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    Trigger Warning. This short story contains information about violence, sexual assault that may be triggering to survivors.
    ~~~~~~~~~~~~

    I prefer taking the train home rather than driving. Living downtown has its merits. I can walk and observe people, aware that sometimes, someone is also watching and observing me. It helps me to think long and hard about my next move.
    It was late. The train was empty. I noticed that they had upgraded their seats. They were now a cerulean colour with specks of white and turquoise. I recalled the time I was in a hurry and entered the train. A majority of the people were standing up and there were two empty seats that no one would take. Thinking myself lucky, I sat in one and felt my skirt immediately dampen. Someone had peed on the seat. I spent the majority of the day with the stench of urine clinging to me. I was livid. I could’ve killed every passenger on the train, I was irate.
    The memory made me jump out of my seat and stand. Casually, I looked up and in bold block letters was an ad that said: An Eye For An Eye Makes The Whole World Blind. The statement inspired nothing out of me. I looked at it, wondering if it was a call to come to church, but there wasn’t a logo affiliated with it.
    I got off at my stop and walked a few blocks—about 10 minutes---before coming face to face with my destination. I stood outside too long, longer than I needed, just staring at that twelfth floor balcony.  Two of my charms clinked together, and I remembered to walk.

    When I knocked on the door he was surprised to see me. He let me in. I followed him into the living room. I’d been charmed by the décor, the beautiful lamps the black and white art once upon a time.

    “I brought wine,” I offered, handing it over to him.

    He seemed taken aback but I could see the relief and joy on his face.
    “Red wine…my favourite,” he exclaimed, walking into the kitchen and returning with two glasses. Pouring the wine, he set the bottle on top of the glossy white table that sat on a plush, off-white carpet. It was a beautiful scene—there was ambiance. We had a beautiful view of the city skyscrapers; there was soft jazz in the background, and the right amount of dim light provided by the lamps. He sat across from me.

    “I feel like we are celebrating,” he remarked looking me in the eye shyly.

    I made a great show of thinking about it, a kind smile on my face. My eye noticed the gold trumpet sitting on the dark brown shelf behind him. My next charm. I walked over to where he was and sat close to him, one hand holding the wine glass, the other in my bag. He seemed discomforted. My throat was dry, my heart was beating fast. I felt as though all the blood was rushing to my ears. I wanted to throw up. I’d done this too many times to count, and yet this felt different.

     “We are celebrating friendship…forgiveness. The past is the past, no hard feelings.” I smiled at him and raised my glass. “To new beginnings.”

    The elation on his face was blinding. “To new beginnings.”

     He brought the glass to his lips. The ad from the bus flashed before my eyes, but before I could think, I saw him tilt his head, part his lips to take the wine, and my knife-wielding hand slashed with surgical precision at his neck. The glass in his hand landed on the white carpet almost soundlessly, and his body followed noisily, hitting the table. This wasn’t the first time I’d done this yet I froze. The blood on my face and clothes felt like it was seeping into my pores. I wanted to jump out of my skin. But I had to remain calm. I walked to the bathroom. Cleaned myself up carefully, tossed the bloodstained tissues and towel in my bag. I had to be extra meticulous as I cleaned any trace of my presence. The more I cleaned up the more paranoid I became. I couldn’t breathe.

    Once outside, I was calm again.  The fresh air re-oriented me once more. My neck felt tense, my shoulders extremely heavy. My charmbracelet felt weightier even. But I took a deep breath, forced myself to stand up straight and rounded the corner toward home.

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    Trigger Warning. This short story contains information about violence, sexual assault that may be triggering to survivors.
    -----------------

    I add a charm to my charmbracelet for every life that I take. Each charm represents something about my victims to some degree. I’d be lying if I said I chose a charm intentionally. For example, the hammer. The series of events that led to that kill had been interesting. I had had nothing else to use and I was pressed for time. I’d reached for the closest thing to me.

    “Here’s your hot chocolate.” I released my charms and took the mug out of my friend’s hand and carefully set it on the coaster. Fall had descended on the city weeks prior and had brought with it a wind chill that numbed your bones. It held the promise of an unrelentingly frigid winter. It would probably be long too.

