Flash Fic 102

​My sister and I had another quarrel and I decided to stay in my brother’s room instead of standing the sight of her. So i moved my duvet and pillow, begging permission and finally making my bed on the hard sofa he had managed to squeeze into his small room. I tried to make space, to make myself comfortable.

“Don’t move that mirror!” he scolded sharply as i was about to touch a standing mirror that was turned away from me.

“Why?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Just don’t move it!” He said no more, moving his attention back to the video he was watching on Youtube.
I huffed in irritation but acquiesced to his demand. I didn’t want him to kick me out of his room. 
“Should i turn the light off?”
He stared at me, as if trying to understand what i had just said. Slowly, he shook his head.
“No. Don’t For your sake”
“My sake?”
“Yes” he paused. “They’d come”
I frowned. “Who would?”
He didn’t answer me.
My frown deepened, the stubborn streak i inherited from my father rearing its ugly head. I swallowed it down, sliding into my makeshift bed. 
The light bulb blazed above me and i sighed in exasperation. How was I going to sleep with it on?
I turned to study his room.
My brother had been away from home for a long while- two years- and one day, came back with nothing but a rucksack. 
My mum had said nothing but a welcome to him that day. He took what used to be my room and I had to share with my sister. 
The room was different. It was the same room yet, it felt different. 
Different coloured bottles were on the window sills. I tried to make out what they contained from where i lay. Curiosity getting the better of me, i got up.
“What are you doing?” he asked me as I walked to the window, staring transfixed at the bottles. My eyes were drawn to a particularly red one. Something shimmered within it, and i found my self involuntarily caressing the bottle…almost reaching for the cover…
“Stop!” 
I jumped, as if beaten and looked around me, confused. 
When did i leave the bed?
I turned to my brother and the look of fury on his face chilled me.
“Don’t touch anything! You don’t listen!” he shouted at me and i cowered at the blazing light of fury in his dark eyes. I quickly scampered to bed, pushing my head underneath the covers, stilling my beating heart.
I did not understand my reaction. Even more confusing was his reaction.
“Just sleep. Sleep and wake up tomorrow morning, that’s all. Don’t touch anything and don’t ask questions” i heard him say through grinding teeth as he went back to his single bed.
I closed my eyes and somehow, managed to drift off…

I woke up and the lights hit my eyes, causing me to wince.  I heard his snores, confirming he had fallen asleep with the light on. I sighed, getting up. I flicked the light switch off and was walking back to the sofa when i paused. The security light outside streamed into his window, bouncing off the shiny back of the mirror he had asked me to not touch.
I looked at his sleeping form in the shadow, unmoving. 
I shrugged and touched the mirror, flipping it till i could make out my reflection. I had not realised i was holding my breath until i had released it.
What was I expecting to happen? It was just a mirror. 
I rolled my eyes.
My mum had whispered to me one evening after my brother’s return about her fears. She figured he had embroiled himself in some form of mystic cult and was on the run.
“That’s ridiculous! How do you know that?” I had asked. 
She had said nothing then but i could read the worry and fear in her brown, rheumy eyes framed by deep, dark circles.
I shook the memory off, going back to bed and soon drifted off to sleep.

