The Bride Who Murdered Her Groom: A Stories Collection

Beautiful and sharp-witted, Sophia Solochi—blamelessly eighteen—understands that she must not ever fall in love. If she does, any peculiar man she has adored will not live what will befall him. In unquestionable words, he will die. Fast. Surely. And frightfully. Why would he perish, you may marvel? Sophia, also true with her female descent, is cursed. Any lad whom she falls for is destined to yield up his ghost in her very own arms and care. When she moves with her mother to Brownton to begin a fresh and unimpaired life, far away from their ancient calamities and sorrows, the worst things imaginable happen to them. Sophia cannot resist falling in love with Alex Ramirez, a strikingly handsome but in-a-short-time to-be Engineering postgraduate at Brownton University. Here, whilst pursuing a Fashion and Designing degree, she furtively repeats the self-same pursuit and engagement that effected insufferable agony and bitterness in her bygone days. Falling in love is extremely perilous, she


18. Old Memories

“Sophia, you sound a speck cheerless and forlorn. Are you okay there? I mean is there anything hideous and unsightly which is happening there and which I myself I am not aware of?”


That was Kris. My sweetheart and charming most mother. I was missing her big time. How I wished that I could come face to face with her right now and see her and have a discussion with her and in addition to that cuddle her in my arms lovingly and cheerfully when I felt sky-scraping and soaring high enough to do that. Yes, it was what I wanted to do so very much. For real.


“I am fine, mother. Truthfully speaking. I am as fit and alright and full of beans as a kicking horse. How are you yourself there where you are?”


“Apprehensive about you, honey.”


“Well, you shouldn’t now that you know that I am fine, right?”


“If you say so…”


I cut her short immediately. “Mother, I am perfectly fine. There is no need for you to worry about me, you get it?”


“I do get it, Sophia.”


“Thank you very much then.”


They say that men are from Mars…and women are from where, huh? Pluto, Jupiter, or Saturn? Where exactly? Everyone knows accurate the answer to that, I deduce. It is familiar with almost anyone that women are from Venus. Now, can two people take a stroll together without there being accord and conformity between both parties? Certainly not! A crow and a sea horse cannot be best buddies and allies except there be some way for them to exchange a few words and furthermore take pleasure in the companionship and camaraderie of each other. The same was true with I myself and Alvin. Except we be at good stipulations and harmony with each other, our relationship was definitely bound to getting nowhere at all.


I sat down in the living room, uncomplainingly and serenely, while waiting for Alvin to show up from work already. Was he coming any soon? Of course he had to. But didn’t he say in the morning that one of the key reasons as to why he was not taking me out for dinner was because he had cargos and stacks of work to do and that he would come back from his job a bit late in time? Yeah…whatever. If he was going to chime the door bell at spot-on midnight or whatsoever hour pretty late in the night or even quite early in the morning, then that was it! I could do nothing at all about it. Totally nothing at all.


My memories wandered to the first ever dinner date that I had in my life. I was only sixteen years old and this introverted and demure and shrinking away from boys. I found it predominantly bizarre though. I was almost at all times attracted to the big and further-up-the-ladder—or senior—boys. Boys who were three or four or perhaps five years older than I was. Regrettably enough, they did not pursue and show concentration toward me that very much. Okay, they did most of the time to be specific, but then, it was nothing more than you-are-remarkably-pretty-girl-and-we-would-like-to-bash-you-in-that-good-and-pleasurable-style-but-sorry-girl-we-are-not-coming-after-you-because-you-have-those-grubby-lot-of-underaged-boys-swooning-all-over-around-you-and-watching-every-speck-and-crumb-of-things-that-is-coming-to-pass-in-your-life-right-now.


André Filch was my first ever date. He was the guy who took me out on my first ever dinner date. He was not outstandingly taller than I was but he was this smart and brainy and very strong and every inch powerfully-built. I didn’t date him because I liked him or anything like that. I never liked a small piece of him. Not that he wasn’t handsome and nice-looking with some worth-mentioning and gorgeous eminence to adore about him. He was the whore of an adolescent, far worse than anyone I had ever seen whoring around before. He was known in school for cheating on limitless girls—all from our very selfsame school—and many times he was caught by students or teachers having sex with these girls in just about every obscured and worst ever thinkable place.


