SINS OF A KING

2

"–beth...Elisabeth," I heard a voice call out my name, pulling me from the deep depths of my mind. I blinked rapidly, trying to emerge from the darkness of my little bubble, and found myself met with two pairs of eyes watching me.

The first pair belonged to Benjamin's wife, Gugu. She had warm brown eyes, accented by dark circles that hinted at the exhaustion she carried from a long night shift. It had only been about half an hour since she walked through the door, yet she sat across from me at the kitchen island, her presence as comforting as it was disarming. Gugu had short, thin eyelashes framing her round eyes, which shone with a blend of warmth and concern. Her skin was a soft chestnut, glowing slightly, as though lit from within. The rectangular shape of her face had a certain elegance to it, her lips—two different shades—her bottom lip a fuller pink, while her upper lip wore a muted brown.

Her hair, pulled back into the tiniest ponytail, seemed to fight its way into submission, as if each strand was reluctant to be tamed. At about 1.5 metres tall, she wore navy blue scrubs that hinted at her profession in healthcare, and she held a blush pink mug in her hands, steam curling upward from the dark liquid inside, surely to help stave off the fatigue that threatened to overtake her.

"Are you okay, Elisabeth?" she asked, her voice stern yet laced with exhaustion, reminiscent of a nurse caring for a patient.

I cleared my throat, my gaze dropping to the bowl of cereal that I had abandoned, remnants of my first meal in this unfamiliar home. My spoon stabbed back into the bowl of two weet-bix sticks, which had absorbed more than 70% of the milk at this point, their once-appealing texture now resembling soggy cardboard. The bowl, a matching blush pink to her mug, was an aesthetic choice that spoke to the order and beauty in their home. Everything here seemed carefully curated, a direct contrast to the chaos swirling in my mind.

"Yes," I answered, putting a spoonful of the now mushy cereal in my mouth and looking back at her. The taste was bland, unremarkable—just like my current state of mind.

She glanced at Benjamin, her husband, then back at me. "How was your first night here?" She lightly laughed, as if she were trying to draw me out of my shell. "I hope Benjy didn't keep you up all night watching Brooklyn 9/9."

"9/9!" Benjamin exclaimed, the grin on his face contagious, and I couldn't help the soft laugh that escaped me when he said that.

Benjy... what a weird nickname. Yet somehow, it suited him, like a quirky pet name for an old friend. He had an endearing quality, his grin lighting up the kitchen even more than the morning sun streaming through the window.

I found myself smiling, if only for a moment. "No," I shook my head, my voice slightly stronger. "We sat up for just a while and had marshmallows before I called it a night." I explained, my weet-bix getting harder with each second that I didn't consume it. "I was tired... you know, from the drive."

Gugu nodded, her understanding evident. "Yeah, that's understandable." An awkward silence fell over the room, wrapping around us like a thick fog as I kept my eyes fixed on my cereal.

"I see you love weet-bix like Bafana did," came Benjamin's comment, and I pursed my lips as I looked at the hardening cement before me. I hummed in agreement, even though it was a lie. My father had an inexplicable fondness for weet-bix. He could eat it all day, while I couldn't stand it. The taste, the texture—it repulsed me. To make matters worse, he preferred it hot, warming it up in the microwave before indulging.

But since his death, the boxes of weet-bix in our pantry had become a strange source of solace. Each time I opened a new box, it felt like I was clinging to the last vestiges of him, the last remnants of our shared breakfasts. I had brought three boxes with me to Elandswater, and now I couldn't shake the feeling of impending doom that loomed over me. The moment I finished that last box would be a turning point—a brutal realization that the last tangible thing my father had left for me was gone.