Liberian Literary Magazine
The Bloodied
Machete
Short Story 2
Prologue: Tap, Tap, Tap. 3,
2, 1, Tap, Tap, Tap. Blood
dropped from the rustic
machete.
He lay spread ov er the
couch. One hand still
clutching the bottle; the
other, sw ollen, slung over his
bare chest. “Grrr. Grrr” he
snored loudly. He w as out
cold and w ould remain for
the next few hours.
Ov er in the kitchen, under
the sink, she snuggled, also
asleep w ith her black eye,
bruised
nose
and
bloodstained lips. I tiptoed
across the room to collect
my siblings- Blojay, four and
Youjay six. Both are sobbing
in a corner by the w indow.
Days like these, ev eryone
gets flogged- a few slaps or
lashes before sending them
off. Today w as relatively
good.
They hid w hen they
sensed my approach and
only came out upon seeing
me. I checked Youjay’s
face; half of it is red, but no
sw elling. I clean it. My
brother w asn’t that lucky,
his upper ribs w ere sw ollen.
He flinched w hen I applied
the damp, w arm cloth to it.
I felt his pain w ith each
stroke I made no matter
how gentle but I must
Promoting Liberian Literature, Arts and Culture
attend it. I know his pain all
too w ell.
I am almost nineteen but I
had a few broken fingers,
ribs, dislocated shoulders, a
missing tooth and that is just
in tw o years. They pass my
accidents off to my being
tomboyish. Mostly, it is my
w rist, w hich is my first line of
defense. Today, I feel the
sprain, perhaps a torn
tendon, but w ho cares? In
about tw enty minutes, I
w ould be unable to move it
around so I hav e to hurry.
We must hurry to find
food. Our w indow is fast
closing. I hurriedly get them
ready before I enter my
parents’ room next door.
This is w here they start and
end their battles. Clothes,
papers and bottles w ere all
ov er the
place
like
landmines. I rummaged
through the messy room for
cash; searching as many
pockets
and
under
anything I could lift. The kids
are on lookout in the
hallw ay.
We liv e in an old house;
there are holes in the roof,
the w alls, ev erywhere. This
means the slightest sound
trav els ev erywhere. We
quietly w ent out the back
door. I found less money
than I expected but that
w ould hav e to do. We
bought food for one
person. I fed them after
taking only a few spoons.
We hurried back home just
in time to find Mama
w aking.
She
barely
recognized us as she
struggles to get to her room
only to fall on a pile of
clothes, knocked out.
I tucked them in and had
just turn around w hen he
16
entered the room. He had
his menacing stare. He
stumbled ov er to me. His
breath reeks. I am frozen.
Ev en if I could, I know better
than to mov e. Moreover, I
didn’t hav e it in me today
to fight, not in this state. I just
stood there.
Large hands dragged me
on the cold floor. He sw ears
a lot at these times; each
day, nastier w ords. I hold
my breath in angst; w aiting
for it. The alcohol-disgusting
odor suffocates me. Just
w hen I can take it no more,
there it comes; I puke. He
doesn’t notice.
“Breathe,” I tell myself! I try
to inhale but I choke.
Suddenly, he falls over
me. His full w eight knocks
the air out of my stomach. I
exhaled and muffled my
scream.
He
goes
limb/numb; deadw eight. I
shifted, struggled finally and
I pulled free. I ’m too weak
to roll aw ay. Out of the
corner of my eye, I saw the
bloodied
machete.
I
gathered my strength and
lifted my head to see
beyond the blade. My
sibling’s tiny frame holding it
shocked me.
Epilogue: Tip, tip, tip….
Blood dropped to the floor.
The face etched in my mind
was unbelievably calm,
resolved. I blocked out!
By Herty Duah