Saturday, 16 December 2017

The Brand Of Cain Episode 25

This is the confession to a crime…a crime of vendetta.
I have always had a series bizarre imagination from my childhood; the practice of delivering a message through rather extraordinary means never failed to impress my being. The ancient practice of slipping a little boy into a fortress from a rather narrow roof to steal treasures, hurling a bottle into the sea with an important message in it, or writing coded words on tissue papers and placing the papers into water after use––this would dissolve the paper and the message would never be retrieved, writing in codes, symbols, hieroglyphs and cuneiforms––all these are quite intelligent and clever in their own different ways. The acts thrill me so much that I decided myself to adopt one of these kinds of amazing courses––writing my confession in pieces of papers and pinning these manuscripts to the legs of a pigeon––a carrier pigeon. Some people would see this as a romantic feat in the extreme. But I know not how far the bird may have travelled with this confession, it could either have carried it miles further off than my current location or this confession may just be lying on the ground of the next street. That, I’m afraid, will remain a mystery even I may not be able to unravel. The likelihood of this confession getting to the doorstep of my recipient is indeed slim, but it’s a chance ‘we’re’ willing to take. This document may fall off the bird’s feet into a thick uninhabited forest and be lost forever, or it could fall to the hands of someone who may have no idea about the significance of what nature has presented to his palms. Nonetheless, I should let the reader here know that this confession is meant for the hands of Detective Georges Lot alone. If, however, you found it––kindly refer it to the aforementioned detective or rather submit it to the nearest police station. The next paragraphs hitherto would be the confession of all the circumstances that led to the unsolved mystery behind Cain Martins’ murder––yes, it was actually a murder. And this is a direct message to the detective. I assume, of course, that he got hold of this rather lengthy note. Although, this is a confession to the crime which had already been committed two years ago, I am still forced by my guardian to scribble out the truth down on papers for the knowledge of everybody involved in the affair, or rather those who believed that every door of the investigation had been unlocked. The truth is, there is still one door behind the unlocked doors which still stays locked.
There exists a popular anecdote that where there is smoke, there is fire. And where there is fire, something’s certainly got to be burning. Fire never erupts all on its own, its existence is birthed from something burning––without a burning object, there’s definitely no fire. But sometimes, we stare so long at the blazing fire that we take no notice of what is burning. However, in the affairs concerning the mystery behind the death of Cain Martins, some parts of the truth have been explained––but not all. The body that was found outside the gate wasn’t placed there by Richard Philip. The truth is, Richard’s explanation of how he came about the body was barely the smoke, the police officer’s confession was the fire, but what was actually burning is yet to be explained. The burning object began with Angela.
Angela was only fourteen when she was brutally raped.
Ashamed and scared, she told no one. When she later discovered that she was pregnant, what she did to herself after this discovery was downrightly horrible. She wanted to secretly terminate the pregnancy in her own biddings, because she didn’t want anyone to know about the misfortune that had come her way––most especially her parents, for she knew not how she would cope with their rage if they discovered the truth. As a naïve young woman of fourteen, she took stupid and reckless steps to get rid of the pregnancy.
She didn’t at first take seriously the constant headache, nausea, dizziness and abdominal pains that afflicted her. Her horror came when her period refused to surface. It was then that the meaning of the afflictions she’d suffered occurred to her. She knew no private doctor or nurse to consult about her predicament, so she decided to self-terminate the pregnancy, with total disregard for her own wellbeing––she was bent on crushing the seeds germinating inside of her––the seeds of the monster that had raped her. First, she began by punching her own belly, hoping that the actions would rupture the developing foetus. She would clench her teeth hard, shut her eyes tightly and would not be able to control the tears that flooded her face as she painfully hit her own belly with her fists. Within the first week of her discovery she’d done many things she’d heard about; the simple methods of pregnancy termination; she’d mixed a fistful of salt with water and gulped it down, she’d squeezed lime into a cup, added crystallized alum before she swallowed the sour mixture. She ate raw pepper, drank alcohol, starved herself––she would go for days in an empty stomach, all in the bid to flush out the congealed blood inside of her. But as much as she tried to rid herself of it, the pregnancy remained intact; she felt it growing in her day after day. She and the baby in her endured the nine months of self-imposed emotional violation and physical suffering. Not until the ninth month that it was discovered by her parents that their daughter had been pregnant––it was when she tried to get rid of the pregnancy the hardest way she could that her father got to know the truth. Angela had shut her eyes tightly as she’d always done, believing that this would definitely resulted in the miscarriage she so desperately craved, even if her life could be threatened and she might not be able to conceive ever again in her life––she threw herself down the long flight of stairs. And instead of having a damaged pregnancy she ended up with broken bones and concussions. She had fainted even before reaching the ground floor as she rolled like a ball down the steps of the concrete staircase.
She woke up on the hospital bed, and the first person she saw was her father. At that instant of seeing the sadness in her father’s eyes, emotion had taken control of her and she could not help pouring out all what had befallen her––how she’d been raped on her return from school and all what she had done to terminate the pregnancy. She gave birth to a baby boy after two days of her diagnose. Because of all what she had done to herself, complication set in her childbirth, she had lost a lot of blood and suffered hypertensive crisis, low-blood pressure, violent seizure, eclamptic convulsions––after the delivery she could barely breathe. She knew she was dying, her father knew it too. She demanded to see her baby. With the infant in her arms, she looked at the baby for a brief moment, gazed upon her father for understanding and then looked directly at the boy she was carrying. This time, she looked at the baby much longer. What she said thereafter was the last word she ever spoke.
She named the baby Abel.


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