Last updated on October 17th, 2025 at 07:44 am
If I had to make a wish, it would be to become Angel’s man. It’s shallow, right? Well, it’s a wish. Wishful thinking. I’ve put off contacting Constance for more than a month now, and my nightmares are in full gear, happening every night instead of every other night. There’s no way I can be Angel’s man or any woman’s man, for that matter, with these terrible nightmares. After waking up to a particularly scary nightmare, I took a shower, brushed my teeth, put on my gym fit and came straight to the gym.
I ran on the treadmill for more than thirty minutes before my legs started protesting. Now, I’m resting it off. I prefer to work out in the evening, but I couldn’t wait today. I return to the treadmill as soon as the burn subsides and pick up speed again. I’ve purposely refrained from drowning my problems in a bottle; the gym is a much preferred option and my problems, the right propellant. I run on the treadmill for another thirty minutes, wishing that I could run away from my problems too, from my nightmares.
—
I’ve been holed up in my room all day and I’m famished, starving. My stomach growls again. There’s nothing to eat in my room. I left some snacks in my drawer, I’m sure, only that there’s nothing there again. I get up and frantically search the drawer, already crying. Nothing. I sit on the floor, my knees drawn up and my head in my hands. After crying for a while, the hunger gets worse.
I change my cloth from just my boxers to a pair of jeans and long sleeves. The times Aunty Constance touched me, I was wearing only my boxers; it’s better to dress properly. Instead of combing my hair, I leave it rough. I take a deep breath and count to three, then exhale before unlocking the door to my room. I peep in the empty corridor then step outside slowly and lock my room.
As I tiptoe to the kitchen, I think of a fast way to get my food. She always prepares meals ahead, so I’ll grab a bowl from the fridge then make a cup of tea while I heat the food in the microwave. I’ll take out the food before the microwave beeps.
I get to the kitchen without being noticed, then open the fridge and grab a plate. I open it and see rice with chicken; my stomach grumbles. With my steps light, I open the microwave and set the timer. I’m about to make the tea when she comes into the kitchen. I’m terribly quiet as if my silence makes me invisible. She makes no sound too, but then comes up behind me, my height dwarfing her, she moves to grab me from behind and as I try to plead, she says, “shh.”
I jerk up from my sleep, heaving as sweat coats my neck and forehead. “Jesus,” I mutter. I shove the blanket off my legs and go to the kitchen. I’m so thirsty that I finish a whole bottle of water in a gulp. I dispose of the bottle and rest my arms on the kitchen counter. It’s only four o’clock in the morning, and my dreams have woken me. I have to face this head-on, and the only recurrent whisper in my head is to contact Constance.
I know that the chances of her being able to attend to her phone at this time are slim, but it doesn’t deter me. I go back to my room and plop face down on the bed. With my heart racing wildly as if I’m on the treadmill, and my chest tightening, I grab my phone, go to my archives and scroll to her chat. Her last message was from last week, and it reads: If only you would reply to me. You could have blocked me by now, but you haven’t. I’m taking this as my green light 😉 Constance is insufferable, reading her messages makes me want to puke my guts out.
I type a response to her: Constance, in your warped world, molesting a kid is right. So right that you can boldly message said kid, a victim of your abuse, for a relationship years later. I read the message again and again, I read it one last time and select all, then press the delete button. I take a deep breath and head to the kitchen again. I open the fridge and grab another bottle of water, chugging half. I drop the bottle on the counter forcefully, spilling some water. Grunting, I wipe the surface and unlock my phone.
Constance, trust you’re doing okay. We need to talk. I type and hit enter before I change my mind. As soon as I hit enter, I drop the phone on the counter as if it’s hot. Leaning on the fridge, my legs weak, heart pounding and feeling a deep headache, I let myself slide to the floor and bawl my heart out. How long I stay wailing for, I don’t know. I shouldn’t be this affected. Everyone I’ve talked to said it’s not a big deal. Other people who are victims think otherwise. Maybe I’m too sensitive.
After some time, I get up, pick up my phone, rinse my face and go back into the room; it’s now five o’clock. I drop my phone on the nightstand, make my bed, then do my bathroom runs and prepare for the day, feeling a bit lighter. Emotions that have been stowed away because I concluded that what happened with Constance was trivial have forcefully come to the surface. I can no longer gaslight myself. I open my laptop and resume work for the day, even as my head protests.
