I don’t scream anymore. I close my eyes to avoid eye-contact with him. I just lay there and picture the perfect life I once had, while he is busy moaning and grunting on top of me.
“Thanks for the morning glory, Angel. You can go and take a bath, we don’t want you running late now,” he says while putting on his pants, and then leaves.
I jump out of bed and lock myself in the bathroom. I feel like crying but I have no tears left. I don’t know why I feel this way because I am used to this, it happened the first night I arrived in this house. I tried telling Aunt Grace but she didn’t care.
“What did you expect? You have a roof over your head, you don’t go to bed hungry and you don’t walk around naked. Be grateful. I am tired of that man and his horrible sex, make him happy… Keep opening your legs to him, just make sure you don’t miss taking the pills. I don’t want a bastard child here.”
I never forgot those words. Aunt Grace promised my Grandma that she would take good care of me. She insisted I come and stay with them in Pretoria. She painted my Grandma the best picture of the school I would be attending, the great life I would be living. My Grandma gave in at the end because all she ever wanted for me was education, stability and success.
She passed away last year in her sleep, and now I have no one to turn to.
I have a driver who takes me to school and everywhere I go. My bank account is always in a healthy state, and my fashion sense is on point – always. My friend, Kuni, thinks I am blessed, living the best life. But truth is, behind closed doors I am nothing but a sex slave.
I don’t do much in the house. I don’t cook, and I don’t clean. Perks of being ‘rich.’ The helpers start at 07:00 and knock off at 17:00. Aunt Grace once said she will rather cover their transportation costs than to have low-lives in her house.
There’s about five of them; three woman and two men. There’s MaKgotso, Steve, Jonas, Winnie and Nombulelo. I don’t know who is who and what are their duties, I never bothered to pay attention. My role in this house is well-defined, judging by the welcome I received the day I moved in.
It’s the holidays now so I’m always cooped inside this big house. Not that I am interested in the outside world, I feel like we disconnected a long time ago.
“Bye, Angel,” one of the women-helpers say.
I don’t know her name so I say, “Bye Ma.”
I can smell his scent, that nicotine smell fills the room. It’s Uncle Steve, Aunt Grace’s Husband.
“I don’t know why you like this show of yours,” his voice says behind me.
I am watching Steve Harvey on e.tv, at least that’s the truth I want everyone to believe. Two years I have been living here and I haven’t been paying attention to my surroundings that much. One of the helpers even think I have an attitude. Poor woman, if she only knew.
He takes off his jacket, throws it on the couch, puts his briefcase and car keys on the table and sits next me. He is so close I can feel the warmth of his breath.
“We have the whole house to ourselves,” he says, running his fingers between my thighs.
“I am on my periods,” I lie. He clicks his tongue, annoyed, as he stands up and leaves.
After a while he comes back.
“I’ve found someone who can help me, so go to your room and come out tomorrow morning,” he says.
I don’t protest, I stand up and walk to my room. He pulls me by my hand, roughly grabs my head and starts kissing me. He takes my hand, shoves it in his pants and makes me touch his private part.
“He misses you,” he whispers.
I quickly pull out my hand and walk away. I go straight to the bathroom and start scrubbing my hands like I want some miracle to be performed. I really want to cry right now, but I can’t. I’ve cried too much and I have no tears left. I put on my pajamas and get under the covers.
Tell us: What would you do if you were Angel?