Her Name Is Knight(Nena Knight #1)(19)

He comes even closer to me, the tip of his tongue flickering out to moisten his chapped lips.

I whisper, “Please. Please, please, Ofori.”

His lips are moving, but no sound comes from them. He is limp against me. At least there is that, and he is finding no pleasure from this.

My eyes bore through his closed eyelids. I hold my breath for an eternity, unable to breathe because if I do, it brings me that much nearer to that piece of him that should never be so close to that piece of me. But my body is fighting to breathe. I am at war with my physical self and my mental, as every facet of physical me begs to take a breath while my mind says, Do not. Do not make it easy for him, Aninyeh.

I hold my breath for an eternity. And just when I am about to pass out from lack of oxygen or succumb to my body’s need for air, just as I am about to be forever damned by my brother, miraculously, just as he . . . touches me . . . the weight of him suddenly lifts off me. All the air inside me releases; then my body convulses from sobs.

“You are a perverted son of a bitch, you know that?” Paul says incredulously. “I don’t know whether to be repulsed by you or impressed. I can’t believe he was going to do it.”

“Well, you are quite convincing,” Attah Walrus deadpans. “Who would say no to you?” He looks down at the dead bodies of my brothers. “Or the bullet?”

There is raucous laughter from the men as Ofori hurriedly fixes his clothing, his shoulders bowed in complete shame.

I have never felt so betrayed.

I have never thought I could hate my brother as I do in this moment.

And I have never thought I would feel gratitude to Paul for ending the incestuous horror before it was enacted, even though the command came from him. Because Paul is not my brother; Ofori is. And Ofori will now be exactly as my father declared. Damned, damaged for eternity, because of what he was willing to do to his sister to save himself.

My eyes close, tired of it all, tired of living. I want nothing but to see the darkness.

“You have promise, boy.” Paul sighs. It sounds regretful. “But unfortunately, you are useless with your father’s blood coursing through your veins. Put him with the others.”

Ofori cries, becoming crazed, “No! Uncle, I only did as you asked. Only as you asked!”

His reference to Paul, using a title of a respected elder, is another nail driven through me. His groveling stirs no affection in me. Only contempt that grows like a snowball as they throw him in with the crowd of waiting villagers. My brother. Ofori, the weak.

Moments later, I hear rapid firing, screams, wails. Then silence, and I think, Good. He is gone, and there is nothing left.

But Paul is not yet finished with me.



Paul, voyeur puppet master, directs Bena and another faceless, vile soldier to have a go at me, and they do. No one stops them this time.

My agony sears through hoarse whimpers because I have no voice left. Papa weeps for a virtue cleaved from me like a hot knife shears through butter. My body tears in two.

Paul ignores him.

The men laugh.

The laughter is worst of all, laughter at my pain, my humiliation, my being made nothing at all. It is laughter that will haunt me for the rest of my life.

They hold Papa’s head so he cannot turn away. His eyes implore me for forgiveness. He suffers with me as obsidian dread takes over.

Papa’s eyes are the last things I see. The intruders’ laughter is the last thing I hear before giving way to the only escape my broken body can provide me. I thrust myself into a realm of unconsciousness, separating mind from body. I cocoon myself so I am not there when they do what they do to me.





15


AFTER


Cortland Baxter was still on Nena’s mind the next day when she stood three doors down from her house, at the end of Keigel’s walkway, until two of his men moved aside to let her pass. Waiting for entry was common courtesy, and it was better to keep up pretenses that their number one had her respect. Plus, as far as friends went, their boss was the closest thing she had to one.

“When are you gonna sell me that bike of yours?” was his greeting. One she knew was not serious but had become their routine. “Saw you riding it earlier today.”

Her metallic thunder-gray Hayabusa sport bike, one of three modes of transportation that she indulged herself with, but by far her favorite. When on her bike, Nena felt nothing could touch her.

“When you learn how to ride it,” she answered easily, approaching where he sat on a cheap plastic chair on his porch.

He cracked a smile. “Word on the street,” he began, “is that a couple of Royal Flushes got clipped on Fifth and Mercy, by a female.”

“A female what? Elephant?” She hated when he—when any man—referred to women as females. She’d keep correcting him for as long as he kept speaking ignorantly.

He rolled his eyes, throwing a hand in the air. “A wo-man, okay.”

“You know, male, female, those are the sexual distinctions of animals. Shall we discuss sexual classification? There are more than just male and female now—for people, I mean.”

He waved her off.

“But the story would be much more interesting if it really was a female elephant,” she deadpanned. Nena normally had two facial expressions, serious and very serious. Hers was currently the former.

Keigel released a slow, exasperated breath, ignoring the nearby snickers of the gang members lucky enough to overhear Nena’s once-in-a-lifetime joke. They had business to square away. The streets were probably abuzz after her late-night diner save. He snapped his fingers, and within seconds the immediate area around the porch cleared, leaving them alone.