You stand and sluggishly move towards him, dragging the axe behind you. Your face remains stoic as the florescent light flickers on and off, momentarily revealing the beauty of the green peeling paint on the wet walls.
In his daze he stares at you, trying to make out your figure, your motive. By the time he sees through his swollen face you’re just a few feet away from him.
Please! Don’t kill me, I swear I didn’t see anything please.
You stop. Gently observing your image in a broken mirror hanging loosely on the wall, your brows knit when you see that your face is covered in his blood. You don’t remember how the blood got on your face. This happens sometimes; you get so lost in the act of inflicting pain that you black out. You wake up most times to find a dead body and the murder weapon in your fist. It always feels like something else takes control of your body.
Bikonu. I have children! I have kids!
He is jerking now, screaming. You enjoy the little show. You have always enjoyed this; watching men try to prevent the inevitable with their tongue.
Why do you people always do this?
Do what? He is calm now, hoping he could start reasoning with you.
Try to use other people’s emotions, try to get into other people’s head. You observe him for a while and focus back on the mirror.
What does it matter if you have children? You will still die for very simple reason.
Please, I have not told anyone. In fact, bros I no see anything. Don’t make my children fatherless. He is sweating now and his eyes are filling up with tears. I’m the only one that provides for them.
Oh, such a sad story. How old are your kids?
12 and 15. Sam is 12 Jennifer is 15. They are still so young and innocent. Please.
You begin to move towards him again, smiling and dragging the axe behind you for a menacing effect. It works so well.
You see, they’ll be fine. At 12 and 15 they are practically adults! You laugh hysterically. Your mind jumping back to your childhood.
My father left me at 8 with just my Mom and debts! But look at me, I turned out fine, didn’t I? You turn around slowly, making a dancing gesture while drawing a white circle with the axe on the asphalt.
Shut up and answer me! Your scream reverberated across the cracked walls.
I asked you whether or not I turned out fine? You lay your right hand on his sore left knee and press hard. He screams, the gurgled sound like music to you. Melodies you are used to. You remember how screaming was the only thing you could do all those years before your father left. Those nights he’d tie you up and whip you for being his child, for ruining his life by simply being born. Those nights he screamed pure hatred into your ears and your heart absorbed them.
Yes! You turned out amazing! He was beginning to cough blood.
You let go of his knee and raise your hand with a coy smile.
Well, now we can continue. So, what about your wife?
S-she doesn’t do any work. She doesn’t make any money. She can’t raise my children on her own. You nod and urge him to continue. Please. Don’t make my children fatherless. You watch him as he swallows his blood and bops his head back and front. You can feel he’s thinking about his children. You lift the axe and land the head hard on his right knee.
He screams some more.
Emotions make you weak! Stop thinking about them because you will not see them again. You saw what you were not supposed to see and now you must die. You inhale loudly and stare at the flickering light.
It’s sad, isn’t it? You became a security guard to provide for your family. Now that job will cost you your life and your family.
You love this about your job, being the executioner. It’s what you are best at.
Do you understand? You say in a small, gentle tone. He pays no attention to you but continues screaming and jerking in the wooden chair, the barb wire binding his hands cutting deeper into his flesh.
You lift the axe off his right knee and immediately land it on his other knee. As you hear his bones shatter, your heart thuds in excitement. His screams grow louder, but you trust these ruined walls, you trust them to swallow all the screams. Most importantly, you trust the air outside; the winds that come from the ocean not far from here. You trust them to carry the screams to the waters, where only the souls of your father and the other men you’ve killed can hear them.
You look at him now, weak. You see his life slipping away from him, like the tide outside, slow but inevitable. You lift the axe and land it straight at the centre of his head. The sound of his head popping fills your heart with so much joy. The same joy you felt when you found your father years after he’d left you. The same joy you felt when he begged for his life and when you took it away.
You release your hand from the axe and move to his side. You kneel with your right leg and move your nose close to his ears. How much you love the smell of blood.
You lick your lips and say in a whisper:
You don’t have to worry about your children now. You don’t have to worry about anything! All thanks to me.
You laugh warmly.
And about your kids, they have their mother. Girls are weak but mothers are strong.
Your mother told you that the night your father left. curled up in her bed, she hugged your frame and sang a beautiful lullaby for you and when she was done she said: Girls are weak but mothers are strong.