The mirror was facing me.
I awoke, shaken by a nightmare and swallowed a shriek of fear at the huge shadow in front of me before i realised it was only my reflection.
I sighed in relief…then frowned.
Did i leave the mirror there? I could not remember.
I tried to think but was distracted by a tiny silver light emanating from the glass. Where was that coming from? I checked about my person but I had nothing on me.
Yet the light persisted. 
I got out of bed and crawled to the mirror, staring at the light.
Suddenly, it began to swirl.
I blinked, rubbing my eyes.
Nothing.
No. It wasn’t nothing.
The silver light was back.
I touched the surface of the mirror and gasped. It was ice cold.
“Shh…e…shh..”
I could hear whispers. From the mirror?
My heart thudded in my chest as beads of sweat formed under my armpits and breasts.
I was afraid.
I tried to move back but found myself unable to control my body.
I willed myself to go back to bed but i couldn’t tear my gaze away from the mirror.
Slowly, my reflection transformed. My eyes widened in horror as i watched my hair in the mirror grow until it covered me like a thick veil.
No, it wasn’t me. 
It wasn’t my reflection.
I was watching something else…form.
“Shh…e…shh…”
The murmuring got louder. 
And louder.
My head spun, the murmurs amplified in my head like the scratching of nails on a blackboard. My eyes watered and tears ran down in cheeks, teeth pulled back and biting at my quivering lips. I could taste the blood in my mouth. I tried to draw back from the ghastly image that was appearing in the mirror.
But I couldn’t. I knelt in front of the mirror, as if held down by invisible hands.
The image was complete.
It raised its head up suddenly and the thick black hair parted. 
It’s eyes opened, revealing yellow and black iris like that of a snake. It’s mouth parted open, revealing rows and rows of sharp spiky teeth.
It smiled.
“Hello. My name is Moloch” a tinkling voice like a hundred bells said distinctly beside me, a cold hand gripping my shoulder, sharp nails digging into my flesh.
I suddenly gained control of my body and turned sharply.
It was behind me.
I screamed, my nails scratching my face in hysteria as the thing gripped my arm harder.
And shoved me into the mirror.

I woke up in a green bottle, my brother’s face impossibly large, staring at me.
I heard him speak.
“I told you to leave the mirror alone”
I shouted, hitting the wall of the bottle.
“Let me out!” 
He sighed, a small smile pulling at the side of his lips.
“I’m afraid that would not do” he murmured.
“Absolutely won’t do” a voice replied behind him.
The person came forward, joining my brother to stare at me.
It was me.
I stared at myself smile at me.
“Th…that’s not me!”
“Then who am I?” my body responded in my voice, chuckling.
I looked imploringly at my brother.
“Please let me out! Please! That’s not me! I’m your sister! Please!”
“Shhh…” my brother whispered.
Suddenly, their eyes changed.
Yellow and black irises, like those of a snake.
I stumbled in the bottle and fell, retreating in horror as the eyes came closer.
“Y…you…”
They smiled.
Rows and rows of sharp, spiky teeth.
“My…brother…”
They pointed to the red bottle beside me.
“He is almost smoke. He is almost ready. As you would be” The thing masquerading as me said.
“We would drink you. Like fine wine” The thing masquerading as my brother said.

I heard my mum call for us in the background.
Their features rapidly changed and in a perfect imitation of my brother and I, they replied.

Flash fic 101

There was something in the room with us but he would not believe me. 
It’s at the door, I whispered to him, frightened but he laughed it off.

He picked up his phone.

What are you doing?

Taking a picture of the door so you can see nothing is there.

He turned on his flash and took a picture. 

The brief lighting revealed nothing. 

Then I felt his body freeze beside me.

I focused on his phone. 

A naked little girl stood by the door, a red smile gleaming on a chalk white face. A black hand rested on her shoulder. It belonged to something…someone behind her.

His phone black.

Then the door croaked shut.

And locked itself. 

The room soon stank of death. 

And the dead.

Olymp-s

​The final anthem is sung and the final oaths sworn

To never forget an event, only once in four years.

The final goodbyes are said and the olympians go home;

In glory, in dismay,

With bright hope for the future, with retirement glaring through despondent eyes. 

The empty stadium echoes with ghost of soon forgotten cheers and screams and grunts. 

The empty podium stands, waiting, wondering when another athlete would ever depend on it to be elevated to the god status of their deserved importance.

Behind the wood and behind the metal,

Behind the steel and beneath the concrete that hold the stadium in place,

The gods of Olympus hide, satisfied.

Fed and bloated on the anguish of broken bones and sprained necks.

Bulging bellies full of tears of losers,

‘Good, but not quite good enough’ their grieving hearts murmur.

The gods of Olympus are overfed and as the last person leaves the stadium, iron shutters closing for the final time behind them, immortal eyes become drowsy. 

Their serpentine bodies curl, slow hissing of air expelled from tired breaths. 

It is time for the four year hibernation. 

Until the next Olympics.

