Deep Cracks I

I’ve Made A Pattern of Things

Asides my marriage, one of my greatest achievements has to be where I am in my career. There’s a difference between when you love something and when you love being good at something. And in all honesty, I love being a great detective. It isn’t as though I find all the work I do ridiculously easy, or that I enjoy the praise and adoration that comes along with being the person that solved the uncrackable case. Although, there are times when I relish in those moments. I just simply love the sense of solidity I get from deciphering the information surrounding each case. It’s almost as though my sense of self is made is a heavy rock in a stream of data.

It can honestly get very addictive at times, and I’ve never really seen myself as a smart person. But my wife Shayla on the other hand? That’s a smart person. Whatever she sees in me I will forever remain blind to, because even after three years of marriage and with the both of us still being in our late twenties I still look forward to waking up beside her every morning.

“Henry…Henry wake up” She began trying to wake me up by nudging me. She stood in between myself and the bedroom windows which blocked me from the sunlight and caused her silhouette to rest perfectly on my face as protection from the light-beamed attacks of our global warming enraged sun. Once she took notice of this, as well as my reluctance to respond, she carefully backtracked towards the window ensuring she maintained the silhouette as I laid unaware of her plans then suddenly burst open the windows, allowing a rush of sunlight to flood over my unassuming body.

“Ah fuck!” I breathed out, then made an attempt to protect myself by rolling up in the covers but ended up rolling out of bed and having my head bounce against the wooden floor.

“It’s about time you woke up, hurry and get dressed or you’re going to be late for work” I opened my eyes to see her half-dressed, walking out of the room.

After about thirty minutes of grumbling, showering and getting dressed. Mostly grumbling. I was welcomed by an upright smile and a morning cup of coffee.

“Good morning dear” the sarcasm in her voice was thicker than the amount of cream in her whitish coffee. Her twin French braids neatly kept her natural hair in place.

“Good morning…I suppose.” I muttered out the words and before I could let them trail off completely, I felt an aura pressing on my temples coming from her direction, which quickly lead me to reiterate my greeting.

“I meant good morning my love.” My voice faking a courtesy it had never known

“Am I just your love?” She wasn’t going to let me off the hook just yet

“My darling love” The pressure had now subsided. It now felt safe for me to walk to my table and pick up my morning cup of coffee.

“There’s something I need to tell you about my new assignment when you get back from work” she said in a worried tone I wasn’t familiar with.

“What? The C.I.A. wants to steal my wife away from me?” I said, trying to avoid a tense situation.

“We’ll talk about it when you get back” she said after chuckling. After which she looked and smiled at me.

This was more or less our morning routine for the past three years we’ve been married. It isn’t a lot of things, but to me it’s everything. I won’t say I’ve always got things this good or I expect things to always be this good. But for right now? All I can say; my name is Henry Coleson a state detective in the homicide unit, my wife Shayla Coleson is a C.I.A. agent and I am very happy with where my life is at the moment.

I’m Making a Mess of Things

I’ve been a lot of things in my short life, none of which were satisfying; an aspiring actor, a caregiver, a husband…a father. All of these have only felt like empty masks I’ve had to put on in order to adequately play a side character role in the lives of others.

I also, to the best of my knowledge, have no sense of fear. Usually when I hear people make that statement what they’re referring to is a fear of death or some form of harm coming to oneself. Once you begin to mention things or people that they care about being put at risk they rethink their initial positions. I, on the other, simply cannot conceive any situation where I’d be worried about the possible outcome. That isn’t to say I’m emotionless, at least I don’t think I am. I’m just very…bored.

Waking up in the morning has never been that big of a task for me, the biggest challenge I face each morning in getting ready for work is my family. The strong smell of alcohol coming off of my passed out drunk wife was also a big help. Both our parents had forced us to get married once they’d found out she was pregnant with our daughter. I chose to stay in the marriage because it as the most economically sound decision. I assume she remained in the marriage as it provided her a free bed and enough money to sleep around as much as she desired.

