SHADOWS OF SORROW
Oyih Joy@joyoyih936684
1 month ago
CHAPTER 7: A NEW REVELATION.
The sun had barely risen when Halima found herself wandering through Zahira's old room. It had become a ritual of sorts, this searching. She would come into the room with no particular purpose, touching the remnants of a life that now seemed like a distant memory. Zahira's clothes still hung in the closet, her books still lined the shelves, and her scent still lingered in the air, faint but unmistakable. It was as though time had frozen here, preserving the essence of who Zahira had once been.
But that morning was different. As Halima absentmindedly rummaged through Zahira’s belongings, her fingers brushed against something cold and hard at the bottom of a drawer. She hesitated, her heart quickening with an instinctive sense of unease. Slowly, she pulled the object out into the light. It was another diary—small, nondescript, with a plain black cover that gave nothing away.
Halima stared at it, feeling a chill run down her spine. The first diary her mother had found had already hinted at Zahira’s troubled state, but this one felt different, more ominous. With trembling hands, she opened the diary, her breath catching as she began to read.
The entries were nothing like the ones Fatima had uncovered. These were not vague allusions or fragmented thoughts but detailed, explicit confessions. Each word seemed to pulse with a life of its own, dragging Halima deeper into the nightmare that had consumed her sister.
Zahira had killed their father. The words hit Halima like a physical blow, knocking the breath from her lungs. She had loved her father, despite his faults. He had been a complicated man, harsh and unforgiving at times, but he had also been the one who held their family together. The idea that Zahira—her sweet, gentle sister—had taken his life was unfathomable.
But there it was, spelled out in Zahira’s neat, meticulous handwriting. The diary described in chilling detail how Zahira had planned and executed the murder. It hadn’t been a crime of passion or an impulsive act. No, Zahira had waited until the perfect moment, when their father was at his most vulnerable. She had approached him with a calmness that was terrifying in its intensity, her face devoid of emotion as she ended his life.
Halima’s hands began to shake as she read on. The entry didn’t end there. Zahira had gone on to describe how killing their father had changed her, how it had awakened something dark and insatiable within her. The first kill, as she called it, had been the beginning of a descent into madness. The blood on her hands had become a stain on her soul, a stain that only more blood could wash away.
The entries grew more disturbing with each turn of the page. Zahira had become obsessed with death, with the power it gave her. She wrote about killing animals, how she had felt nothing but a cold, detached satisfaction as she watched the life drain from their eyes. There were no regrets, no remorse—only a growing hunger for more.
Then came the story of the boy from their neighborhood, the one who had gone missing so many years ago. Halima had been just a child when it happened, too young to fully understand the tragedy that had befallen their community. The boy’s body had been found by the river, and everyone had assumed it was an accidental drowning. But Zahira’s diary told a different story.
Halima’s blood ran cold as she read the account. Zahira had met the boy by the river, where he had tried to force himself on her. But Zahira hadn’t been a helpless victim. She had fought back with a ferocity that shocked even her. In the struggle, she had pushed him into the water, holding him down as he thrashed and gasped for air. The satisfaction she felt as she watched him drown was palpable in the words she had written. Zahira had told herself it was self-defense, but the diary made it clear that she had taken a perverse pleasure in the act.
The pages were filled with more confessions, more blood-soaked memories that painted a picture of a girl consumed by darkness. Zahira had meticulously chronicled each death, each twisted justification she had concocted to excuse her actions. She had become something monstrous, something that bore no resemblance to the sister Halima had known and loved.
Halima couldn’t tear her eyes away from the words. Every line sent shockwaves through her body, making her feel as though she was sinking into a nightmare from which there was no escape. The loving, caring sister she had grown up with was gone, replaced by someone—or something—unrecognizable.
When Halima finally reached the last page, she felt as though she had been hollowed out, her very soul drained by the horrors she had just witnessed. She dropped the diary, her hands trembling uncontrollably. The room seemed to spin around her, the walls closing in as the full weight of what she had learned bore down on her.
Zahira had killed their father. She had killed a boy, and who knew how many other innocents. The diary had been clear about one thing—Zahira had not stopped at just one or two deaths. There were others, perhaps too many to count, all buried in the recesses of Zahira’s fractured mind.
Unable to keep the terrible truth to herself, Halima stumbled out of Zahira’s room and rushed to find her mother. Fatima was in the kitchen, her hands deep in soapy water as she scrubbed at a pot. She looked up when Halima entered, her face lined with exhaustion and worry.
