https://penastory.com/2016/09/09/a-burning-rage/

She kept on stabbing the carcass, venting her frustrations on the punctured body. The red coloured liquid spurted out like a fountain on a brown knot of skin. It was like the knife spoke to her and poked through her. She glistened in the setting sun like the sharp end of broken glass cups.

Shania trekked by the stalls of bread, the aroma wafting through the air complimenting the horrible smell emanating from the gutter. She wore a black T-shirt with designs of a broken heart on it, maybe reflecting her inner turmoil. A short nicker which stopped close to her calves.

She had just born her first child, a boy who fidgeted at the slightest moment he noticed any other person was near. It was like he shared her fears, an unknown mutual fear and showed her sorrow whenever he cried. Crying not in a loud voice but in whispers, the kind that stems from the soul.

Shania didn’t even want to remember, pushing it to the farthest corners that lay in her mind. She was raped by her mistress’s husband, who denied it with all the passion needed for denial that he did no such thing. Belonging to the rungs of the ladder, she was relieved of her job as a house maid and told to never come back by her mistress who had been finding opportunities to do this for so long.

The yellow and black buses sped past Shania without her knowing it. It had just rained and trickles of water from rooftops found their way into the gutters. Even the water had a destination, Shania didn’t. She didn’t know where she was going, she was just going. But even with all the sorrow and frustrations in her soul, there was also anger like a brown knot binding her soul and her soul yelling to be set free. She had to vent her anger, set her soul free. As she continued her walk, she however looked about her this time around. She could still recognise where she was, It was then she saw it.


It spoke to her soul, it was not the kind used for cutting up fruits or beef but there was something humane about it for her. There was something humane about it for her. There was something angry about its haphazard design, like it is used for killing, puncturing holes. She would buy it, she made up her mind, with the last amount which was left off her salary from her mistress. It proposed its violence to her as an instrument of freedom, even if it would not wipe off her sorrows, she could use it to disentangle the knot binding her soul.

It was then she heard her name. It came from the knife she just bought. She had heard it say her name and looked at it, listened to it tell her the succor it would bring to her soul. Only if she could trust it and puncture her soul cutting the knots. She had to trust it, she had no choice as she wanted to be free. Turning back, she began to walk back from where she had come, she had gotten what she wanted, found her destination.

Back in her room, she sat on her bed beside her sleeping son, plunging the knife into her soul. It was then she knew her soul would die, but only then could it be free. Free from the anger that bound her soul, free enough to forgive the man that raped her and free enough to kill him.

Source: PenAStory - www.penastory.com