CHIMES, TIMES, LYRA.
By: Osiris Temple
Tags: Death, Sexual Assault, Abuse, Hate

CHIMES, TIMES, LYRA.

Sitting on the little stool with much exaggerated grace, Lyra watched her fiancé work from behind his make-shift tripod and wide board. He was almost breathless, not because he was tired; he simply chose to hold his breath while his brush stroked the canvas. Smothering it, sweeping it, prickling and pointing at whatever ridiculous splash of colours he was playing with.

Empty broken tins of paint littered the floor and the only window in the unkempt room was open.



"Am i free to go now?" She shifted her weight on the stool to ease the stress on her butt. "My ass is starting to hurt,"



His tired faced returned its focus to Lyra. He smiled broadly and said nothing. He was anxious and she could tell. He always paint whenever he was stressed but something about his quick smiles made her feel like this routine was not working today.

"You can go, i already got what i needed," he said, again with another quick smile.

She should have kept quiet about her family. She should have left him to his charming thoughts about her family. Now he knows everything and they were on their way.

"You shouldn’t have done that, asking them over." She broke the silence again.



He grunted and continued on his piece. Lyra was scared but she would not show it; she doesn’t know how. She was terrified at what she knew was running through her fiance’s mind and she was also terrified of the fact that she was comfortable with it. They all deserved whatever Mark was planning to do to them.

"I don’t want you angry and overthinking this," She lied, watching him breathe in deeply. "There are many girls out there who have also been raped by their father."

It was no excuse and she knew that reminding her young millionaire fiance about her family would keep him angry. She needed him angry to carry out her vengeance for her. Truth be told, she was scared of the man she was about to marry, and she loved it.

The smell of paints in the room rubbed her nostrils and her eyes closed; she held up her arms as her mind revisited the first time it happened.

She was smaller and skinnier, timid and innocent. Her mother had left for the market and she was playing with the little boys in the streets, on the sandy floors outside their family home. She was dirty with soil but never stopped playing. Then, without a warning, her father stormed out of the bungalow shouting her name. The little boys ran away and she was left standing alone in the hot mid-day sun. She ran to him, curious and unwilling to stop playing. He spanked her, punched her face and pulled her by the hair into his bedroom with a simper on his face. She cried and he smacked her. She struggled to leave his grip but it only got stronger. He was a hairy fat man, even his arm was too heavy for the child. Before long, he had tossed her into his bed.

His eyes were wet and red, his breathing was heavier and his trousers were coming off. Her eyes stayed on the worn-out belt, a reminder of his cruelty. "You stay away from those boys from now on." He spat, feeling up her budding breasts. "You know that nobody will love you better than me, right?" He kissed her bleeding lower lip while he tore away her pant. She froze, unable to understand what he was doing, afraid to imagine what it was. "It will hurt now but you will get used to it."

She never got used to having her father on top of her every Friday evening, beating and having her for dinner. Her fiance stopped scribbling and stood akimbo, watching what he has created. Lyra stood from the stool and waltzed over to him; with her every step towards Mark, he chuckled and cheered with a boo. She was a wonderful dancer.



The art piece was ethereal, taupe-blue-pixels of human imperfection. It was her face and somethings more on the canvas. She held the wooden board with both hands while Mark kissed her neck, "I look so much like her."

"You are nothing like her," he sang into her ears.



Mirian, the good christian woman. Wife to the deacon, mother to two criminals and one slut. To the outside world, she was a strong Amazon. To her family, she was a weak, placable fool. She took beatings from her darling husband almost every morning and she would cover it up with heavy makeups minutes later. Her consistent failure was the reason Lyra became bold enough to fight back her father and brothers.

I Lyra waited for years for Mirian to defend her but that only ever happened in public and not at home. Lyra got tired of being asked to stay quiet and suffer, she got tired of hoping for the best, allowing her elder brothers and the street thugs have their way with her. "The problem is that you are too beautiful," Mirian would tell her, "Stop trying to be pretty."



She wasn’t trying; she had no makeup kits, her skin was unhealthy, she had no good clothes except the ones her many boyfriends bought for her. Her bank account supported her family while her parents kept her from school. Mirian always found ways to blame her for all the abortions. "You are so far away from God. You have murdered so many babies... God hates you."

Mirian once walked into Axel, her elder brother, hitting her with a dvd player, tying her hands backwards with a copper wire and pulling apart her legs, and she simply closed the doors behind her. "Women belong to the men. It is the way God created us."

Mark has something special planned for her mother and Lyra was excited although she didn’t know exactly what he had in store.



"How did Steve die?" Mark asked, hugging her from behind as she wiggled her waist to the song in her head.

"My eldest brother?"

Running her index finger through her blouse, along her chest and into her bra.

"Mark. I told you, I poisoned him."



To be specific, she tied him to his bed next to his girlfriend while they slept and poisoned them both with pesticides. She stood to watch as they shook violently before they woke up. They were in agony, then they realized what she had done to them, the look in their eyes was breathtaking.



"They all wanted my head on a plate after..."



"Good. I am the only family you will ever need." Mark breathed behind her ears. She held his arms tightly, orgasmic in his embrace.



"What does this piece of art say?" She asked, landing soft kisses on his cheek.



"It is an apology."

She smirked.

The door bell rang, a chime that echoed throughout the building and Mark left her immediately. Her family was at the door, ready to meet, greet and exploit her fiance but what they don’t know about Mark would fill a novel. They hadn’t seen her for two months and now they wait outside her new home. A sudden rush of hate and fear rove through her as she stood still with the painting in her front.

The excitement was more than her body could take. "Apology accepted." She muttered to the painting under the screaming.