Until the next batch of sacrifices

To the gods of human vanity.
——————————

Funfact: I wrote this at the start of the Olympics.

Funfact 2: It was inspired by pictures of former Olympic arenas from 1920’s to 2008 and how some of these structures now lie desolate.

Salutation: Howdy, it has been a while hasn’t it?

To be read only in complete darkness.

I

The thing about fear is somewhat embedded in knowing a certain something could happen or had happened.

That is why starting a horror story with “This is a true Story” guarantees you have the attention of the reader.

Is this a true story?  Was this a true story? Perhaps.

It began when doors began to close on their own. I’d walk past a door and before I could reach to shut it, it did so by itself.

I live in a somewhat Windy City so this is pretty much normal. I thought nothing about it until one day, under my breath, I said “Too lazy to close the door…wish someone would help”

Obediently, the door creaked as it began closing.

Again, pretty normal.

“Do I live with a ghost ni” I asked in my habitual manner of talking to myself.

“Yes” a voice right beside me said. “I’m waiting for you to sleep”

I live alone.

———————————-

II 

The roommate is out again so I get a silent house to myself.
I turn the lights off and slide under the cold covers of the duvet.
I dutifully stay on my side of the bed, and I push my roommates teddies to her side of the bed.
“Treat them nicely” she’d always tell me whenever she was going away for the weekend and I’d murmur a “Yea…”.
This night, I look at them, black button eyes glinting, illuminated from my phone.
“Stupid piece of shit” I curse at them, and fling one, a purple llama, against the wall.
It is time to sleep.
As my body slowly drifts, I hear a whisper.
“Stupid piece of shit” a voice suddenly says.
Something violently pushes me off the bed.

The llama is back on the bed.

———————————

III

Things disappear when I drop them.
They reappear in other places.
“Am I going crazy?” I murmur, bemused.
“No” a pale, little boy replies. “Chucky just likes to play”

Sad songs

These sad songs won’t leave my head.
It’s my favourite singers, haunted smoky voices murmuring in my head.
Minor chords and sighs, they exhale like cigarette smoke.
I hate the smell of cigarettes. That stench of burning lungs and promised in death.
Yet.
I indulge in this brand of death, these songs of sadness.
I inhale their exhale deeply, until I make their story mine.
Or their stories are really mine.
I tear away carefully built happy places in my head and examine the rotten wood and quick sand that is its foundation.
Gone.
All dead and gone.
All is a lie.
Abandon hope, all ye who put thine earbuds in ear to imbibe of this aural cyanide.
It is in these moments I forget every vestige of happiness I have.
Life. Love. Sustenance.
I pick manically at old scabs until their new.
I pick at ulcerated wounds until they bleed.
And I keep picking, even as it hurts.
I’m trying to make it heal, I tell myself but I’m no healer.
So, I muddle through mess of blood and pulpy flesh.
But I resist the urge to sever everything in despair.
The songs of sadness tell me to sever everything.
I resist.
And in my resistance, dare I hope to find my salvation?
So, I yawn in class and wipe the tears I pretend have come from boredom.
I wear my glasses to hide red eyes behind thick frames and I fake a sneeze just to have a reason to wipe a dripping nose.
I think about treating myself to school lunch I may not be able to afford.
And I smile.