    She situated herself back on the love seat adjacent from me. “Ok, continue.”

    I continued my story. I told her what had happened, how our mutual acquaintance had inched so close to me, and every part of my body had frozen. I didn’t understand it at the time. I’m always quick, always alert, but my guard had been down, and I had not expected this. I’d gotten up, shaken, trying to put some distance between us, trying to process why my head was woozy and my body was starting to feel numb. He stood close to me, so close I could feel his erection. And instead of pushing back, I shrank. I felt every part of me deteriorate, as though someone had vacuumed every ounce of strength.  I couldn’t think.  Blood was rushing to my brain, my heart was beating so fast, I could feel my body trembling. I told myself to move away, move quickly, to get away. If I lingered something horrible would happen. And so I left. And I shut myself away. And I paced, and paced, and could barely comprehend what had just taken place.

    She shrugged. “Men are like that. You can’t be friends with them, not really anyway. You should always know they will be attracted to you.”

    I looked at her. She had beautiful hair, thick, long, lustrous. I loved it best when she tied it in a high ponytail, gathering it in a glorious puff on her head. She looked majestic. She rarely gelled her edges, just brushed them neatly back. She had it tied like that right now. I looked at my charmbracelet. Wouldn’t it be something if I added an afro-puff charm? I brushed the thought away.

    “I don’t accept that,” I responded. “I don’t go around pressing my body on someone just because I like him. I didn’t do anything to give him the green light to express himself like that.”

    “You were too friendly with him…all those dates you went on with him…”

    I rolled my eyes. “Those were not dates. There was never an agreement that they were dates. We were hanging out, getting to know one another.  People can’t be friends and enjoy doing things outside of the house together?”
    “They can. I’m saying you should not have been doing all of that. It’s ok to chat, but that’s where it should have ended. He got the impression that it was more.” She looked me in the eye with a smirk. “You know how you are.”

    I laughed humorlessly. I could ask for clarification but we were going to go around in circles. “I disagree with you,” I countered. “What he did was unacceptable.”

    “I’m not saying it’s your fault,” she said quickly.

    “Ok.”

    She sighed. I remained quiet. I began fingering my bracelet, not looking at anything in particular.
    I thought back to that evening, recalling how I’d been so unassuming, naïve. How I’d sat down, chatting like it was any other evening. How confusion settled and numbed my reflexes to react quickly. How I’d become disoriented and yet still so aware. How half of me attempted to maintain normalcy whilst conscious of the loud sirens of panic, of fear, of discomfort screeching, alerting me that this wasn’t ok. I was a deer caught in headlights.

    Why had I been caught off guard?  I thought there was mutual respect between us. At one point before all this I was certain of it. 

    She was talking, and I looked up but I wasn’t paying attention. The thing about people who feel entitled to others’ bodies is that they hide the fact that deep down, they feel ownership of you. They possess the correct vernacular and perform the right actions, lulling you into a false sense of security. What you perceive as shared camaraderie is something more sinister. It’s disorienting when it comes from a person you least expect. And then the apologies come. Apologies that are only apologetic because their wicked hearts have been exposed. They don’t intend to do better. You ask why they’ve done this wicked, cruel thing.  I suppose there can never be a satisfactory answer.  I sought an answer regardless, and received none. Just apologies. Certainly, these apologies won’t heal the irreparable breach, nor the fracture within myself. The blame will always fall to me. I am forced to be statuesque and diplomatic, shouldering this albatross with grace.

    I stand up, smiling. “I feel so much better after talking to you,” I tell her.

    She looks at me strangely. “Ok…” she says slowly, as she gets up and walks me to the door. “I hope you understand where I’m coming from. I’m not saying it’s your fault. I’m just saying you can’t be naïve about how men are.”

    I looked her in the eyes, still smiling. “I understand completely.”

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    My name is Chenai and welcome to my blog!
    What's my blog about? I mostly write to encourage and/or motivate through my own personal reflections and through the word of God. I can't say I am a perfect Christian, but I'm taking this journey of life one day at a time because life can be really tough and disorienting. I created this blog to acknowledge these various challenges experienced in the soul, and finding peace to make it through another day.

    I'm encouraged by the words that are on this page and I hope you will too!

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