It was just another day, another evening, the best evening like it was expected to be, after all, it was my wedding day. The entire villa was engulfed in lights that shone bright enough to blind the sun. My groom awaited me, impatiently, sitting by the holy fire. I can’t say what I felt at the moment, all I remember of it is excitement and fear. I had nothing to be afraid though, we had been planning this day for years now. I walked down the stairs to the lawn.
My father, the ex-army-commander sat there by his son-in-law, sharing his army-stories in fits of laughter. I smiled at him and told my ladies that I needed a bit of personal time and walked towards the washroom in the remote corner of the lawn.
When I walked out, I saw my dad’s friends standing right outside the door, away from the reaches of light.
“He… he… hello, uncle” I, I stammered. I had never stammered, but sure had been afraid. I could see the devil in their eyes.
I screamed, I shouted I yelled for help; or I just think I did. I passed out suffocating from the cloth in my mouth or his hand over my face, or probably from the pain. Next thing, I remember, I woke up beside a speeding road, in the midst of nowhere. Blood streaked down my thighs.
I never saw them again, my family, I never saw them. I confronted my dad though, he never believed me and pushed me off his property. He said he lost his pride because of what I did on my wedding, I lost mine too, to what was done to me. My groom? The love of my life? Well him, he has a gorgeous wife and a beautiful daughter.
All I have now, except the lost everything, are two syringes of cannonball. I’ve never tried it earlier, hell, not even alcohol. But here, it reads on the bottle, anything more than 1.5 ml is a sure death, and now all I have to do is stare at the clock, tick-tock, tick-tock.
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