Something felt wrong the moment I stepped inside.
Not fear—something colder. Calculated.
The air was thick, stale, heavy with silence, as if the walls themselves were waiting. My heart pounded so loudly I was sure whoever had brought me here could hear it.
"Sihle?" I called out again, my voice breaking. "It's me."
Then I saw her.
She was lying on the floor, twisted at an angle no living body should be. Blood pooled beneath her, dark and sticky, soaking into the ground. Her clothes were torn, her skin bruised and swollen, her hair unevenly hacked off like it meant nothing. One of her eyes—gone. My breath left my body in a sharp, painful gasp.
"No… no, no, no…"
I ran to her without thinking. I fell to my knees, slipping in her blood, my hands shaking as I touched her face, her neck, her chest. She was cold, but not completely. I couldn't tell if I was imagining it or not.
"Sihle… nana… please…" I whispered desperately. "Breathe. Please breathe."
I pulled her into my arms, hugging her tightly, rocking her body as if that could undo what had been done. Her blood soaked into my clothes, smeared across my skin, coated my hands. I checked her pulse, again and again, refusing to accept the stillness.
That's when the feeling hit me.
Not fear.
Not grief.
A warning.
Something about this was wrong. Too neat. Too quiet. Too staged.
But it was too late.
A voice echoed through the room, sharp and mocking.
"Sorry you took so long."
I froze.
A man stepped out from the shadows, smiling as if this was entertainment. He laughed—actually laughed.
"Had to kill her," he said casually. "She was trying to run."
Something inside me snapped. Rage exploded through my chest, hot and blinding. My eyes dropped to the floor—and that's when I saw it.
A pistol.
It lay there like it was waiting for me.
I didn't think. I didn't hesitate.
I fired.
The sound tore through the night. The man fell, his laughter cut short, his body collapsing in a pool of his own blood. My hands trembled violently as the gun slipped slightly in my grip.
Then footsteps.
Heavy. Calm. Powerful.
I turned just as he arrived.
Her boyfriend.
The man everyone feared.
It was the first time I ever met him—and it was over blood, death, and a gun in my hand.
The dying man groaned and reached out weakly.
"Brother…" he pleaded. "I caught her and she tried killing me."
"No!" I shouted. "He's lying! He did this—he killed her! He killed my own flesh!"
Something started to build inside i don't know what it was but it demanded justice ,I wanted my sister back ,I wanted to rewind time
"Pin her down and beat her till she can't move " I felt a cold sweat down my spine as Nkosi, my sister's boyfriend said that I tried to set myself free but all was in vain i shouted for help
But it didn't matter.
The gun was in my hand.
My sister's blood was on my clothes.
My fingerprints were everywhere.
And just like that, the story wrote itself.