Melancholy

Very many things in my head, begging to  be written.
Even many more things in my head asking to remain hidden.
So I sit in my lounge in solemnity, a single light bulb illuminating me and my brown leather couch.
I roll a stick of an unlit cigarette in my mouth absentmindedly, listening.
The wind howls outside incessantly, spindly tree trunk fingers tapping on my windows.
“Gosh I pity whomever is stuck outside in that storm” I murmur,  closing my eyes.
Pain lances in my head and I wince sucking in breath and the paper wrapping of the death on my lips.
It’s nights like these I hate.
Nights when my mind refuses to stay silent.
It’s nights like these I miss you most dearly.
My eyes stray to the singular picture framed and hanging above the mantlepiece and I exhale slowly, imagining a billow of smoke obstructing your smiling face forever frozen in print.
What is love that we should feel it so deeply?
What is death that we should hate it so dearly?
What is oblivion that I should crave so badly?
I clear my throat.
Nobody warns you.
Nobody warns you it would be like this, this business of affection.
It’s like selling a part of your soul with hopes you may get another soul that matches the hole left behind in yours perfectly.
Nobody warns you about how good it would feel, just watching another person smile, a faraway look in their eyes.
And nobody warns you how you would feel, realising that smile is never going to be there.
A practiced reach for the phantom at the other side of the bed and grasping at nothing.
And at that moment, that split second, the hole in your chest expands, swallowing everything in its path, consuming you.
Pressure builds inside and you feel your ears pop. 
You’re trapped in a bubble filled with water,  slowly drowning.
And you’re aware of every watery moment.
For that split second, you realise something about yourself.
You want to die.
And that realisation stays with you after the hole shrinks back to its original size.
So 9am and you’re on your fourth glass of brandy.
Swig.
By 2am,  you’re sitting in the lounge like me, simulating smoking with hands that have performed the action over 60 times less than a day ago.

“Gosh, I feel sorry for whomever is trapped inside during this storm” I murmur.
There’s no stepping out, to clear my head.
So, I sit here, trapped in a warm prison of memories and silence.

I clear my throat again.
Gosh, I need a stiff drink.
I’m not crying, I swear.

Breathe

“Just breathe” He says, at loss on what to do with me.
So I breathe.
Inhale. Exhale.
“I still feel it” I whisper, my head in between my thighs, blood rushing into my head.
I hear him fret, wristwatch hitting bracelet with every fretful twitching of his  hands.
“Talk me through it. Would it help?”
I swallow.
“It’s a burning rage. Slow fire. It threatens to consume everything in my path. It would start with me. I feel its little licks of flame in my head. It would scorch me from the inside until I’m nothing but a walking Molotov cocktail. And everything I touch… Please.  Let me drink. Just a little”
He rubs my back,  kneading my shoulders.
“No. Please. I can’t let you drink.”
“Please.  If you ever loved me, just a little.”
He shakes his head and I hear the distress in his voice.
“You can’t. Talk. Talk to me. Keep talking. Don’t think.”
I take a deep, shuddering breath.
“Then let me jump. Because if I can’t have it, I might as well jump. It won’t hurt. The jump. He keeps whispering. Telling me it’s a good idea. Can you just pass me a bottle. See? I need to shut him up. He keeps suggesting in that slow voice, his breath in my ear, hot and moist. Fetid stench of death.
If you won’t let me drink,  then leave me to join him! He wants me to join him!”
I rock back and forth, biting hard on my lips till I feel a bead of blood. The metallic taste as well as the sting hits and I wince.
“I need my drink. It is the only sanity I know”

——
And nothing is scarier than a true story.

Satirical Saturday: The Invitation

 

Lucifer adjusts his robes as he perches himself on a stool.
Uriel glances at the celestial time and sighs, impatient to be about his business.

