The sound of the door—implying that someone entering the sitting room—made me loosen my hug a bit, but I didn’t let go of the jewel in my arms. I knew for sure that it was Rachael’s mother but I didn’t let go nevertheless. Within a few seconds, she left with every bit of sense that had started returning to me. I was once again blended within the carnival of tears and pain.
After excreting all the fresh dirty memories—through the tears—from her mind, Rachael wiped dry her drenched face and prepared from another flow, this time not of tears, but of words. “After that night, I couldn’t concentrate during the lectures. The thought of profaning my body was lingering in my mind,” she began. “I felt so dirty, so I decided to return home for some spiritual renewal and relaxation because I had a busy week ahead of me.” She continued the word journey.
As for me, it felt like she was taking forever. I wanted her to reach the climax of the story. “Please go straight to that diabolic day,” I begged in the most humble manner. I know it was so inconsiderate of me but I just couldn’t help it any longer.
“I spent only a day at home, and decided to return to my hostel the next. It was Tuesday, early morning, and at around 6:30am, I was on that road that runs to the hostel, after being dropped off on the main road by my father. He was already late for work, so he decided to leave me at the boda-boda stage. There was none, however, to take me to the hostel, so I decided to walk. The ground was all muddy and slippery that I had to take care of each step I took.”
As Rachael broke down her side of the story, I was already drawing conclusions. I remembered I was just outside the hostel gate, covered with mud, drowning in slumber, waiting for Rachael. But I woke up at around 7 o’clock, about thirty minutes after that scene had already been played by fate. Something wasn’t adding up. I wanted to hear the rest of the story, so I silenced all the voices in my head. I really wanted to know what happened in those thirty minutes and after.