The first time we ran down the stairs together, it was a happy experience as we were both giggling and laughing out so loud. He chased me round the house and each time he caught up with me, my punishment was always a deep, passionate kiss before I would finally get off his grip and start running around again. It seemed immature but it was totally a happy experience, with none of us ashamed of the other. In one word, I was fulfilled around him and I needed the prayers of no pastor to tell him he was the one I would spend the rest of my life with (or so I thought); so when he asked me to marry him, I didn’t think twice before screaming a Yes and allowed the tears of joy trickle down my cheeks as he slowly kissed them away. We were young, happy, vibrant, intelligent and like many would say, in love. We did virtually everything together and we became the envy of several other couples, both young and old.
To be candid, it would be absolutely insincere to say we didn’t have our moments, moments we felt it wasn’t worth holding on anymore, moments we had been close to losing each other, moments we had gotten so furious with each other, moments we had pushed each other to the points of tears but one thing urged us on; LOVE Despite all of these, despite the feelings we shared, despite the emotions that ran through us, despite the ecstasy that possessed us and despite the trying times we sailed through together, our relationship lacked one thing and it was the very thing that broke us, the very thing that could overpower what we shared, the very thing that made me lose him.
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Running down the stairs this time around was the opposite of my first experience. Unlike the first, it was filled with sorrow, pain, tears and fears as he continuously used his whip to hit me each time it found its way into my skin. I kept running but at intervals, my strength failed and I would fall on the staircase before the pain of the whip renewed my strength and I would get up again. I had exhausted so much blood but I kept running for the fear of losing my life in his hands. “If I would die”, I thought to myself, “it wouldn’t be in the hands of the man who means everything to me”. I began to blame myself but really, am I to blame? Is it my fault that I was defiled at the tender age of eight? Is it my fault that I became a constant victim of sexual harassment? Is it my fault that I couldn’t stand the presence of any man? Is it my fault that I never had the chance to protect the only thing that is meant to be my pride? Is it my fault that I finally gave myself to love? I couldn’t bring myself to tell him any of these, I couldn’t bear the pain of being disgusting to him, I couldn’t imagine being a subject of ridicule to him. My thought was interrupted with a bang and a loud scream and I saw my man in the pool of his own blood, mixed with my sweat and blood, on the same staircase that welcomed our love, the same staircase that has welcomed my pain, the same staircase that had welcome my fall and the same staircase that was my best friend.
My fears were finally confirmed and just like I predicted, I LOST HIM.
The question is, is there truly a term called LOVE?