Then why did I date him, you may be wondering?


I wanted to fit in with the mob and mass. Simply that. At Rosewood Junior High, if you didn’t have either a boyfriend or a girlfriend or dating totally not anyone at all, then you were not worth the companionship and amity and alliance of any of the students there. Teachers, principally male ones, went out with their pupils and scholars like me in turn hanged about and flirted and dated and made love to their dons in that usual and demonstrative way. It was a widespread and up-to-the-standard thing here. And boy, did the parents to these students know what they were getting their children into by putting their names down them at such a corrupt and with worry to decency mold-grown institute? I do not know.


Before I accepted André’s proposal, I was presented with three other options by the grouping of girls that I wanted to sprawl about with. If I met up their conditions and prerequisites, I could only then become licensed and certified to become package and packet of their ‘Pink Fairies’ bunch of model and mock-up hooligans and also limitlessly take pleasure in their pleasing and congenial company. It all seemed like great fun being ingredient and element of this good-girl-gone-bad lobby group. But later on I learned that it was not any first-rate and ceaseless fun in any smidgen of way. To date, those are the most appalling and unpleasant days that I am ashamed of in my life. If only I could turn around time and go back to wipe and chafe them off. I possibly cannot!


Besides from André, there were three other boys whom I had to pick my date from. There was Charles Bong—lofty in height and scrawny and tattooed all over his hands and feet and arms, and he what’s more liked to be addressed by his cinematic-sounding-like moniker ‘The Scrawny, Greatest of Them All Dragon.’ What an extensive, lackluster, and unintelligent name! If he would have dubbed himself ‘Larva Sputterer’, I would have nodded my head in ideal and in toto agreement. Aren’t you of the matching mind with me? Why did I turn him down then?


First, he was dumb. A dim-witted asshole. Second, he was so skinny he looked like he was suffering from a not-curable type of malnutrition. This guy got through like mad five sets of pizza every lunch time mind you; he slurped and imbibed five liters of coke each day—all on his own without ever bothering to share it with anyone else; he filled to capacity and squeezed together and compressed and pinched lots and tons of biscuits, sweets, bars of chocolate, packs of milk, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera into his backpack. Every time of the day, every minute of it, every second and every iota, he was without fail chewing up and gnawing and nibbling and knocking back on something. Yes, even in the whole course of coaching and schooling before the very eyes and presence of tutors and professors and academics. They were used to his nuisance as a matter of fact. The boy was so obstinate and untouchable at the same time, all thanks to his stupid ‘The Scrawny, Greatest of Them All Dragon Fuji Yu Kung Fu Expertise.’ Which was? They feared and dreaded him and his ‘Dragons of Death’ bunch of criminals. They were the worst ever vicious and precarious gang in the entire school. They sure were. Without reservation.


One afternoon, just as we were about to knock off, I asked him why he never got so plump and obese notwithstanding his continuous and never-ending efforts of picking and getting on some piece of weight and heaviness. He laughed out at the top of his voice, to make known to me in the ultimate end, “It is a family bug, Sophia. Everyone looks just like me in my family. We are at all times this skinny and lean and skeleton looking. If we should play hide and seek and you happen to be in our companionship, you wouldn’t make out that a breathing human being is hiding behind that shroud and costume of some Halloween bloodcurdling outfit. You know what? My granddad even tells me that all my kids will look just like me if I don’t find a round, flabby and chunky non-Asian woman to walk down the aisle with.”


I cringed just at that alone. What? Suppose Charles and I get hitched to each other and we both give birth to emaciated, gaunt, half-starved and always famished looking children. That would be the worst ever living hell of a nightmare in all my life, wouldn’t it be? Of course, it surely would.


I liked Charles more for his jokey, witty side. He tries and attempts to make me laugh were never futile. He by no means cracked a joke that did not scratch and tickle me incessantly till I had busted a gut and laughed and crowed the living hell out of me. Oh yes. It was what drew me to him and nothing else. For his weird and out of the ordinary short of balanced growth and development, I couldn’t go out with him like I did with André.


