Six weeks ago, I committed suicide by drinking a poisonous concoction. The trauma of having been raped by a young man who attacked our house and robbed us of most of our valuables was just too much to bare.
Now, it is as if I am a child who is frightened of the dark. A light has to be left on all night whiles I sleep. The monstrous bastard that raped me, I don’t know his name and I doubt I ever will. I don’t believe that they will catch him, though they claim to be pretty confident.
When I think about that night, which, most of the time, I can hardly bear to do, it all, always, seems like a movie. Not like a dream or a nightmare, not as close or as vivid as that, but like a movie, which I saw several years ago, on a long, long-distance plane journey. But thinking about it, oddly, doesn’t hurt.
How he got access into the main house and made his way into my bedroom is still a mystery. The man who raped me was a young, dark-skinned man, in I guess, his mid-twenties. He had what I would describe as a “Westernised” accent. He was of medium height and had high cheekbones and lazy-looking eyes. His eyes looked like that of a cat. I like cats, but I didn’t like him. He was wearing a dark top of some kind and what looked like black jeans. He had a cap on his head. I had never seen him before in my life.
He woke me up by hitting me in the face. I don’t remember feeling any pain. Perhaps the fear blocked it out. I screamed briefly and then he turned on the TV. I couldn’t understand what was happening. I said to him, “How did you get in?” because I knew that I had not left any doors or windows unlocked.