“Mama,” Halima choked out, tears streaming down her face. “You need to see this.”
Fatima’s heart sank at the sight of her daughter’s anguish. She dried her hands and took the diary from Halima, her fingers brushing against the worn cover. She knew, even before she opened it, that what lay within would change everything.
As Fatima began to read, her face paled, the blood draining from her cheeks. Each word seemed to cut deeper than the last, slicing through the fragile hope she had held onto for so long. Zahira had killed her father. Fatima had always suspected something was terribly wrong with her daughter, but this… this was beyond anything she could have imagined.
The diary detailed acts so heinous, so cruel, that Fatima felt as though her heart were being torn from her chest. She could barely breathe as she read about the boy by the river, the animals, the way Zahira had methodically carried out her deeds without a hint of remorse. This was not the Zahira she knew. This was a monster, a creature of darkness that had somehow taken root inside her daughter’s soul.
Fatima’s hands shook as she closed the diary, her mind reeling with the implications of what she had just read. Zahira, her sweet little girl, had been capable of such unspeakable horrors. The realization left her feeling hollow, as though the very essence of her being had been ripped away.
“What kind of evil spirit could have possessed her?” Fatima whispered, her voice trembling with grief. The words felt empty, futile, as if no explanation could ever make sense of what had happened. How had her daughter, the child she had nurtured and loved, become capable of such darkness?
Halima sat across from her mother, her face etched with the same despair. The two of them were locked in a silence that was thick with unshed tears, each grappling with the enormity of what they had just discovered. It was as if the world they had known had crumbled around them, leaving nothing but the shattered pieces of a family that could never be whole again.
Fatima’s mind raced as she tried to piece together the fragments of Zahira’s life, searching for some clue, some sign that might explain how things had gone so terribly wrong. Had there been something in Zahira’s childhood, some trauma or influence that had twisted her so profoundly? Fatima had always known her husband was a harsh man, and the abuse he had inflicted had left deep scars on all of them. But could it really have driven Zahira to such lengths?
And what about the other deaths? The diary had mentioned so many—small, seemingly insignificant at first, but growing more brazen and horrific with time. Zahira had become a serial killer, hiding her true nature behind the mask of the loving sister and daughter they had all believed her to be. The thought made Fatima’s stomach churn with nausea.
Halima, still reeling from the shock, tried to find her voice. “Mama… what do we do? We can’t just… we can’t just leave this. People need to know. The boy’s family… they deserve to know the truth.”
But what was the truth, Fatima wondered? The truth was a bitter, twisted thing, tangled up in the complexities of Zahira’s fractured mind. How could they ever explain what had happened, how could they even begin to make sense of it themselves? The diary was a testament to a life gone horribly wrong, but it was also a confession—a window into the darkest corners of Zahira’s soul.
Fatima’s tears finally spilled over as she buried her face in her hands, her body wracked with sobs. “I don’t know, Halima. I don’t know what we’re supposed to do. How could this have happened? How could I have not seen it? She was just a little girl…”
Halima reached across the table, taking her mother’s hand in hers. “Mama, it wasn’t your fault. None of this is your fault. Zahira… she was sick. She must have been. No one could do the things she did and be… and be okay.”
The words felt hollow, even as she spoke them. Halima knew that no explanation could ever truly justify the horrors Zahira had committed. But she also knew that they couldn’t just turn their backs on her, not now. Zahira was still her sister, still the girl she had grown up with, shared secrets with, loved more than anyone else in the world.
“We need to get help,” Halima said quietly. “For us, for her… We can’t do this alone.”
Fatima nodded, though the prospect of seeking help felt overwhelming. How could they even begin to explain what they had found? Who could they trust with such a terrible secret? But Halima was right—they couldn’t carry this burden on their own.
The two women sat in silence for a long time, the weight of the diary pressing down on them like a physical presence. The truth had finally been uncovered, but it had left them with more questions than answers, more pain than they had ever imagined possible. Zahira’s dark legacy was now their cross to bear, and it was a burden they would carry for the rest of their lives.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the room, Halima and Fatima finally rose from their seats. They would take the first step together, as they always had, into the unknown. The path ahead was uncertain, filled with darkness and doubt, but they knew they had no choice but to follow it.
And somewhere, deep within the confines of the hospital, Zahira sat alone in her room, unaware of the storm that was about to break. The truth, once hidden, had been dragged into the light, and there would be no going back. The monster within her had been revealed, and now, there was no telling what would come next.
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