 Next there was Rafael Pwele. This one was quite dark skinned and very, very handsome. My God. I couldn’t believe that he could be so drop-dead and be breathing and existent at the same time he was. Girls gossiped and nattered about him endlessly. They even whipped and pinched photos of him whenever they could just so to post and circulate them publicly on their Face-book walls. A ‘Rafael: The Man Made of Ice-Cream’ page was already in the workings and mechanism and it was fast pacing up to as high as sixty thousand likes in just a matter and room of two years time!


What? Of course. Rafael was by now a Face-book pop idol in his own right, winning and bewitching as countless girls as came to set eyes on him. One picture taken by an elderly fiancée of his in which he posed in his black and snug-fitting underwear and a sexy white basic shirt on top of that had gone so viral and feral that it magnetized and generated 100K (or thousand) likes and 15K (000) shares of it in just one month only until it was gotten rid of and taken down online. For that, Rafael was close to getting fined for the allocation and distribution of a pornographic-correlated picture of him on social media by our home authorities, which was all made illegal and ruled out by the decrees and regulations of the country itself.


With his dazing and stupefying six packs and torso and bulk and being, he took away my breath every time that I saw him, mesmerizing and hypnotizing me. I stood there stagnant and stationery, yes, just like still and torpid water, marveling and making remediless sheep’s eyes at him. Of course, I had been irremediably and infirmly and wildly and confusedly entranced and enamored by him. Like I was under some All Powerful and Invincible hocus-pocus, juggle-juggler, higgledy-piggledy sort of spell cast on him to an unprotected and impotent me. Or was I under his lust magic spell?


The first time that Rafael orated his first word to me, I was astonished and entranced and enthralled at the same time that I could barely believe that it was him in person and being and subsistence talking to an unprolific and tame and inauspicious and pitiable and ill-starred and indifferent and wretched me. Was he actually? Of course, he was.


“Hello there, quiet and charming beauty. What is your name? I am Rafael Pwele myself,” he orated whilst he positioned his face and eyes toward me in that decoying and cajoling manner that I could but find to be delightful and seemly and amusing.


I chuckled trivially and frivolously at him, suddenly beginning to feel that I was starting to sparkle and glitter and bubble and effervesce and foam and froth and twinkle with chivalric and stoic and self-controlled energy and being itself. This was the kind of a man whose companionship and attendance I would revel and relish in to the very last bit and jot and atom and mite. Of course, I do mean what I am saying with concern to this.


“Won’t you tell me your name, fair girl?” He insisted and demanded to my urge and impulse. Oh no! Did I have to disclose my name to him? Of course yes. Not that it was going to be an unwonted and unaccustomed condition if he should ever tell and reveal my name by one means or another. He would not. He assuredly would. Whichever was whatsoever here, he had to know it and be aware of it now he must, willy-nilly.


“I am Sophia Solochi. That is my name, Rafael.”


“Oh. What a cutely and sweet-sounding name!” He was trying to be too flattery and buttering up with me, wasn’t he? Of course, that was what he was seeking to settle and transact about. That and nothing else. Men and their flattery…


Rafael and I became friends. Excellently and choicest buddies and pals. We rarely did ever meet and talk, but when we did, it was like the excellently and first and foremost thing in the entire world in our outlook and standpoint. His eyes glowed and flamed with such intense and unimpeachable passion and affection at me, showing how so hot-blooded and impassioned and enthusiastic and hot-headed he was about me. Sadly and most lucklessly, I did not feel the striking same and eccentric for him. Why did I not have that selfsame liking and proneness toward him as well? Well…it was just all the mazy and interweaved and twined and laced in complexity and entanglement. Holy crow! What a plight and scenario and state and condition this was indeed! Oh darn…damn a poor wretched me indeed, wasn’t it so? Whatsoever.


