By Aloo Odundo

My hands trembled. I was angry, hurt, confused all at once.She kept texting and my replies were instant. We were tearing each other apart; or so I thought.

I ran into my room and flung my head at the wall. I was too upset for words. I yanked my clothes off the hangers in my wardrobe and threw them into my suitcase.

The scorching heat tore right through my skull; (or that’s what it felt like.) I had been standing there for an hour. No bus in sight. I almost gave up when I saw one in the distance.


I watched the trees whoosh past, once I was comfortably seated next to a little girl and her mother. I had to change seats. I couldn’t stand the incessant bubbling and happy laughter.

I talked to her. I talked to him. I talked to them. They meant the world to me. I felt at home. A home away from home? Hell.

The hugs, the laughter, the feeling of being around people that actually cared.

I forgot everything. Or tried to. I kept having flashbacks of the previous night but the images didn’t affect me that much. Or so I thought.

I let myself in. I looked around; hopefully for the last time? Yet to find out.

I knew many people would hate me for what I was about to do. I didn’t care. They knew nothing about hate; according to me: Because none of them could understand what exactly I felt about this woman. Yet it was hate.

I didn’t need a mask.

I flung myself through the front door. Our eyes locked. I could see the spite in her eyes quickly turn into a look of shock, then fear, then shock again – and finally the look I’d played out in my head all week. A lifeless look.

I shot my mother. And it felt good.

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