The sky was on fire.
Crimson and gold slashed across a bleeding sun like war paint.
The recent rains had turned the road to slush, the dying light of the sky made the runoff bloody. Children played with kaolin, making mud pies and lopsided clay houses. Zik rubbed the cardboard cotton
curtain between her fingers, wishing she could join them.
Behind her, her mother sat on the bed- slender legs crossed - speaking into her phone, her voice hushed and hurried.
“I know - I know, you don’t want trouble but I need - Biko. Ọ ga-egbu m”
Maybe she could ask her if she could go and join them.
Her mother switched off the phone, tossing it beside her. “Azikiwe, close that curtain.” She snapped.
Zik let the curtain, bunched up in her hand, flutter closed. Her full name, whenever used, was a warning.
The room was dark with the blinking red dot of the rechargeable fan as the sole source of light. Her mother had refused to turn on the lights for fear that they would be seen from the street.
She walked to her mother’s side of the bed. “I’m sorry mummy.”
Her mother pushed her wispy braids off her forehead with both hands, exhaling deeply. “It’s okay, baby. Bia, come and stay on the bed with me.” She patted the space next to her.
Zik climbed the bed, hard as carved stone covered by a tissue thin sheet. She lay with her back against her mother, head tucked under her chin while her mother picked at her afro.
A cockroach scuttled on the far wall and Zik shuddered with thoughts of it scampering all over them as they slept.
“Mommy, tomorrow can I go downstairs and play?”
Zik’s mother hugged her tight. “What did I tell you when we got here? We have to be careful or - ”
“Or else he’ll find us.”
Her mother kissed the top of her head and sighed. The wheeze in her breath from a cracked rib - courtesy of her father kicking her down the stairs - became louder.
The hotel might be disgusting and dingy, with taps that ran brown water tinged with rust and a permeating odor of damp clothes, but the belligerent yelling from her father or the awful dry heaving sound her mother made as he beat her was replaced by the occasional sound of a motorcycle on the street, the whirr of the fan and the fading sounds of children playing.
A thousand cockroaches could crawl over them if they liked, they didn’t leave any bruises.
“What about your sister?” Zik asked.
“She told me to go back to my husband's house," Her voice had an edge. "But it's okay. We'll figure something out."
Zik’s eyes began to feel heavy. Since they had gotten here two days ago she couldn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, the recurring nightmare of her father finding them started up again like an old tape. It always started with a -
BANG!
Zik and her mother jerked up.
The door strained against it’s hinges. The pounding against it made the windows shake and the door key on the bedside table vibrate.
“Ashley!” The booming bass of Zik’s father rattled around in her head. “Open this door!”
Zik’s mother turned to her, grabbing her shoulders. “What do you do when daddy gets angry?” Her voice was urgent.
“Hide.”
“Do that now.”
Zik pushed herself off the bed, ripping off the bed sheet in her haste to the bathroom.
“Open this door!” Her father yelled again, as the door rattled with a loud thud.
How long would it hold?
She closed the door - an old fashioned wood door with a wide keyhole - turned the key in the lock twice and stuffed it in her pocket.
At the last click, the bedroom door burst open.
Zik pressed her face to the door. The light from the hallway cut a path of fluorescent light in the room. Her mother stood, spine taut, her hands curled into fists.
Her father was yelling, speaking rapid fire Igbo she didn’t understand.
“I am never coming back with you and neither is Azikiwe because she’s gone. I sent her away.” Zik’s mother said after he had stopped yelling. Her voice shook, but it was unbroken.
Zik’s father’s hand shot into her line of sight, catching her mother on the jaw.
Zik slapped a hand to her mouth to suppress the high pitched gasp that escaped.
Her mother’s face smacked the bed, her body bouncing on impact.
Her father stepped into her line of sight, rage carved ridges into his face and swelled his chest. He grabbed her mother’s collar, dragging her off the bed.
Zik turned her back to the door, sinking to a fetal position. She plugged her ears with her fingers and clamped her eyes shut. In the absolute darkness that came, she could hear nothing but the torrential rush of blood to her head, offset by the pounding of her heart. She could almost pretend she was somewhere else where she could not hear her father’s screams or her mother’s sobbing or the gasp her mother made, as her father closed his fingers around her bird like neck; as she took her last breath.

An original story by intjgirl