Rafael wasn’t the kind of guy and scarecrow who took his life and school and activities any seriously and thoughtfully. He was…sham and at pretence and imposition and conceited with everything that he did. A shadow and adumbration and silhouette of everything that he did. Damn! What an umbra and penumbra he was! In life, as a woman, you need a man who is earnest and pious and thoughtful and staid with whatever it is that he is doing. If you do not meet one, what better thing than to stay isolated and forsaken and companionless. Being lonely and deserted and solitary is better than venom disguised in milk company. Yeah. It is better than undergoing and enduring great pain and agony later on. I liked it better that way in my vista and prospect, don’t you in yours?


What about the third guy? Tendai Thole he was. Swart-skinned, a darling and favorite idol of mine at one time or another, dastardly and cowering in the face of danger and ever daunted and frightened faced at meeting the bigger and stronger rival boys eye to eye. My, my. What a prick of a man this was.


If you as a woman or girl or whatever opt for a mishap-blenching and cowering man, one who becomes distracted and crazed and deranged at meeting the unknown and the scary, know that you have adduced and allotted and assigned manly and specifically-designed-for-masculine-drudgery responsibilities and feats to yourself. That was what Tendai would be like to me.


I scowl; I frown; I make a face to myself. Is Alvin by now still on his way back home or what? Which was which? Men and their mischievous and annoying and impish behavior. Are all good men gone and vanished out of this world of ours so that we are left with only the miserly and niggardly and sordid and stingy and tight-fisted ones? I did not know at all.


Women—I am one myself don’t you forget—are too groaning and grouching and bewailing and grieving about almost no enigma or disreputable thing at all, don’t you think so? Of course, I myself do think so. In fact, that was what I was doing perfectly and apparently well. Grumbling and bewailing and lamenting and whining about no existing puzzle and theorem at all. Damn me too!


“Am I interfering with some serious and critical thoughts?” A sneaky, skulking voice echoed from somewhere in the living room where I was settled and sitted quietly all by myself. I looked about, quickly and hurriedly, and then snapped my eyes straight at him…Alvin Morgan. I flushed and brighted and glowed with utter excitement and bustle and flutter that precise moment. Yes. He had at long last showed up, hadn’t he?


“Alvin. You are back home at long last. I mean, I am so thrilled and startled to see you here once again. I am happy that you are finally and eventually here. This comes from the very bottom of my heart, I cross my heart on it.”


His eyes were spellbound and bewitched and entranced. It was like he saw something lovely and charming and exquisite and fair. Something like what? Ah hoo! I now identified what that was. My beautiful and comely dress. The moment he had taken notice of it and beheld it, he had been so enchanted and transported into blissful and ravishing thoughts by it that he couldn’t help and alleviate it. Oh yes he couldn’t.


Hellish. Nefarious. Satanic. That was the imagery and phantom of him that I had in mind. I did my uttermost best to efface and scrape it away…but I just couldn’t succeed. When was I ever going to discern and see him the regular and tolerable way? When exactly? Damn it!


“You are dressed elegantly and stylishly tonight,” he voiced out—to me in particular that was. The abysmal enchantment and charm and absorption in his eyes didn’t seem like it was going to ebb away any moment soon. Not at all. He walked toward me wearily and jadedly—which I gauged for a sign that his had been cumbersome and grievous and laborious work to do for the day. Don’t you think so?


“You seem languid and shaky. From the weary work that you have had to do that is. Aren’t you of the same opinion with me?”


“Of course, Sophia. I am of the same mind and conception and tenet with you. I am so tired and in a fag right now. But that doesn’t mean that I have no any peculiar and express time for you. That is not what that signifies.”


“Oh,” I muttered, not wishing or willing to go any further than that. The splendor and brilliance and refulgence and éclat and stateliness in his eyes. It was consuming and devouring me helplessly. Oh no. He was coming that much closer to me, wasn’t he? Of course, he sure and definitely was.


My mind sought to contrive and hatch ways to get away from him. Not that I did not lust or have an itching for him. I assuredly did. I wanted him as much more as I yearned for my next and subsequent breath, as much as I thirsted and craved for a happy and woe-free life. Oh yes. I had already carried too much jargon and lingo of adversity and hardships and misfortunes and ado. It was all just too much and unbearable to bear.