“Honestly, I did’t do anything THAT BAD”
“Udonmeanit…”
The sarcasm flies over Lucifer’s head.
“Serious o. I only said me too I want in on the good good na. You know what they say…”
“I don’t…”
Interrupts.
“What’s good for the goodse, is good for the gander! See what i did there? See?”
A big smile on L’s face.
“E for Effort”
Lucifer frowns and smacks his teeth. “Abeg abeg. Na wa you sef! Anyway! Back to my side of the story! Yes ooooo. Small tin like dis. Oga come dey vex! Allova sudden, I don turn Devil. Juslaidat!”
A raised eyebrow. “If HE was angry, then it was not a small thing”
He eyes his companion. “So you been dey dere wit me wen e happen abi?”
His companion sighs. “Carry on”
“Ehen. So I say me I want my own throne. Me sef i want my own praise. Ahn ahn! I don dey shout Halleluyah since HE make me! E never do? Me sef why i no go siddon, dey drink cold water?”
A shocked look on Uriel’s face. “You said what?”
“Ear dey pain you!? I tell am say, Bros G, Me sef i want seat. E no need big like your own. Juss small ting wey i go take siddon beside you so we go share the praise. Not even 50-50. 80-20 na im i talk. Oga come vex”
Uriel’s mouth drops open.
“Hayyyyyy! You have no fear?? Are you mad???”
“Ahn ahn! Is it because I’m telling you something you are now insulting me anyhow? Take ya time o! Anyway! He sha was vexing for me and said i should get out. Ah. After all my loyal service. This life sha.”
Uriel shakes his head. “See, I have 12pm Hosanna duty and it’s almost time. What exactly do you want me to do for you? Beg HIM?”
Lucifer laughs, playfully slapping Uriel’s shoulder. “Beg ke! O ti o. No beg please. Why i go beg am. A whole me! Lucifer! Finest boy in H Town. Baby boy of Life! Ehhhhhnnnn”
He dusts his shoulder.
“So..what then?”
“Ehn. Mo nlo! I dey port! I’m porting outta here so i came to give you proposal, you know we are friends na. Egbon mi!!!!”
Uriel huffs, irritated. “Get to the point! Goodness!”
“Ahn caam daan na. No be Halleluyah you just wan go shout? E no dey tire you sef! Anyway Come and follow me o! I’m going to Earth to control everything! Controller general and tinz. Your boy is gonna blow! If you follow me, i fit make you Deputy Commander because we don be padi for long mehn…”
Uriel stands to his full height.
“Lucifer! Lucifer! Lucifer! How many times did i call you?”
“Ahn ahn na wetin!”
“E be like say you don crase finish abi! So you look me upandan finish, think say na me go follow you chop eternal punishment. You tink say i no know dat be your punishment?? Eez like ya a mad somebody. Belly don dey run you abi? So you look Daddy G.O throne finish and e dey do you WAWUUUUU, you come go challenge am”
“Eiiissss…”
Uriel interrupts. “Ehn! I no wan hear! Do me a favour please. GERRARAHIA! GERRARAHIA RIGHT NOW!”
“Whoolup nigga! Whoolup! Ahn ahn dem no dey follow you play again?”
“Abeg! Carry your play dey go! DEY GO!”
Lucifer angrily gets up.
“Oya dey here na! You too dull sef!  You don fall my hand, guyyyy. Ahn! You don forget na me and you dey hustle for Ojuelegba from day one”
Uriel sharpens his sword on the floor. “You still dey here???”
He lashes out with his sword at Lucifer and he flees, cursing.
Uriel chases after him.

Minutes later, Uriel comes back and sighs deeply and looks at you, the reader.
“E don be for una sha… That oloriburuku go frustrate una die. Ehyaaa…”

————————————–

In my head, the Devil is a disgruntled Nigerian civil servant.

Satirical Saturday: The King and the Psychologist

Monsieur. Madame, bonjour! ( Opening line on one of my all-time favourite anime, Gankutsuou, of course, tweaked to suit the time of the day, but, I digress)
I have missed you.

Believe me? No? Good.

What i have missed is writing. Writing something that makes me chuckle as i think up ridiculous dialogues.

I have therefore decided, to help kick-start my flailing writing career, to start a weekly ‘column’ of sorts.

Satirical Saturday.

I love satires. I love humorous satires. I love my brand of humorous biblical satires. (Merely revealing the human side!)
(Why Saturday? What better day to have sit than the sabbath eh?)

Important disclaimer: This is in no way  mockery. I seek to write in new characters to familiar stories. Characters oft forgotten because we’re too focused on the biggies. They would be of different nationalities (mostly Nigerian, because, Nigerians are funny people).
I would not change ow the stories go and/or end, no fears.

I have actually done something similar here, (A Play)

Enough chitchat.

I do hope you enjoy the first of its kind!

