FIRST FRAME

The man picked up the gun lying beside him. He crawled away from the bullet tattered sofa, dragging his right leg along like a sack full of bleeding meat. The scratch of his boot echoed in the huge warehouse, even as the blood painted the pockmarked concrete floor like the first swipe of a paint brush; rusty red and faint, already drying up in the harmattan breeze.

He paused and listened for the sound of his pursuers but the wind moaned and muttered through the roof, shaking the roofing sheets, while disinterested pigeons fluttered about, cooing, swelling their breasts and washing their feathers. His eyes darted about the mute and warm darkness of afternoon shadows, wary and weary. He licked his lips and tasted salt. Blood or sweat? He raised his hand to his face and touched the liquid on his lips. He held it to his eyes and chuckled; tears, I am crying? Great. His hand came away and grabbed the gun again, tight with veins.

A door squealed in the gloom and banged as the wind’s moans became howls and screeches. The pigeons rose and twirled about, high in the roof of the warehouse. The man raised the gun hand and peered about, his breath cut in his throat. A door banged again and the man spun sharply to the direction of the sound. Nothing. He relaxed and turned to his injured leg.

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He dropped the gun again and tore his shirt sleeves into strips. He tied the injury, packing bits of flesh and the white bone jutting through the puckered lips of the wound, together. The pain hit him and his vision swam. Lost too much blood.

He looked at the exit. There was no one around there that he could see but he saw that a CCTV was pointed directly at the door. If he moved without care, he would be dancing, full of lead in no time. He dragged the injured leg close to himself and raised himself to a sitting position behind the sofa. He moved back and rested his back on the wall behind him and breathed in. He looked at the windows and tried to guess at the line of sight. Satisfied that he was not a sitting duck for a sniper, he closed his eyes; Let me rest here for a bit. His breath slowed and his body slumped into a slouch. His suit opened and his police badge rolled out and fell to the floor. He opened his eyes as the badge tinkled as it bounced on the floor. He stared at it as he heard guns cock. A pigeon landed beside him and cocked its head to observe him. He sighed and closed his eyes. This is a good way to die.

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SECOND FRAME

The man sat before the bed, his hands on his head. A rosary hung between his fingers, dangling as the man’s feverish fingers picked through each bead searching for God. The door opened and a nurse entered the room. She smiled at the man when he raised his eyes to her. She walked to the bed and bent over the form on the bed.

The woman’s eyes were closed and her breath came as a whisper. When she inhaled, her whole body seemed to shrink into the bed. Her face bore the geography of suffering well; old and new wrinkles, blotches and an ashy skin that look like burnt paper.

The nurse picked up her frail hand and checked her vital signs. She was brisk and efficient; she was a sterile, cold service. When she was done, she smiled between thin tight lips and walked out of the room on silent feet. The man watched the closed door silently for a time; possibly trying to pick his train of thoughts from the tattered pictures before him, or wondering if the angel of mercy he was praying for will ever come. The answers did not come, so he turned back to the bed and watch the woman watch him. She smiled and his spirit broke again as it had broken before.

She moved her hand and touched the hand that held the rosary. She caressed the knobby knuckles and veins of his hands; evidence of his street fighting days. Her hand felt like a feather over his hands; he could barely feel it. He stared at her hand as it moved over his hands, mapping every single protrusion, every healed cut, every vein. He removed his hands slowly from under hers and opened it. The rosary had dug the crucifix into his palm and the puncture had a bead of blood, standing as if waiting for permission to bleed.

Her eyes widened in worry but he waved his hand at her and tried to smile but his broken nose made it look like a cruel grin. The woman’s face lit up in a smile and the room brightened for a minute. She opened her mouth and muttered something that was lost within her chest.

The man bent his ear to her lips. Her lips formed the word and with as much will as she could muster, her breath gave the formed words voice;

“ugly.” She said.

The man smiled as tears fell from his eyes to the bed sheet. He stared at her through blurred vision, so he didn’t see her grimace of pain. He wiped his eyes and tried to smile but failed. He rest his head closed to her frail body and she rubbed his head slowly. Soon, her hands stopped moving.

The window curtains moved to the side for a moment and sunlight climbed on the bed and covered the woman. The man raised his head and saw the light. He looked at the woman; her eyes were closed and she had a contented smile. He tried to smile again but failed. He broke into different pieces again.

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THIRD FRAME

The bride and groom’s parents and family members had said their goodbyes and the guests that had come from near and far had gone home or to the hotel where they had lodged for the duration of the wedding.
The bride and groom were in their wedding suite with another man, the best man. The bride was seated on a chair, a bottle of Hennessey before her. She dropped her veil on the table and took a glass. She blew into it then she opened the bottle of Hennessey and poured a healthy cup. She gulped it and belched. She smiled and poured another cup and raised the glass in a toast at the two men seated on a sofa on the other side.

