Choices Have Consequences: Creative Writing

On the day she graduated, her parents helped her host a small lunch somewhere on the outskirts of the city. It was a little fancy and in all honesty, quite deserved. She did not invite any of her friends, because she didn't want them there. The only one who she would have asked was also graduating and needed her time to be pampered by her family. A few cousins, aunts and aunts were sufficient. They had seen the struggle, and they had helped out in their little ways; a short prayer here, a phone call there, an occasional night out, all rescued in their way.

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At 23, she was doing quite well. She had managed to get herself an internship at a good company, and there were very high prospects of being hired as a full-time employee. She had also managed to make a friend, a guy, despite her severe social awkwardness. Things were great. "Hey, congratulations!" he said over the phone. "Thanks! I deeply appreciate it." She replied. "How about we pop a bottle tonight? You deserve it.". "You know I'm a teetotaler. Besides, I was planning on a quiet evening... perhaps a movie on my laptop, in my bed (It's very cozy this way)." She said.

"C'mon Daisy, don't shut me out that way. It's your happy moment. Allow me to be part of it. Please." She remembered while staring at the dark starry night along the beach. She remembered her grandmother's warning against indulging from peer pressure.

"Okay. I can wiggle out of my comfort a little. How about the movie at your place instead? On that big screen you bought." "Yay! See you at 8?" "I'll see your manipulative shell of a soul then."

At precisely 7 PM of the day after she graduated, she left her place and headed out to Joe's. She slithered into a pair of skinny jeans, put on a frayed crop top, a jungle green bomber jacket and held up her box braids into a messy bun. She aimed to look dashing, not promiscuous, so she skipped the winged eyeliner and deep red lipstick that she liked so much. Her grandmother used to say, "Choices have consequences," even after her death earlier in her teen years, she had sworn never to let her down.

His one-bedroomed apartment was at the suburbs, a place accessible by public transport. On that day, however, her pockets were heavy from all the envelopes she received after graduation. Money was tickling her, so she took a cab. Destination: Suburbs. Purpose of visit: Watch a movie, have some laughs and most definitely challenge each other to a game of Scrabble- she enjoyed basking under the sweet rays of beating him over and over. She loved the feeling of beating him in the game, it made her powerful, or so she thought.

At the back of the cab, she thought about how she ended up being this close with Joe. It started on that day when they were both coming from work, and the skies suddenly started pouring. She had just straightened her hair out the day before. The winter cold was in full swing, but it had not been predicted to rain. Either that or she just ignored the weather widget on her phone.

Joe offered her his hooded sweater to cover her hair. She was also in a pair of flats, purchased in one of the many footwear shops along the City Streets. They proved quite useless in keeping her feet dry. Running water kept on seeping into her feet; thus she was hopping, stepping and jumping along the street: so when he held her hand and joined her in the 'game,' she thought nothing of it. She subconsciously needed that support at that time. That was the genesis of their friendship.

At 7:45 PM, her driver pulled up at his gate, she paid him, alighted, and made a mental note to give him a 5-star rating. She always preferred those who were not chatty, and if they played some good music as opposed to tuning in to the radio, she liked them even more.

By then, the guard at Joe's gate was used to seeing her around. She let her in without her having to call Joe to come and pick her up. She and Joe had become best hang out buddies. He even called her 'Sis.' Her best friend kept saying that they had 'friend-zoned' each other, but she didn't care about what she said. She was not looking for anything more than fist bumps, memorizing lyrics to rap songs, editing short stories and poems for each other's blogs, lousy karaoke sessions to The Beatles and Taylor Swift and eating burnt noodles. And so did Joe. Or so she thought.

She let herself into his well-furnished apartment and headed straight for the kitchen after he gave her a congratulatory hug. She was looking for that good grape juice he always stocked up on. She opened the fridge and bent to pick it up from the lowest compartment on the door.

As she did so, she was telling him loudly how her eldest brother surprised her with a new camera the day before. "I could never, in a million years, imagine my brother getting a gift for anyone. He's so stingy... He even shed a tear while giving it to me. She said amid feelings of excitement at the moment. "That big-headed puppy has a heart after all"

She stopped as soon as she saw his hairy feet standing behind her. She was a little startled. She turned around swiftly, and her bum was partially inside the fridge. The subtle cold felt good. He took a step forward and then she was sandwiched. "You play too much. Is it a battle of who gets the last glass of the juice now?" She asked, trying to mask the fact that she was genuinely scaring her. His eyes were a little droopy and focused on her lips. "Okay. Let's see who'll beat the other." She was trying to be sly. She hoped she'd distract him. Her subconscious read threat, danger even. She tried to shove herself past him and make a run for the living room, then directly outside. She failed.

He forcefully tried to kiss her. He was holding her head in both of his hands and immobilizing her with the rest of his body. Her screams were muffled. It felt like a bad dream, one that she wished to get out from. Like a leaf she shook, her breath heavy. When she finally got her left hand out from beneath his body weight, she grabbed on the bottle of scotch sitting on one of the racks in his fridge. In a split second, using all the force she could gather, she hit him on his back. Like a wounded beast, he yelled and grabbed her neck.

As she felt her breath escape from her lungs, she was done trying to hit him only hard enough to make him realize what he was doing. He was a monster on steroids, out on a hunting spree. He tried to yank the bottle off her hand unsuccessfully. Her aim was his shoulder- not the back of his head. She didn't want to kill him or make him a cabbage for the rest of his life. And she took it. It landed squarely on his clavicle. He staggered back and looked at her with his head slightly bowed, like a bull getting ready to charge. "You whore!" He raged forward, and she tightened her grip on the bottle. This time, she got his nose bridge, which knocked him to the floor. Then she ran.

The next time she heard of him was two weeks later, on the news. "A 24-year-old man has been sentenced to life in prison for raping and badly injuring his 17-year old cousin by a city court. The accused perpetrated this act ... visiting..." She saw his shameful face splashed across the screen. He was a sexual predator all along.

As the midnight breeze washed her in that cold night, she cried. Maybe for herself, and for his poor cousin. She cried for victims of sexual attacks.