HER STORY - by Bellamine

You said, “Let’s go to a club.” ‎I said, “No, I’m not into the rave life, not into that stuff.” ‎You persuaded me. I went with you. I mean, I’m your girlfriend after all. ‎We got to the party. It wasn’t really my kind of vibe. ‎Unknown people here and there. It wasn’t really my style. ‎I begged you, “Babe, please, let’s leave.” ‎You said to give you a couple of minutes.‎‎As you imagined, a couple of minutes turned into a couple of hours. ‎Time for shots. You took the first, second, the third. ‎I warned you about the fourth. ‎My words fell on deaf ears. You still took the fourth, and the fifth, and the sixth, until we both lost count. ‎I would have left then. I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt.‎‎Deep in the night, “Babe, let’s leave. Order a cab,” I said. ‎He ordered a cab. ‎The cab man came, and we left. ‎Ten minutes into the drive, he stopped for a while to take a piss. ‎Now, I don’t know how long it takes to take a piss, but I’m getting scared already. ‎I told my man. He said I was being paranoid. ‎I just knew it was the alcohol talking.‎‎After a long piss, three men rushed in. ‎Before I could blink, one more joined them. ‎Plus the driver. Do the maths: five masked men there. ‎Now, it’s two masked men on my drunk boyfriend. ‎Two masked men on me, and one did the driving. ‎I’m not going into the details. ‎We both know how the story ends.‎‎We both lost something that night. ‎He lost his life. I lost my dignity, my soul. ‎I was killed and buried by my conscience. ‎How’s that possible? ‎How is it possible that my heart was darker and colder than a coffin? ‎What do I tell your mom? ‎What do I tell your dad?‎‎I begged you, “Let’s leave, let’s…” ‎It’s pointless throwing blame at the dead. ‎It’s not like they could catch it.‎‎Who else is wondering what happened that night? ‎In truth, I don’t know either. ‎They kicked us out of the car when they found out he was dead. ‎Typical of them, right? ‎I tried crawling my way out. I passed out. ‎I guess I was so eager to join him. ‎It’d be better; I wouldn’t have to explain to his parents and mine. ‎I mean, wouldn’t that be fine?‎‎I woke up in the hospital, my parents watching my every move with fear in their faces and tears in their eyes. ‎Who knows the thoughts in their disturbed minds. ‎I turned to my left, turned to my right; I couldn’t find him. ‎I guess the killers did their job right. ‎I… guess so.‎‎I don’t know how to feel; happy that I survived or sad that he died. ‎I feel guilty. If I cry, people would think it’s crocodile tears. ‎And… and… ‎[Sniffles, sniffles] ‎Hold on, let me get a tissue.‎‎I fear stigmatization so bad, I might as well just jump off a cliff to end it all. ‎My gentle way of telling the world “Fuck y’all.” ‎Nah, where’s the fun in that? ‎As a matter of fact, I’m going to kick out the “e” from the emotions I’m feeling, and I’m not going to stop.‎‎Who am I kidding? The cliff is just right there. ‎Just one wrong leap to end it all. ‎Now, I’m contemplating, fighting one of the battles in this ongoing war.‎

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