His lips swept and mopped over mine, his tongue scrubbing and purging and rinsing every scrap and mite of mine, his saliva alloying and mingling and compounding and muddling up with mine. Ah. The electricity feel-like of his touch and slight graze, the fire and zeal and passion in his kisses and hugs. It was all reality razing and demolishing. The world and environment about me dissolved and thawed and melted…and there I stood in seventh heaven, all blithe and sprightly and jocund and extremely elated.


He grasped and latched on to me the more firm and bold, proceeding on to scour and rake his lips against mine in that loveable and gratifying way that I could not rebuff and stand against. Pleasant and sweet wickedness it was. One that would end bitterly and dolefully and disastrously. “Ah,” I aired and gulped out, bursting and exploding into this one great squall of pleasure and ecstasy.


I laid hold of his back, sliding and moving smoothly my hands down him until I had accidentally and unexpectedly located his behind. My goodness. It was mushy and squashy like and delectable and enjoyable to come to contact with. A deluge and cataclysm of ravishment and pleasure rent through me—deep inside my body that is—routing and quelling and overpowering any emotion that I had ever known to have being inside me.


He thrust and shoved himself on me, seizing me the more tight and kissing me the more ardently and fiercely. Oh—oh! The gusto and relish and indulgence and satisfaction was too great and huge for me to uphold and sustain. I gave in to the delicacy and lusciousness, groaning and moaning softly in uttermost joy and ravishment. Oh…no! This was too much of a sweet him, wasn’t it? Of course, it definitely was.


He started to undo my dress. Chantal butted in at us right that moment, jabbing and spearing the floor with her high heels clinked and clanked noisily and piercingly. My goodness. Where was it that the two of us were headed to? Sleeping with each other in the selfsame and ditto bed, right? That was quite sophisticated and illogical of me, wasn’t it? I was still in love with Alex Ramirez and here I was, on the brink and verge of almost having sex with a different and incompatible man. Damn me for it.


Why is it that a man can sleep and fool around with any distinct and dissimilar girl that he likes and in the very end walk away freely and unpunished from it? But if you do the same to him as a woman, huh, you will regret ever being born with breasts and a vagina itself. Why is it like that? Huh, why exactly?


No doubt that Alex had slept with that gorgeous and tremendously drop-dead girl. And by relishing intercourse with Alvin, was that my way and manner of throwing and hurling my fierce vengeance at him? Damn everything. Being a woman in this world! It is at times exceptionally painful and shameful and disgraceful too. Women are the most delicate and exquisite creatures in the entire realm of mankind…but also the most sneered and jeered at and pitilessly set upon. Why? Why exactly?


“Sophia…Alvin,” Chantal’s eyes wandered from him to I myself. She wasn’t expecting this. Neither was I myself. And now…what was going to happen next, huh? What precisely?


“Sophia, I wanted to confer with you in private. Will you follow me please?”


“Sure, Chantal.” I looked at Alvin. He was bashful and embarrassed with himself. Not for what he had been doing with me. But what Chantal, his mother—unbeknown to him—had just come across. He voiced not a word or a slight murmur as I went after her, scared of what lay before me and shamefaced on the other hand.


Once we were in retreat and seclusion, she turned sharply to me and snapped in a hushed and whispered tone, “Don’t tell me you were on the verge of almost sleeping with my son, Sophia.”


“We were just kissing, Chantal.”


“Kissing solely?”




“Your hands were on his…backside. He was about to undress and strip you naked when I walked in. You call that kissing, Sophia. Be straightforward with me please, will you?”


“You are right. Something was about to happen between me and Alvin. But then you walked in, disturbing and cutting short everything.”


“And if I had not walked in?”


“I don’t know, Chantal.”


“If you ever dare to sleep with my son too soon, you will kill him, Sophia. The curse will not spare any man whom you sleep with before it is broken. You hear that?”


I nodded immediately. It came as a shocker and jolt of astonishment on my part. If I ever did sleep with a particular man, I was ill-starred to kill and destroy him. Oh no. What would have been the now if I had made love with Alex that particular day he urged me on to go to bed with him in Maxwell’s apartment?   











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