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![image.png](https://homoerectil.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/10/Deseo.jpg)
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She wanted him now, more than ever. She needed him to minister to her, to embrace her with the vigour and heart of an amorous mate, to suck her succulent cheeks dry.He paused then shrieked as the knife penetrated his back and wedges itself into his spine. The young girl smiled demurely. “That’s for last Saturday,” she said. He, knowing full well the invasion he was about to command, could do nothing. She knew him too well and shut off a lifetime of love with her words. “I want to marry Sika.” She said.

He hung his head, bowed and crawled into the bushes. He waited, unable to draw breath, for what he thought was only a chunk of life to be snuffed out. Seconds later she emerged from the house, entered the garden, stood and cupped the loose breasts of her parched body. Her clothes were drenched as rain pelted the house. He looked up, his eyes swimming in a pool of blood and bent his head, allowing her to walk into the house. He looked up and smiled like a dog on a lead.

Time unspooled, the house unchanged. Time unspooled and the village became exactly like the house – the village, the buildings, the trees, all. It became the house itself. The air dried and turned to dust. His body still held the form it had when she left the house but now blood was nothing but a memory. His eyes were melted candle wax, running down his face. Time unspooled, time unrelentingly unwound.

He heard her laughter, saw the flicker of her long gray skirt and the movement of her ebony skin. He also heard the words, “I want to marry Sika,” before he was sent into the void of pain.

“I want to marry Sika,” she said. She said it again, and then again, and then again. She spoke the words over and over again, each time with a different voice. She would blow breath across a thumb and feel his cheek with her fingertips. She would glitter with tears in the dim light and whisper again, “I want to marry Sika.” Each time she spoke her words, the wind took a different part of the voice away.

“I want to marry Sika,” she said as she sat at the garden table, her back leaning against a blue, moth eaten armchair that gave out a high pitched, impatient screech. “Sika is my friend,” she continued. “You and Khedi were once my friends,” she said. “How could you be my friend when you are now the enemies of my family?” screamed the armchair.

“You forget that we are all bereft of our loved ones. I, my husband and Khedi too,” she said. “We are the land of Bharosa,” she continued. “Forget nothing,” she said. “But I,” she swallowed, raising her voice, “I need you, Siswa.”

He rushed, in a frenzy, out of the bushes, where he sat alone, sobbing and holding his head in his hands. “I want to marry Sika,” she shrieked and he collapsed at her feet.

“I want to marry Sika,” she said, dragging him, by the scruff of his neck, noisily into the house. He held his head, sobbing uncontrollably as the blood sound of a last breath filled his ears. “You said you would never leave me in the dark. You told me that you will always be with me,” she said, smiling. She slapped his face. He gazed, still, with open eyes, unable to move. “I want to marry Sika,” she said and went to the kitchen and returned with a knife. She placed it in his mouth and he realised, far to late, that he was being baited. Drunk with air, he fell to the floor.

“Oun!” he heard, fully awake. Something was pinning him down. “Oun!” she said. It’s Semanti, he thought. I am back to playing hide and seek with her.

“Oun!” she shouted and punched him in the face. He recoiled. “I want to marry Sika! Not you!” she shouted; her voice high, off tuned and shrill. He sprung to his feet and clasped her tiny shoulders, “No. No, Siswa. I want you,” he said. She was looking at him, the way she looked at him long ago. He held her tightly and knew that his heart would break once again.

He began to sob without the fear of the start of tears. He was sobbing in grief for what he had allowed himself to become. He cradled her like a child in his arms, each time she came close, he could feel the warmth of her breath on his cheek. “Oh, Siswa, Siswa!” he sobbed, and through tears he saw her face change. He saw anger take it place. He saw the green, black eyes darken; the saliva gather at the sides of her smiling mouth and her now tight lips formed a thin, absent line. Hers was a face like a chisel. A face so thin that one could barely make out the cheek bones.

He wanted to take his words back, to snatch and tear them out of her memory, but there was no time. He thought of Semanti – her lifeless body lying in the garden, her mouth open in a placid scream, and her eyes glinted. He remembered his promise to Siswa – to hold her forever, to love her and to be with her for the rest of his days, to be her strength in times of need, to hold her in times of darkness and to whisper beautiful stories into her ear as she drew her last breath.

He called out her name and felt her cold hands grab his throat. She was talking and he could hear her. He knew she was cursing him – for what he had done to her three years ago. He watched her open one hand and the knife slipped into it. She pushed a finger into the door-frame, her vision fixed on his mouth and seething with hatred at his final words. She staggered towards him and the knife withdrew to the handle. She crumpled, fumbling for the knife and in a fit of hatred, she thrust her hand into his chest, plunging the blade deeper. The blood pooled in a thin circle around the handle. She pulled the knife up and looked at it in disbelief.

The blade of the knife was buried in his vitals.It was lodged in his liver. She tried to wrench it out but she could not. He looked down and saw that she had finally snapped. Crouching down, he raised his head and reached out with a shaking hand, “Come, my love,” he said and reached out for her hands. She began to howl, a high-pitched, violent cry of madness.


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