 

Satirical Saturday: The King and The Psychologist

“So…Mr…Solomon?”
“Mr?”
Awkward silence and shuffling of feet. “Oh Pardon me! KING Solomon”
“Should I?”
“Eh…that was just an expression Sir.”
A raised eyebrow. “Sir?”
“Eh..King?”
Regal sigh. “O King, Mr Psychologist. O King”
Awkward shuffling of papers. “Alright, O King. So. You need my help. What might be the problem?”
“What isn’t?”
“Sir? I mean. O King?”
“Yes. What isn’t a problem? Look at the world today. From the state of its dire affairs to that colour of shirt you have on, my good man. Everything is a problem. Though I must add…your shirt really is a fat kid. It takes the cake.”
“Oh. Wow. What interesting…humour King”
Shuffling papers. “Fair enough. So, your notes say you have trouble sleeping?”
“What is sleep?”
“Er. Sleep is a restful period your bod…”
“Rhetorical, Psychologist. Rhetorical”
The King studies his nails.
Beginning to feel unsure of himself. “So…King?”
“You know, starting a sentence with ‘So’ is a sign of one’s intelligence or indeed, as portrayed by you, a lack of one. Such a plebeian thing to do. Tut tut”
“Pardon my ordinariness, Highness”
“Pardoned”
Pause. “That was sarcasm”
“So was my reply. Carry on”
A sigh. “So…I mean. Well. You have described feelings of emptiness? ‘Vanity upon Vanity? All is Vanity?’ I believe was how you put it?”
“Isn’t it?”
Pause. “Isn’t it what?”
“Vanity. Pay attention please. Poor as you are,  you can pretend to manage that yes?”
“Yes I ca…huh.”
A frown.
The King examines his nails.
“You know. I find it worrying that this speck of gold under my nail, inanimate as it is, is doing a better job at holding my attention compared to you, a man who wasted four years of his life in a place of learning. What school was that again? Covenant? Hah! What would a heathen know about Covenant?”
Mumbling under breath.
“Say something?”
Flushed. “Eh! No! Yes! You have gold under your nails??”
A long, calculated look.
“Insolence, dear man. Remember whose presence you sit before”
Whispers. “Apologies”
“Mm. To answer your question. Yes, gold. An ornately designed bedpost and a young dark maiden from a faraway land. Well…former maiden”
A shrug.
“Ah. Ok. Good thing you have mentioned that. Let’s talk about it”
Affronted, half-rising. “Talk about what, you filthy man! My nightly activities? You Philistine! Perversion! Guards!”
Two burly Nigerian touts troupe in.
“AH OMO WEREY! YOU DEY CRASE! YOU WAN DIE?”
“Mercy, King! Mercy!”
One breaks a bottle on his own head.
“IF I FIT NACK MYSELF YOU THINK SAY I NO GO NACK YOU!”
Psychologist falls in a dead faint.
King claps and his guards retreat.
He sits back, watching the prone form of the man on the floor.
Whispers. “O-ye-de-po”
Eyes flutter wide  open and he jumps up.
“Please. Take a seat.”
“In..interesting guards”
“Ah yes. Kamaru and Kasali. Came with one of the maidens. I forget which.”
“Ah” Clears throat. “Well, to carry on. I believe you have…698 wives?”
“700. Just 700. I have two alliances to seal with two warring kingdoms.”
“And you marry their daughters?”
“Indeed. It is part of the Peace treaty”
“I know this may be a top-secret information but permit me one question. How?”
A beatific smile. “Well, as you have gracefully admitted to your wholesome ignorance, I shall give an explanation to my actions. For people must admire my wisdom.”
“You have just insulted me. Sir. King”
A raised royal brow. “Problem?”
Pause. “Now, these two warring kingdoms are indeed so because both Kings have failed to produce male offspring. And because of a lingering distrust, one cannot marry off the daughter to another kingdom without the other feeling threatened. In I come, the wisest man to ever walk on earth. That is a fact by the way. God said so himself.”
“Ah..”
“Do not interrupt me. As I said, In I come. I provide a most suitable solution. I marry both dashing damsels and thus, no reason to fear a betrayal.”
“But, who then rules after the Kings die?”
Another beatific smile. “I would. Of course. Wisdom, my good man. Wisdom”
Clears throat. “Would you say your acquiring of maidens both legally and illegally…300 concubines it says here”
“And counting”
“Oh… Ok… Well would you say your predilection for women is an attempt to stifle your boredom that comes with having it all?””
“As alluring as women are, gentle creatures, they do not ‘stifle’ my boredom. They in fact play no part in relieving me of my, as you put it, ‘boredom that comes with having it all’. Quote. Unquote.”
“Don’t you think having 1000 women for yoursels if a bit..i don’t know… over the top?”
“It is?”
“Indeed! You essentially sleep with a whole village of women! How? Do you have a timetable? Some men are single out here. Don’t you think you’re stealing their future brides?”
A suspicious glare. “You do seem very interested in my women, Philistine. Are you married?”
“Eh. No Sir. I’m still young. I’m only 28”
Snort. “Young. How cute. I was already King then, leading God’s own nation.  I had the wealth of many nations. The gold, the onyx, prized horses of Egypt. Ah… good ole days. But we can’t all be successful people can we? I shall pretend to understand your…struggle life. Awks.”
*Sips tea*
“It can pain. One advice. Get a wife. I do not want to see you sniffing where my ladies are kept. Running to hold the horns of the tabernacle would not save you. Ask Joab. Didn’t save him. ”
Nervously clears throat. “I was planning no such thing Sir King”
“Good”
Silence. Shuffling paper.
An impatient sigh. The King arises.
“Er, we’re not done yet Sir. You paid for an hour’s session”
“I’m taking a walk in my garden to talk to the worms in the soil, Mr Psychologist. They most likely would do a better job at alleviating my burden than you have done.”
Mouth wide open.
King stops mid-stride. “Oh and Mr?”
A whisper. “Yes?”
“Kindly return my money to the treasury. I trust you have not soiled them with your fingerprints? I’d have to throw them into a furnace to have them purified of dirt if you have.”
Without waiting for a reply, King Solomon exits the room.
The psychologist is slumped in his seat, rubbing his face. “Man, I hate rich people. Need a fucking psychologist myself!”
A Nigerian servant nearby. “Oga, abeg dey go. Dem say make I sweep you and your dotti comot for this room”
The Psychologist stand angry. “How dare you! Do you know who I am! I graduated with a PhD! PhD!”
Nigerian servant, unfazed. “How dat wan take consign me? If I close my eye open am and you still dey here ehn! I go wipe you dis broom!”
Psychologist quickly exits the room.
Nigerian servant begins sweeping, whistling.

