Price To Pay

Chapter 82

"I'm not my fucking mother," I scream, my voice filled with anger and frustration, the words laced with a pain that cuts deep into my soul. The intensity of my emotions fuels a punch aimed at him, but he effortlessly blocks it, a mocking laughter escaping his lips.

"You sure are acting like her. I wouldn't be surprised if you disappeared to fuck someone just to suppress the pain. Zama is GONE, and she's never coming back," he taunts, and my fists clench. Another punch follows, but he deftly avoids it. The rage inside me intensifies, my heart throbbing violently in my chest.

"I'm not her!" I retort defensively, but he chuckles, seizing my hands and forcefully throwing me to the floor. His knee presses into my back, and I gasp for breath, feeling the weight of his words suffocating me.

"Prove me wrong. How are you any different from her? She took drugs because of the emotional pain; you are fucking to suppress the emotional pain. Your child is connected to fucking pipes! You are doing what your mother did to you; you truly are your mother's son," he spits out, infuriating me further.

"I am nothing like her!" I grind my teeth, but his accusations linger in the air. He releases me, warning against resistance, yet I remain silent, trying to regain composure.

"I'm going to let you go. Don't fight me!" he cautions, and as he releases his grip, I stay on the ground, absorbing the painful truths he unveiled.

"Nobody is saying don't grieve. You have every right to grieve, but do it healthily," Khaya implores, his words sinking in. "Your children need you, Sipho."

Tears well in my eyes as the weight of loss and guilt consumes me. Khaya's encouragement resonates, urging me to face the pain, not drown in it.

"Get up," he commands, extending a hand. I reluctantly accept, rising with a heavy heart. As he chuckles at my stubbornness, I walk away, haunted by the memories of her, emotions overwhelming me.

In the solitude of my room, I confront her towel, a tangible reminder of what once was. Tears stream down my face, and I collapse, the pain unbearable.

"I need you, Angel," I whisper, the ache echoing in my voice. Memories flood my mind, and I cry out, the agony of loss tearing through me.

"Why would you leave me like that? They need you, Zama. I can't love them the way you would have," I lament, the weight of my grief shattering my soul. The echo of her last words haunts me, a cruel reminder of a love that slipped away.

"Sipho, awaken from the depths of your restless slumber," a soft voice murmurs, gently pulling me from the haze of alcohol-induced dreams.

Opening my heavy lids, I find her – the woman who's been tirelessly trying to bring me back from the abyss of despair. It's been a week since Zama's departure, a week of drowning my sorrows in the numbing embrace of alcohol. This Saturday, the day of her final rest, looms over me like a shadow.

"Grace, leave my room," I rasp, my voice hoarse from both anguish and the liquor that has become my only solace.

Grace, undeterred, chuckles softly, her presence a persistent force in my life. "Sipho, this Saturday, you lay your wife to rest. Your children haven't seen you in days. This excessive drinking needs to stop."

I meet her gaze, a tumult of emotions swirling in the depths of my bloodshot eyes. "She's gone, Grace. Zama can't dictate my life anymore. She's not here."

"Exactly, and she's never coming back. You need to get up, for your son and daughter," she implores, settling on the edge of my bed.

I remain silent, my pain echoing in the stillness of the room.

Later, under the shroud of night, I find myself at the hospital again. Night after night, I stand by their incubators, afraid to face them when they're awake, grateful to find them peacefully sleeping.

A nurse interrupts my silent vigil, reminding me that visitors are forbidden at this hour. Yet, she grants me five precious minutes. My hand delicately touches my daughter's tiny fingers as I confess my uncertainty, whispering apologies and fears.

"Would you like to hold her?" the nurse asks, her compassion unwavering.

Terrified, I cradle my fragile daughter, pondering the fragility of life, the resemblance of her tiny lips to her mother's. Tears threaten to spill, emotions overwhelming me.

That night at the bar, Mihlali appears, knowing of my nocturnal visits. She shares Khaya's wisdom, comparing life to a book. Her words resonate, urging me to choose between drowning in darkness or finding the light.

Morning arrives with a pounding head, a painful reminder of the night's excess. The hospital calls, my heart lurching with panic. Rushing to the ER, I learn my daughter's lungs are failing, and I'm summoned to sign papers.

Alone in the prayer room, I beseech a higher power, a plea for mercy and assurance. The pain of loss weighs heavy, and my desperation fills the sacred space.

"Show me that you exist," I murmur, a broken man seeking solace in the silent corners of faith.