Dear Journal…(3)

Dear Journal,

I did it. I finally did it.

I finally killed my uncle. He deserved it. I had prayed and prayed, and it seemed that the higher powers were sleeping or having a party…so, I decided to not disrupt their fun.

He had taken custody of me when I was 16, after my parents had died in the crash. And for the first year, he had cared for me. Not just him. His wife, and his two sons too.

Till today, I wonder what went wrong. What had happened? I still wonder why he would decide to hurt me in the worst way possible.

I still remember that night like it was yesterday. I was sleeping in my room. Sulking as always. And I heard my door creak open, and I saw the silhouette of an adult male.

“Uncle…”

He lifted his finger to his mouth, and hushed me. I sat up on my bed and saw that he only had his boxers on. He closed the door behind him and locked it.

“Be a good girl.”

That’s what he had said to me, as he pushed me down on my bed, and stuffed a piece of dirty cloth into my mouth.

“Just do as I say. Relax and it won’t pain you…”

That was what he said to me as he forced himself inside me, and violated me repeatedly, while I could do nothing but shake my head, and beg him to stop with tears in my eyes.

Even now, writing this, I could smell the tobacco in his breath, and if I listened hard enough, I would hear his grunts and words of approval.

At least he had been bothered enough to use protection.

“You’re a very sweet girl.” He had said to me as he wiped his seed between my legs, while I lay there sobbing. Feeling numb.

That was the first time, but it definitely wasn’t the last. He would buy me a lot of presents, as though to appease for the debauchery he was engaging in. It didn’t take time for his wife to hate me too, and that was when my world transcended to the next level of suffering.

She would hit me at the slightest provocation. Take away the presents. Force me to do all the house chores. And we dare not be late to church to Sunday. That in itself was ironic.

I always loved to look at the crucifix, and wonder if God was real. I wondered if he couldn’t see that I was suffering. Or maybe I wasn’t his child? Maybe he didn’t love me as he loved the rest of His fold?

The first year went by, and it became even worse when the boys went to boarding school. The abuse grew worse. And that was when I knew I had to do something. I couldn’t continue to live like this.

The first thing I had done to try and stop the abuse was to go to the police. That proved to be a stupid move. They had summoned my uncle and his wife, and had me wait outside while the DPO spoke to them.

I sat there, foolishly happy that I would finally be free. That happiness lasted up until they emerged from the office.

The DPO looked down at me, and scoffed.

“We know young girls like you. Once they start growing breast they think that they can do and undo. Why would this man of grace and virtue touch you?”

“Abi ooo.” My aunty chorused while staring daggers into my soul.

“Even if he did…” The DPO continued “What is so special about your vagina anyway? Are you not a woman?”

It was in that moment I knew I had to save myself. When we got home, I was beaten until I couldn’t move my body. And then right there in front of his wife, my uncle ripped my skirt, and raped me.

And this time, like many others, I felt numb. I felt dead. I couldn’t feel anything. I couldn’t feel him.

They had locked me in my room, at least they had the decency to feed me. Slowly, I had recovered, and I knew I couldn’t let this continue.

I knew he was going to come to my room tonight, so I had a knife under my pillow, and lay naked on my bed, with my nightgown right next to me on the bed. I smiled when I heard my door creak open. Show time.

“I see you’re ready for me…” He whispered as he spread my legs and made himself comfortable between them.

“Always…”

He thrust into me and I resisted the urge to throw up in his face. I decided to keep my eyes open, and watched his face as it contorted with each thrust inside me. Without warning, I flipped us so I was now on top. He seemed surprised, but didn’t break his stride. He continued thrusting inside me.

He began to move harder and faster, and I could tell he was close. I snuck my hand under my pillow, and brought out the knife, slicing the side of his face. His eyes opened in fear and shock, and I licked the blood off his face.

“What…”

He tried to push me off of him, and I stabbed him in his shoulders, covering his mouth with my left arm while my right hand repeatedly sent the kitchen knife into his shoulders and hands until they stopped moving and lay limply at his sides. I smiled at the rush of power that I felt watching his blood sleep out and stain my sheets.

I watched as his eyes widened in fear, confusion and panic. I saw a reflection of everything I had felt over the years. I found that with the rush of power came with something else.

Arousal.

I moaned and licked the blood of the knife, grinding hard against his erection that was still comfortably situated inside me.

“Somebody, help!!!” I stabbed the knife into his eye. Enough to damage his eye, but not enough to kill him, and then shoved my satin nightwear into his mouth.

“Relax, and it won’t pain you…” I whispered to him, and smiled at my masterpiece.

He mumbled though the gag and moved his hips, sending a bolt of electricity through my core. I gasped and began to move with him.

“Yes. Just like that, you sick fuck…”

I stabbed him in the chest, and drew the knife down, stopping at his bellybutton, parting him like the Red Sea. Enjoying the view as blood spurred out from his middle, all that while riding him with careless abandon.

A crescendo built inside me, and I sent the knife repeatedly into his throat as I crashed into my orgasm.

I sighed in satisfaction and smiled, rolling off him to lay on his side.

My door opened, and then a pained scream tore from his wife’s throat. I sat up on the bed and looked at her, watching as her eyes widened in horror. I must have been quite the sight. Covered in blood, and filled with cum, lying comfortably next to a man I had just murdered in the worst way possible.

I watched as she took several cautious steps back and then ran out of the house screaming. I smiled and got out of my bed, sat at my table and pulled out my journal to document this.

I want this entry to be found and my story to be told. I want whoever reads this to know that I fought and won.

Even now, I can hear the sirens in the distance. I can hear the neighbors assembling, and I can hear my aunty still screaming. I can swear that she would never forget that image.

Dear journal, vengeance had never felt so good.