Don't Kill Me.

This is a short story centred on sexual assault. The sharp odour of alcohol swept into the house as he walked in. I could perceive the smell of Beer - the expensive local alcohol here. My heart started to pound; he's arrived. Why did he arrive so early? “The man is here," I whispered to myself. “Be calm; he won't hurt you."

Although I was scared, these were the words I told myself, and I knew they were lies. 

The front door creaked, and there was an opening. He's entered. I was lying on a bed, and I wrapped my hands around my stomach to stop my hands from shaking. This was my supposed Uncle. He's a drunk and old. He lives alone and probably hates me. He did despicable things to his children, and they left. I think it's my turn today. He fumbled with the keys. He locks me inside. I kept a penknife with me. I didn't want to use it. But I was prepared. I couldn't bear it. 

Finally, the door opened. He reeked of alcohol, and he looked at the room as though he were looking for something. He came closer to me. I flinched. He looked at me and shook his head. He staggered off the room. Although my hands were wet, I was calm.

I thought he was asleep. My eyes caught the door; it wasn't locked. I picked up my knife and wanted to escape. I opened the door. He opened his door; we met at the passage. He became angry.

“What are you trying to do? he asked. “You want to run away?" I was scared. My hands started shaking. “No... I...I..." I stuttered. “You what? Foolish girl! Pig!" He grabbed my hands, and I struggled with him. “Please, uncle," I begged. He didn't answer. He dragged me to the room, and he pulled his belt. 

My instinct took over me. I removed my knife and pointed it at him. “Don't touch me," I growled. “And what if I did?” “Don't touch me," I responded, pointing the knife at him. He laughed and went on to lock the door. I couldn't bear it. Images of how my step-brother molested me rushed into my memories, and I became enraged. 

He came closer. I shifted and flinched. “Kill me," he said. “I know you can't." His laughter makes me furious. He came over to me. I plunged the knife into him. I screamed. He gasped. I thrust the knife into his hand.

Now, he screamed. I gasped. He looks at me pleadingly. A small chuckle escaped my lips.

I placed the knife into his hands and whispered into his ears, “I'm sorry; I killed you."

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