UTHANDO LOMQHELE❤️

The air in the bedroom was thick with the stench of stale alcohol and fear. "LET ME GO!" I hissed, my voice a ragged whisper, as his hands tightened around my neck, intent on silencing me forever. The kicks and punches I could endure, but this… this was the end. My three-month-old Azande wailed from her babycot, her tiny cries echoing my own silent terror. My eyes, blurring, fixated on her innocent face, small wet drops tracing paths down her cheeks.

He squeezed tighter, my feet dangling uselessly. I clawed at his face, my freshly manicured nails raking across his skin, but it was useless. A desperate lunge, fueled by adrenaline and the sheer will to survive for my child, brought me close enough to the second shelf. My fingers closed around the ceramic vase, and with a primal scream, I brought it down on his head.

His grip loosened, and I tumbled to the floor, gasping for air as he collapsed beside me. The loud crash amplified Azande’s cries, a heartbreaking crescendo. Every inch of me screamed in pain; my face throbbed, my stomach ached from the relentless kicking. But Azande… she was my only reason to move. I crawled towards her cot, each inch an agony, whimpering with the effort.

BANG! BANG! The shots ripped through the air, deafening. "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" My scream tore from my throat, raw and guttural. My heart hammered against my ribs as I looked at the cot. Azande’s eyes were wide open, staring into nothingness. The wailing had stopped. A slow, sickening red bloom spread across the pristine white sheets. A hiccup tore through me, and I knew, with chilling certainty, I was next.