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The groom stared at his hands, not seeing his bride, not seeing anything. His tie was loosened on his neck and his collar was opened to his stomach. The best man watched the bride and the groom, his eyes moving from one to one as if watching a game of ping-pong.

A knock sounded on the door and the three people turned to the door. The groom got up and walked to the door. He opened it and beckoned the persons on the other side inside and turned back to his seat. A woman and a child walked into the room and stood.
The bride burst into laughter; her voice ringing with liquor and derision. The best man frowned and turned to the groom, a question in his eyes.

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“You asked why I married Marcia?” the groom asked in reply to the question in the man’s eyes. “My daughter, Sacha was dying of sickle cell anemia. I needed the money to treat her and the only way Marcia would agree to help me was by getting married to her.” He added.

“So? What is the issue?” the best man asked, turning to Marcia, who sat sipping from her glass, her eyes wide with innocence.

“Sacha is not my daughter. It seems that I was lied to.” The groom replied.

The best man opened his mouth and closed it. He turned from the groom to the woman and the girl.

“How could you do that to him? Do you know what you have caused him?” he asked, standing up from his seat.

“Oh! No! She is not her mother.” The groom said, quickly intervening.

“She is not her mother? Then where is the slut?” the best man asked him.

The groom pointed to the bride who chuckled. She stood up and bent her knee in a bow. She tossed the content of the glass down her throat and smacked her lips.

“I do not know why we are having this discussion. Whether she is my daughter or not, you and I are married and I am not divorcing.” She said. The little girl flinched and clung to the woman who held her closely.

“Hey that was done under false pretence; you can’t make him stay married to you.” The best man replied.

“Mr. Lawyer well done. Do you want to hear the full story? Okay. Well, Sacha is my daughter, I gave birth to her and I dumped her at an orphanage home.” She said. “His girlfriend,” she said, pointing to the groom, “seeking marriage by all means to him, came and claimed the baby as hers and presented it to him as a child of their union.” She added.

“Wow! You mean Jennifer did that?” the best man asked, looking at the groom with pity in his eyes.

“You have not heard the best part. Marcia tell him.” The groom replied.

“you remember that party my father held at his house in Lagos, the one where you came with one thin girl that was throwing up all over the place?” she asked the best man.

The best man nodded; his face in a puzzled frown.

“Do you remember what we did under the staircase when David went to move his car, so that one of the guests could drive out?” she asked, smirking.

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The best man turned wide eyes to the groom but the groom just smiled and pointed at the girl.

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“That is the product of your effort. Congratulations, Sacha is your daughter, Mr Bestman.” The groom replied.

The bride burst into laughter again and picked up the bottle of Hennessey for another drink. The little girl turned to the woman she came with, tears in her eyes.

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FOURTH FRAME

Do you remember the birthday party you attended with me two months ago? Remember that I disappeared for some hours and when I came back I told you I was helping Collins fix his car? I was lying that day, do you know? Do you know I was nowhere near Collins or his car?

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Do you remember that broken down house we saw when we were driving down to Barry’s place for the party; the house that looked as if it was slouching? Yes? Do you know I went there? Do you know that I did not go alone; that I went with four persons?

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Did you not observe that in the period that I was absent, Barry’s wife, Patience, Gertrude, the daughter of Pastor Emmanuel, Jacob, the banker who drove a Range Rover Sport and Michael were missing? You never wondered at their disappearance, did you? After all what did we have in common?

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Do you know that we went to the house where we found a space had been prepared earlier on? Do you know that none of us knew who had arranged it but we had all received invites to see the place? Do you know who we met there? Do you know the horrors we face there? Do you know what it is to watch people you thought you knew fairly well do inhuman things to each other? Do you know what it is to see that they were enjoying themselves? Can you identify when you make a choice between standing apart from the crowd and joining in the fun? Do you ever realize how you lose yourself when you do evil to another?

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Do you know that by the time we were done, we were just two persons remaining; I and Patience? Do you know that the rest had died playing horrible games with each other to please a monster? Do you know that we were told to play the Russian roulette; Patience and i?

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Have you ever felt your heart thump so hard, you think it’s going to fall through a hole between your ribs? Do you know how difficult it is to pull a trigger when your palm and fingers are sweaty? Do you know how it is difficult to watch someone you have known almost all of your life, blow her brains away, her eyes pleading with you for forgiveness? You don’t, do you?

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When I came and I found you kissing him, do you know why i didn’t create a scene? Don’t you ever wonder why I walked away without a fight with you? Don’t you ever wonder why I could not look him in the eye; after all he is my younger brother?

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When you are done reading this message, can you do me a favor? Can you look at the form lying beside you on the bed? Can you admire the perfection of his face, his eyelashes, and his aquiline nose? Then can you gently slip out of the bed and flee for your life?

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THE END OF THIS LOOP

© @warpedpoetic

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