Stories About Women

STORY ABOUT NOTHING

It was almost like you were invincible; like your presence wasn't felt, like you...

"Don't just stand there." Mercy's voice came, calm and gentle as always.

Apparently, you were not invincible. You were just generally ignored. You were only good for serving food, cleaning floors, and wiping the figurines. You did it more often now the Christmas breeze hung heavy with dust. And most times, your shoulder gets cried on, and your body gets forcefully explored, but that's by the way.

"Do you want to tell me something?" Mr. Chika looked up from his plate. His wife held your gaze too.

You stammered but didn't make actual words. You stormed off to the kitchen, embarrassed. You pressed your ear to the door to eavesdrop, and as expected, Mercy commented, "What is wrong with her?" Mr. Chika didn't reply. You never called her Mercy. It was always, yes ma'am, yes madam. But when you are alone pondering about your life, and the characters amid, you refer her as Mercy.
She wasn't the type of madam one would hate. She was kind, and her heart was as soft as a soaked foam; but like a soaked foam, it was always dripping- even without pressure.

Most times she enters the kitchen with a bottle of red wine, visibly tipsy. Especially on Thursdays, her off day from the hospital; when she wore nothing but Mr. Chika's oversized black polo. She would lean on the island, and start spilling personal matters to you: How her husband slept around, or how he doesn't do this, or do that on bed. The whole time you would be by the sink rinsing the plates or arranging the shelves. Last week Thursday she asked, "Have you ever slept with my husband?" your heart momentarily ached, and the plate almost slipped off your hand. You were quick to answer, but you lied. Or so.
Now you wished you told her the truth. The whole truth. But it was obviously too late.

For long minutes you heard nothing but fork hitting the ceramic plate. Your heart sank when you heard your name. It was never said with the same energy as Mercy's.
When Mr. Chika called his wife, there was this familiarity, not particularly love or anything, but this...you couldn't comprehend. But when he says that same name with a different tone to his voice, your heart sinks.

You tiptoed backward, then made sure your slippers slapped the tiles as you paced to answer.

"Have you eaten?" Mr. Chika asked.

"I will sir...when you and madam finish." You answered, biting a nail and moving your legs nervously. Mr. Chika held your gaze a while longer before he nodded and faced his food. You pondered what was going through his mind. Wasn't he seeing the worries conveyed through your eyes?

"What is the problem?" your gaze moved to Mercy. "You are acting strange." you felt Chika's gaze on you but it was momentarily.

"Nothing ma'am." You shook your head. "Nothing..." the lie slipped through your lips again.

Just then, Mr. Chika pushed his chair back and went upstairs. Your eyes followed him as he did so. You turned and Mercy was staring at you.

"Mercy what is the problem?" she asked again.

There was silence, in which you used to make up your mind. "Ma'am," Tears began to cloud your eyes. "Ma'am..."

"What is the problem? Why are you crying?" she scrutinized your face for answers.

You pointed toward the stairs, where the undressed Christmas tree was mounted, where Mr. Chika just ascended, whilst wiping your eyes with the left.

"What? Who?" You didn't see the confusion in her eyes, but you saw it now as you raised your gaze to her and said, "Mr. Chika...he rapes me!" Your voice as low as whispers. Shock widened in her eyes, and her fork slipped and fell on the plate. Her voice seized. You could tell she wanted to speak but couldn't. "When?" she managed to utter.