For a split second, I caught myself enjoying it. There were times when I just wanted to die, times when I wished when I closed my eyes, I would never re-open them ever again. But today there was something different. It was definitely not him, it was still the same frustrated grunts that echoed around the room at each thrust. Mother was being a coward in the next room as usual saying better me than another woman outside. No it wasn’t him, although he wasn’t as rough as he was yesterday, no it was not him it was me. I was different not because I was almost enjoying it but because I knew today was going to be the last day. This was the third time today; apparently he lost his job and needed a form of release. I even started to feel the love he “claimed” to have for me. I don’t have a recollection of him saying those words, not even on my 15th birthday last Thursday. I think it was just my mother’s voice I kept hearing every time he was inside me. Maybe he is just too angry all the time to say it. Finally it was over, he heaved a sigh of pleasure as he threw me to the other side of the bed. “Ashawo” was the last thing I heard him say as I reached over for the knife that was carefully hidden under the bed to slit the throat of the man I called “father”.