Maid For Him

Abduction Part lll

Syd'nee's POV

An unpremeditated gasp left the confines of my ruby lips as I watched the sudden altercation of Shawna and Sharonia take place in the forefront of my eyes. Shawhna stirringly lunged onto Sharonia as she turned her back to us in attempt to grab the miniature blade sitting on the top of a timbered shelf which resembled a bookshelf more than anything else. Shawhna's lean legs encompassed around her sister's waist from behind as her lengthy acrylics dug into the botox injected features that Sharonia used to call a face. Clamorous outcries of rage were heard from either side of the cell walls, and I took an immediate step backwards, quickly clamping my palms to cup around both of my ears blocking out the horrid screech of noise. Sharonia wobbled around in attempt to get her sister from her back.

"You bitch! Get the hell off me!" She howled like a vexed wolf on a full moon as Shawhna finally released her tormenting hold from her sister's face, deep-seated nail streaks running crosswise her nefarious features. She then crumpled to the ground, her knees connecting with the solid grey asphalt in an attempt to lessen her sobs. They only got louder. Shawhna continued to pant, the adrenaline supposedly wearing off, cautiously approached her from behind.

"Sharon...Sis....?" Shawhna called out gently, her palm moderately moving to rest against her lean shoulder which racked with unheard weeps. When no response was heard, Shawhna hoisted up her head to shoot me a doubtful look, before nodding her head in the direction of the opened cell door, the keys swooshing in its slot with relish as if agreeing to Shawhna's gesture. "You should go," She mouthed each syllable as if speaking to a two year old to which I nodded swiftly not wishing to stick around any longer.

I missed Sasha, and Ms. Henry, the elderly Salvadorian maid working in the Palace who could any day pass as a Ghanaian herself for the dishes she prepared for the maids and servants were by far the best I'd tasted in ages. And I missed Kalata, the more-or-so crippled maid that only had one functioning arm from an incident with her late husband, but would help to the best of her abilities, bringing an easy smile to any over-lookers in the palace. She was the first one I'd met upon arriving to Accra, and I sighed suddenly feeling a sense of longing and

Sharonia's shoulders suddenly stopped shaking. We both watched with widen hues as she nonchalantly upheld her gaze to me, provoking a recalculated whimper from my lips.

This time it was out of fear.

"I always knew you were trouble, you.....Syd'nee Diallo." Sharonia started as she fixated her dark irises to mine, the deep slashes running from the tip of her forehead to the base of her chin dribbled with crimson blood, and now coated her teeth. I swallowed thickly, my back still firmly placed against the wall, never daring to look away from her.

"Humph," She laughed suddenly, and I jumped at the unnerving chortle, the hair on the nape of my neck coming to a stand-still. "Y'know, I still find it hard to believe..." She paused once more to spit out the collection of blood and saliva that had gathered in her mouth before resuming. "...find it hard to believe that a white man could ever find you alluring in the slightest. You ain't anything but a disgusting Avu [Ghanaian translation: Dog]." Shawhna shifted on her feet clearly growing wearisome as her lips formed into a deep frown.

"This is what you deserve, Sharonia. You've tortured these servants for far too long! And all I've been doing is standing in the god damned sidelines! I should've intervened sooner, but you told me that you'd change your ways!" Sharonia's gaze averted to her year-older sister, brown orbs gleaming under the fluorescent lightning, watching as Shawhna pointed an accusing finger down to her. Her features were impenetrable. "Apparently you lied, because you're the exact same person you were before I left!" I could tell Shawhna's rage had begun to catch up with her, for her hand had began transforming into balled fist, looking as if she were severely contemplating wither to strike her own blood or not.