MY BELOVED POISON

EIGHT

"Get the fuck out of my house!!" Landlord spat. I mean it was in a way literal because spit flew out his mouth. He was like a raging tsunami with how much spit spilled from behind his crooked seething cigarette teeth.
"I want your things out by tonight, or else I'll have my boys come and forcefully take you out with only the clothes on your back!"

This was exactly after I pleaded and said I'd pay him what I owed but then again it serves me right since I owed him so much. Nothing went my way, everything just went haywire and I felt like i was slowly crumbling. My feet buckling beneath me. My aunts medical Bills were still pending and so was my rent. I only had an apple in my mini fridge and the only thing I could sleep on was a twin bed mattress I got off of Facebook.

I don't know where it's been, probably had lice and bedbugs on it but then again that's all I could afford.
No closet was in sight and the only valuable thing in the shabby apartment was my cellphone.
It was an iPhone 8. My first big girl purchase. Although it glitches, it still calls and answers emails. That's all that matters to me.

"Yes." I said softly but looking around to see the on looking neighbours.

"It better be a yes or else you'll be on the streets." With that he continued mumbling. He looked like a gremlin , a short white man with a little hunch to his back, his graying brown hair was funny to look at because he seemed to have traction alopecia.

Maybe that was because he was never nice to people. With his long arms and legs but short torso. He looked very weird. I gently close my door behind me pondering on whether I should just leave or continue staying there .

As I settled into bed, the weight of my landlord's ultimatum pressing heavily on my mind, I found myself unable to shake thoughts of King Niran, my enigmatic boss and client. In the gym, I wasn't just another employee; I was his physical therapist, tasked with keeping him in top condition for his grueling Muay Thai or MMA matches.

But tonight, as I lay on my threadbare mattress, the reality of my situation crashing down around me, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt for allowing my thoughts to wander to King Niran. With my aunt's medical bills mounting and my impending eviction looming, indulging in fantasies seemed frivolous, almost selfish.

Yet, I couldn't deny the comfort his presence provided, the fleeting moments of escape from the harshness of my circumstances. I wondered if he ever noticed the strain in my eyes, the weariness in my movements, or if I was just another face in the crowd of his busy life.

With a heavy sigh, I closed my eyes, pushing aside thoughts of King and focusing instead on the practicalities of survival. But deep down, a small part of me held onto the hope that maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for something more than just a professional relationship between us, a chance for understanding and support in a world that seemed determined to grind me down.

I couldn't help but let out a tear as thoughts of my parents came to mind. The blood and the bones, everything came back to me. It was a horrible accident, one a 17 year old girl shouldn't have witnessed. But I was there , the scar on my head a testament to my survival. That's why I never experimented with different hairstyles, always opting for my simple afro.

Although the scar had significantly shrunk , I was still self conscious. To me it was still very much a wound. Bleeding out. Waiting for me to die a slow and disgraceful death.

I lay there in the darkness, the memory of that fateful day haunting me like a ghost. The screech of tires, the sickening crunch of metal, the screams of agony that pierced the air-all etched into my mind like a vivid nightmare that played on an endless loop.

I was just a teenager then, thrust into a world of pain and loss that I was ill-prepared to navigate. The accident had taken everything from me-my parents, my sense of security, my innocence. And though years had passed since that tragic day, the wounds remained fresh, raw, refusing to heal.

The scar on my head served as a constant reminder of my past, a visible symbol of the trauma I carried with me every day. I shuddered at the thought of anyone seeing it, of having to explain the story behind it, reliving the horror all over again.

But despite the darkness that threatened to consume me, I clung to a flicker of hope, a glimmer of light amidst the shadows. Maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for redemption, for healing, for a future that didn't feel so suffocatingly bleak.

As I drifted into uneasy sleep, I whispered a silent prayer for strength, for resilience, for the courage to face whatever challenges lay ahead. And though the road ahead seemed daunting, I refused to let the darkness win. I would survive. I had to.