BEHIND THOSE WALLS

By Cherbo Geeplay My wife whispered: somebody, go call Muna to come here. Let her tell her dad what she told me today. I asked: What’s going on behind those walls in her room? Muna, our daughter quiet spoke louder than her usual. Yes, a silence likened to a suicide note. The obvious depression you noticed, that suicide written all over it, like a flower that folds under a burning heat, that writes its death on the walls of its garden somewhere around the street. The hashtags were all on Facebook, Twitter and in the Times. It says a veil on the frontal fragments of a china were chiseled, even as we hope for redemption beyond all this preaching from the pulpit, to protect the vulnerable. Only that each day wears a mask and bears the scars in the echo chambers of its halls, walls, and dark alleys. Where a monster did the unthinkable! If Cosby is unmasked under the thunderclaps of drudgery, in a fine suit and a white smile that stole our hearts, how many more were out there? She’s a victim hiding in her room under the clouds and the weight of her own guilt. Her panties ripped off by someone she trusted. Who didn’t care, because no one was looking? Did he see the fear in her eyes and the shrieks in her voice that said no! He went on anyway and broke her will broke her spirit. broke her virtue. Take back the light! Though the bulb shines, and bright pours on my dining table, the recesses of my mind is dark like the empty void of a black hole. His bed was the electric chair on which she was executed. She gave up and let him kill her, because his greed was too strong than his compassion, his arms were too strong to resist and her story won’t count, so she kept quiet, burning inside like a furnace, while the world went on. ______ Copyright Rigorous Literary, 2019, New Orleans Volume 2 Issue 4