'd sharpened in the garden after after her fourth creep late into the night. It was her first Kill, but it was only practice. Short story By Otatade Okojie Purchase my Ebook The Whisper of dreams