I should have put a stop to it the first time it happened. I had that option, I think. I should have turned him away; I should never have given him the chance to finish what he had started that night.
That night, that fateful night eight years ago. The events are still as fresh in my mind as if it were yesterday, but how could I forget really, when what happened that night changed my life forever?
I don’t remember seeing a darker night. Or ever feeling a colder one. I was alone, cold and miserable. I just had this nasty breakup with a man I thought I would love forever. The worst part is to date I do not know how I wronged him. He just got up one day and decided I wasn’t good enough for him. Packed his stuff and left. A few weeks later I met him at the local supermarket with a woman that even the current miss world had nothing on. A super model – if ever they existed anymore. I do not have to go into details of my devastation. The man left me, a woman who almost leaned on the fat side, for a woman who could win a beauty contest anywhere in the world hands down.
It was on that fateful day after meeting that couple…..that couple that I would have so loved to strangle, that he came. I do not know his name. Even after eight years of having this dangerous, unhealthy relationship with him I still don’t know what his name is. Matter of fact, I do not know if he has a name at all. I have never seen his face. I do not know how he looks like; I only know how he feels and I swear to God it is like nothing I have ever felt or will ever feel.
An abomination, that is what he is.
The first time he came there was a power outage in the whole neighborhood and so I had retired to bed early. I was still reeling from the bitterness and anger of seeing the man I loved, or thought I did, with another woman.
I felt his presence in the room before he even touched me. It was a gush of warmth covering every part of my body. Unlike stories I have heard of mystical beings being really cold, my man is super warm…warmer than even us mortals. You have to understand that I use the term “my man” very loosely. Sometimes it confuses even me. Is he really? My man that is. Is he my man? How could he be, when I don’t even know his face? How can I even say to anyone that I have a man? And yet again, how can I not, when I have blood on my hands? Yes, blood. The blood of five men is indirectly on my hands. Because of me, these men were violently murdered. Five different men, all killed because they dared to fall in love with me.
But first, the story of how we came to be. I felt the warmth gushing into the room. I sat up immediately, because I could feel the instant change. Generally speaking, he is not someone whose presence can go unnoticed, this one. He came and lay besides me. There was no mistaking that he was a man….even in his “lack of presence” I could not mistake the aura surrounding him. The amount of testosterone in his whole being. Like I have said before, I had the option of sending him away. Of saying no. you might not believe it, but he is the one who gave me that option. He sat and waited; and I sat and waited. Then it happened, he reached out and touched me. The gentlest of touches. He ran his hand through my body, feeling every curve, exploring every depth. Touching me in places I never knew could feel so good. I forgot that minutes before I had been crying over another man I knew I had lost. To be honest, I forgot about everything. His hands….his hands are like no hands that have ever touched my body and his breath makes me tingle in the remotest parts of my body.
I will not sit here and lie to you that maybe a small part of me wanted him gone. I will also not lie that I did not know that what I was doing was wrong. I knew. I knew in every cell of my body that this was wrong. And yet, I did not want him to go. I wanted him to stay. I wanted him to continue exploring my body, I wanted him inside me.
He pulled back a bit. He gave me a second chance, another chance to send him away. The last chance to tell him I could not do this. A chance to scream at the top of my voice and awaken the neighbors. He made it very clear at this point that he would gladly leave. So he pulled back. But I think that even he knew at this point that I wasn’t going to do any of these. So I lay back and closed my eyes and waited for him to get between my moist thighs.
And he did.
Sometimes, I like to lie to myself that if the hand of time were to go back I would do things differently. I like to lie to myself that maybe I would have lit a candle and gotten on my knees and asked God to deliver me from whatever this was.
But I would be lying.
He went as quietly as he came. The next day, I found myself doing little things in preparation for his next visit. I was sure he would come again that night. I went to the salon. I shaved my privates. I changed the beddings. I put the silk sheets that I only use for special occasions. And before I slept, I dubbed a little cologne at the back of my ears, my neck and my knees. It is weird and absurd and sometimes when alone I laugh out loud at my level of stupidity. I mean, why do all these things and yet he came to me at a time when I was most unkempt and unsteady. I know it is crazy but if I am being honest, I am no longer sure if crazy isn’t something I am.
He never came.
Neither did he come the next day or even the week after.
