The Colour Red

I was supposed to feel relief. Revenge was supposed to be satisfying but yet I felt empty and still damaged. As I looked into the mirror in the bathroom, the reflection that stared back at me was that of a stranger with eyes filled with rage. I was somehow lost within me, in a maze that I could not escape from.

The blood splatter on my face seemed like red paint, the red poster colour I was playing with six years ago when he became a red eyed monster and for the first time since that night, tears trickled down my face as memories I had successfully suppressed came back to me in flashes.

 I was alone playing, painting tomatoes when he came in and lifted me up, placed me on his lap and began to tell me a story. Then I felt his hands crawling up to my pant. I was scared and told him mummy said I shouldn’t let anyone touch me there.

With the strength I never imagined any man could possess I was held down and on that fateful night my father raped me. He made me clean myself up, wash the sheets and when I would not stop crying he gave me a dirty slap and said crying was for the weak. From that very moment, I vowed to be strong- never to shed tears again.

Any night my mother was on duty at the hospital, I would brace myself and await his visit. Visits that fuelled anger, bitterness and hate into my heart. I would stare at the dim bulb just above my head till he left me numb and soon I began to feel neither pain nor pleasure.

Mother would come back to her caring and dotting husband and all would return to normal like the skies never turned dark. No one would believe me if I complained so I bottled it up, every emotion and every feeling and now as I wash away his blood from my hands, the content of that bottle spilled. Tears flowed freely from my eyes and from heart. I washed away the blood of my tormentor but I could still feel the torment, the fears and the deception.

***********

1 hour earlier

I knew he was going to creep into my bed later at night as mother was away but time seemed to be at rest and I became impatient. I wore the smallest nightie I had, tucked in the knife I collected from the kitchen and unto his bed I went. I laid beside him and hid the knife under the pillow. Surprised, but delighted at the sight of a happy meal he turned me to sit on him and held the small of my back. As he fondled my bosom, I withdrew the knife and with all the courage and strength I could muster slit his throat and once again I was the colour red.

*********

I pick up my phone and dial my mother, she answers at the second ring and I whisper ‘mum, your husband is dead’. I end the call and step into the bathtub to wash the red, his smell and my guilt. For now I am free or so I think.

My father’s child is growing within me, holding me captive and I stare at the knife in the wash basin with desire.