The next challenge would have to be our daughter, who was meant to be in school an hour ago but is just now getting ready in the bathroom. She eyes me as she opens the door to walk out. “Shouldn’t you be in school?” I let out in an attempt at greeting. She replied me with a glare and nudged me aside. Then I was hit with the scent of faeces coming out of the bathroom. She didn’t flush…again. My breakfast consisted of a bacon and egg sandwich along with the sounds of my wife and daughter cursing at each other.

I’m not entirely sure of the exact point at which my family had become this dysfunctional. It’s not as though I’m not already used to living in this type of setting, as things are very similar to how I grew up with my parents. But in all honesty, I don’t see anything wrong with it. The idea that two people who have only known each other for about two to five years can come together and raise another child in a healthy environment is one of the most illogical things on this planet. There was no point in wasting my time pondering over it, it was inevitably just another part of everyday life.

As I stepped out of the house to get to work, I was met with condescending glares and mouths twisted in distaste, the owners of which quickly entered their houses. I’d made good enough financial decisions to stay in a relatively safe neighborhood but a major set-back being the fact that I was a Nigerian in a predominantly white neighborhood. It never really bothered me in the least though. A major silver lining would be the fact that I wouldn’t need to fake relations with any of them.

Walking towards my car, I was confronted by a dog that belonged to my neighbor’s son. It wasn’t a very intimidating dog though, one those weakling flesh and bone ornaments for a suburban home. I didn’t like animals in general but I utterly despised such breed of dogs; so weak and timid. Its barks lacked any blood lust or aggression in them, as if it was frightened by everything around it. I simply walked by it as it continued its taunts until the owner himself timidly rush out to pick it up then let out a half-hearted “Nigger” as he ran back inside.

Moments later I was in my car, ready to drive off to the psychiatric hospital where I was a head care giver when I saw the dog run out again. I waited a moment for his owner to run out and pick him up again, but after about ten minutes he was nowhere to be found. I simply decided it would move away as I drove out but I accidentally hit the gas a little too hard and ran over it. It wheezed out a slight whimper as its bones were crushed against the weight of my car and its flesh pressed and flattened till its innards almost escaped from the openings in its body.

I got out of my car to see the damage done and saw it was still alive. I immediately thought about taking to the vet or something to save its life and in order to avoid trouble from the child but then I thought. The sensation I was able to feel over my tires while I drove over it in my car…would it be very much different from me just stepping on it? As I watched it twitch, I leaned my shoe on its cracked skull and weighed in more and more pressure. It wriggled wildly whining and yelping. I could feel the its skull begin to crack even more so I slowed a bit as if trying to very softly crack an eggshell with my thumb, till it stopped moving entirely and then heftily stomped till the skull was completely broken. I then began furiously stomping all over its dead carcass till nothing was left but a mesh of flesh, bone and a jelly like matter, feeling a sense of exhilaration that energized the back of my eye sockets.

After I’d calmed a bit and caught my breath, I walked to my car and took off my shoes, and then walk back into my house where I carefully had a change of clothes.

“Aderemi?” My wife drowsily murmured through her hangover. Luckily, she hadn’t seen me in my blood splattered clothes but the clean ones I had put on.

“Good morning dear, I hope you didn’t drink too much?” I replied

“What time is it? Aren’t you meant to be at work already? Why…why are you smiling so much?” she wore a puzzled expression. I hadn’t noticed when exactly I started smiling till I looked in the mirror I saw an expression I hadn’t worn since I was a child. It made me look ten years younger and remember my dreams of being an actor or a performer. I also saw a bit of blood splatter on my face.

“What’s that on your face?” she asked

“It’s nothing dear, just a bit of ketchup” I use my index to wipe it off my cheek and licked it off my finger as if to prove my initial statement.

“Go back to sleep dear, everything’s going to be just fine” I said. The slight copper taste of blood within my mouth began to mix with the mental imagery of me repeatedly stomping all over the dog. It made me smile harder till my cheeks stiffened and my head felt cleared.

My name is Aderemi Kolapo, I am a care giver at a psychiatric hospital, I have a wife who has no job and one daughter born out wedlock who knows we wanted her aborted. For a very long time I’ve found my life, meaningless, monotonous and boring. Up until this moment.



¯\_(ツ)_/¯ || ©

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