The last time Demola beat me, nothing till this point had seemed so dreamlike. I lay there and took it all; his sadness, his frustration and his love. When he was tired and exhausted from the beating, he went to bed. I lay there for the longest time, memories of nights so similar to this one replaying in my mind. I lay there until time became a function of the past beating and the endless possibilities of the next one and the one after that. Still, I lay there, until I became numb and devoid of emotion; until I was sure my broken heart couldn’t be fixed, until I could move. I limped painfully to the kitchen. Finally, I had gotten my solution and Demola’s answer.
It was easy to overpower him after he passed out. After a terrible beating similar to the one Demola gave me, he would usually take something to calm his nerves, but that something grew a little more as the beatings became more frequent and severe. Eventually my Demola started drinking himself to stupor every other night. I dragged myself to our room and climbed on top of him, he shifted, surprised and no doubt assuming I was there to atone for my sins.
The stabbings were swift, I made sure of it. The first blow is always the worst; it shatters the delicate façade you’ve been trying to preserve in your mind. The look of surprise on Demola’s face slowly turned to awareness and finally panic as he recognized the silver glint of the butcher knife – the one we hardly used. That look is something I’ll never forget. I gave him several clean cuts at strategic points on his body, not minding the location, but being very careful to make it as quick and clean as possible. They say he was dead by the time I had gotten to the fiftieth stab, but that didn’t stop me.
Sometimes, I still hear his screams, a distant echo on cold lonely nights. Some people say I had run mad, some say I had had enough, but they don’t understand. They never did. I released him; my golden boy. I finally released him from his chains, I set him free like the phoenix that has to die to be reborn.
I cried that night as I watched him suffer, but I had to do it; It was my final act of love. I released Demolafrom his prison, something he was too weak to do himself. Our love, our bond, our connection – it was drowning us. In the end, he loved me for releasing him. I’m sure of it. My golden boy.