He was taunting me and it was getting into my head. Maybe I wasn’t good enough for him, I kept telling myself that. Or maybe it had been a dream. It was too good to be true anyway. Too good….what an understatement. That night had been epic.
When he did come, he found me deep asleep. He lay besides me and said nothing. All the words I had conjured up in my head, things I had prepared to tell him, all the words of how hurt I was- they all evaporated. I did not for one moment resist his touch and I was deeply ashamed of myself. Okay, maybe just a little.
After that he came regularly. I found myself doing little things to please him. I started working out. Once he realized I was, he made his disapproval known. He never said a word. He always spoke with his hands. He made it clear that he loved me the way I was. He made me laugh, he taught me how to make love, taught me to be patient but above all, he taught me how to love myself. I was glowing and everyone noticed. My businesses flourished, I became a successful, respectable woman of society. I was becoming a wealthy woman within a really short period of time.
But it wasn’t all rosy.
I wasn’t sure if my man was mine alone. He worked around his schedule; he came when he wanted. He was always gentle, always loving but during the times I needed him the most he would be nowhere to be found. And the jealousy killed me. It made me mad. It turned me into a raging ball. It made me curse the day I first saw him. Or rather, the day I first felt him. The thought of him penetrating another woman drove me insane. Sometimes when he came I spent hours ranting as he listened, saying nothing as usual. Or maybe he fell asleep like normal mortal men who fell asleep as their wives went on and on about something that displeased them. I made it clear to him that it wasn’t amusing to know that even in the after world men still carried their polygamous ways with them. Once, I thought I heard him laugh when I raised this point and it only infuriated me further. My anger of course, only made him laugh harder.
I thought my rants would push him away. I was wrong. I came to realize that this man really did love me. After every angry outburst I thought it would be the last time I would see him. But he always came back, gentle as ever, even more loving than the last time. How was it possible for him to love me that much? For him to love me more than I even loved myself? It was a mystery.
Then it began.
My ex wanted back. He came crawling back. Steven, that was his name. He begged on his knees, and it repulsed me. I wanted to believe that I was disgusted with him because of how pathetic he looked when pleading and begging for forgiveness but deep down I knew it was because I knew that there would never be another man after him , no touch could compare to his, no love could measure up to his.
One night, partly because of the pity I felt for him and partly because I secretly enjoyed seeing a man on his knees (it is usually the other way round) I invited Steven over for dinner. As we were talking and catching up, suddenly the room became warm. I removed my jacket and placed it at the back of my chair as Steven looked at me up in amazement. It was a cold night, he pointed out. It was then that I realized that he was in the room. The thought excited me abit, finally it was his time to be jealous… but if only I knew what would happen next…
Maybe I would have prevented it. I don’t how, but I should have at least tried. Yet again, he gave me the chance to do something. I did nothing. I sat back and laughed merrily at Steven’s lame jokes, knowing he was somewhere in the room dying of jealousy.
It happened before I could blink. Steven was on the floor, taking the utensils from the table down with him. There was a deafening sound as the china hit the floor and I was next to Steven in a second. I called his name twice. He was choking on a fish bone. I tried to help him but it was all in vain. Before I could even scream for the neighbors to come and help, he was dead.
I wanted so hard to believe that the man I loved and who loved me back like no other man ever did was not a murderer, that maybe Steven really had just chocked on bone. And for a few months I believed it.
Until the second casualty struck.
James –for that was his name- died the most gruesome of deaths. It was so gruesome, even going through the details makes my stomach churn.
That is when I knew that it was him. He was the one who was killing these men who dared to come persistently after me.
He is a paradox, this man of mine. How could someone so gentle and loving, be so violently destructive at the same time. He killed these men in the most violent of manners….and yet, a dark side of me enjoyed the attention, the jealousy side of him.
Sometimes I feel the remorse in him. In the way he makes to love to me. Nothing has changed. He still loves me….maybe now more than ever. He still caresses me like it is that first night. That first, fateful night. I know now that I am damaged goods. I am damaged irrevocably, mostly because I know no mortal man can ever be able to measure up to that kind of love.
Nowadays I keep mostly to myself. Five deaths are enough, even for someone who lost her conscious a long time ago. I do not want to add anyone to that list.
I have accepted my fate, I have accepted also the fact that I am a wicked human being.