Smanga

I was a few feet from my house. I stood under a tree and wiped the tears that had dried up long ago. I was still sniffing blood. With every movement my nostrils made, the blood drops found their way down my chin. I sniffed every tiny pellet of blood through my handkerchief. I tucked in my school T-shirt and walked towards my house. My dad was at work, so I was going to be home alone.

I opened the door and walked into the house. My father was seated on the couch, reading a newspaper! I was quite gobsmacked! He was supposed to be at work. How would I explain myself? He looked up to see me. I swallowed.

I put my hands on my chest, disguising my stained and creased shirt, but it was too late. He had already seen what I looked like. I cursed my carelessness. I should’ve knocked first. How did I forget the basics? Didn’t I have manners?

I scooted towards the staircase.

“Aren’t you going to say something?” my father asked. I shook my head.

“That is no way to talk to me,” he said sternly. I nodded and gave him an apologetic look.

“You’re doing it again. Are you tongue tied?” he asked.

Outwardly, I was forcing myself to look normal. Inwardly, I was bleeding. I wanted to scream, endlessly.

He folded the newspaper and placed it on the table. He arose from his seat and walked towards me. I froze. He grasped my hand and pulled me down towards the couch. He sat down, and released me from his grasp. He patted the spot next to him for me to occupy. I hesitated a bit. I gave up and plugged my buttocks on it.

He took off his spectacles, and put them on me.

“Dad, what on earth are you doing? I don’t need these, they belong to you,” I said quietly.

“You should’ve gotten these sooner, you’re short-sighted,” he replied bluntly. This was true.

“What have you got to say in your defence?” he asked, his eyes fixed on the reddish stain on my shirt.

“I-i-it w-was a-an accident,” I stuttered, fiddling with my hands. I tangled them together, trying to waste time. “Dad, you should probably say something,” I said, jabbing at him quickly.

“Look, son, I am no fool. I was your age once. I know that something has happened. I don’t understand why you have to lie. I am your father. Be honest with me,” he said, his voice breaking.

I felt a pang of guilt kick in.

“It was an accident, Dad. Please believe me,” I said, trying to convince him.

He sighed and went straight towards the door. He paused and looked behind his shoulder before turning to face me.

“I am going to buy pizza, what flavour would you like?” he asked.

I shrugged my shoulders. He made a funny face about my response and went out.

That was one thing I adored about the old man. He understood when I didn’t want to talk about the things troubling me. Where could I get a father like him in the world? I loved the man, to the moon and back.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I fished it out and saw that there was a message from my father. The message read:

I know that something’s bugging you. If you don’t want to talk about it, text me. I will only respond if there is a need. I love you. So, what flavour would you like?

I texted my father back: I appreciate your concern, Dad, but it was absolutely nothing major. I would like beef.

I heard the car screeching outside. I ran and looked through the window. He was pulling away. I saw a phone in his other hand. He was typing. My phone alerted me of an incoming text.

Nothing major? That blood on your shirt is nothing major? You’re incredible. Please wash yourself. I’ll be back after at least three hours.

I felt like shit for lying to him. I mean, it was crystal clear that I was lying; even a toddler would have been able to point that out.

I texted him back: Drive carefully. Sorry for lying.

I climbed up the staircase and into my room. I opened the door and closed it with great care. I stripped off my uniform and threw it on the floor. I didn’t want to mix it with other dirty clothes. I stood in front of my mirror and stared at my reflection. I was so thin, without any muscles. I had the frame of a girl. No wonder I was bullied. I shook my head in disapproval and slipped into clean clothes. I took the dirty uniform to the bathroom.

I opened the door and slipped! I tried to stand up, but my back was still painful. I cursed with all the words not found in the Oxford and Cambridge dictionaries. Time passed and I managed to stand up. I put my shirt in the sink and opened the tap. I reached for the soap. I took the box and my eyes met the razor!

I closed the tap and snatched the razor. A thought darted through my mind: cut yourself. I didn’t want to go back to my old habits, but my feet said otherwise. I ran towards the bathroom door and locked it. I cut my bare skin hard, deeply, so that the blood left my veins like a cascade.

A voice echoed in my mind: “You’re useless, cut it, yeah, cut, cut!”

Tears escaped my eyes as I cut deeper and deeper. I opened the tap, trying to wash away the blood. My surroundings started twirling slowly at first, then faster and faster like the propellers of the Titanic.

***

Tell us what you think: What do you think will happen next? Will Smanga’s father find him in time?