Obsessed

I like you. 

And because I like you, I’m curious about you. I’m a very curious individual. I’m obsessive in my curiosity. 

I want to study you to the smallest detail. I want to know what makes you happy, what makes you tick. I want to watch your eyes move; I want to watch them slow down in appreciation of what you see. I want to listen to your breathing. I want to control your breathing. Make it fast, the panting of pleasure. A deep long sigh of satisfaction as it slows.

I want to put you under a microscope.

I want to know how your body works. Can I tear you apart? I would be gentle. I like you so much, i want to open you up with a scapel. 

I want to have an intimate relationship with your organs. Counting and recounting your ribs, stroking the long, stretchy stringy warm chewy intestines of yours. 

I want to nibble on you. Your cute hanging ear lobes, watching You twitch. You’re so ticklish. I want to find your other sensitive spots. The ones inside you that make you twitch. I want to play with your nerves and perhaps imagine the electric conductance that makes you move. I bet it’s so sexy.

I want your heart. I bet it would feel warm in my hands. I want to hold it, feel it jerk as it pumps blood, glistening. 

I like you too much. It is hard to keep my hands off you. It’s hard to not be obsessive around you. When you hold me, I want to hold you tight, hold your throat tight. I want my hands to make your neck their home. 

I want to cut you up and crawl inside you and seal myself in. 

I want to breathe you in. Shred you, powder you and snort you up my nostrils like cocaine.

That way you can be in me and I can be in you.

But I can’t. 

So I’m stuck here, watching you sleep peacefully, wracked with the pain of longing, body quaking, waiting to burst open my floodgates of desire on you.

Your chest slowly rises in sleep oh so seductively and my fingers itch, wanting to grab my toolbox, carve you up and crawl inside you.

But I don’t.

I just watch you sleep a smile on my face, spittle dribbling unchecked from my weak lips.

As I watch you from outside your window.