How Unfortunate

Something heavy and suffocating enveloped Kupela. She tried to scream, but something was lodged in her throat. She could move her limbs, and God bless her, she flailed them as much as she could, but whatever darkness that had taken her body would only continue to leave her blind. She couldn’t breathe, her heart thumping so hard she felt as though it would explode out of her chest. She could hear him coming, his heavy footfalls coming up the stairs and towards the room she found herself captive in. He was so close and she felt powerless to even let out the scream that was so desperately trying to crawl its way up her throat. When the door slammed open, her mouth parted in a pitiful attempt at a silent cry, tears running down the soft ridges of her face and wetting the mattress below.

When large, rough hands grabbed at her shoulders, the scream finally tore through, making her terror known for anyone unfortunate enough to be near the scene.

“Kupela!”

Arm wrapped around her body, lifting her up slightly and ready to squeeze the breath out of her like a snake choking his prey. “LET ME GO!” Kupela screamed at the top of her lungs, kicking and flailing until the arms finally released her. She lunged forward to escape his oncoming grasp, only to find that the ground beneath her had disappeared.

That was how Kupela found herself slamming face first into the rough carpet. Those hand— those careful, yet exhausted and impatient hands— helped her back onto the bed, bringing her close to the chest of her husband and near the gentle murmurs that assured her that it was all just a dream. Mohammed embraced her, rocking back and forth and wiping the tears from her cheeks with a swipe of his thumb. “Mohammed?” His name left Kupela’s lips in a hoarse groan, her terror slowly being ushered out by an intense shame. “Mohammed…” She buried her face in his tank top, ruining it for the night with her sweat and her tears. “God, I’m so sorry,” she whimpered. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Her husband didn’t respond, taking her apology and continuing to coddle her night terrors away with his experienced murmurs of love and comfort.

This had to have been the third time this week where her night terrors had her waking up drenched in sweat. As a grown woman, she knew she should have been able to handle her own problems, and yet even with Mohammed now sleeping in a separate room, he was still having to run up the stairs to keep her from hurting herself.

After he had reached his hand over to turn on the lamp, Kupela was able to clearly outline the sleeplessness she had caused him. She couldn’t help but feel as though she was hurting him more than she would hurt herself in some episodes. On the day he had asked for her hand, he had promised her that he would always stay by her side, but she didn’t blame him for forcing himself to sleep separately only a year later.

Once Kupela’s tears had subsided, she pulled away, shame stinging at her cheeks and keeping her eyes damp and to the floor. She continued to mutter apologies under her breath, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed and burying her face in her hands. Mohammed rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his palm. “Want me to lay with you?” he asked her sincerely, patting the side of the bed that once belonged to him. Both knew she wouldn’t be sleeping for the rest of the night.

Her eyes flicked to the digital clock on the nightstand. It was only one in the morning.

“I’m going to do some work,” Kupela sighed, removing herself from the bed and leaving the room. “Get some sleep.” She couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eye, only hoping that with her gone, he could get some peace and quiet. At the door, she had to take a moment. “I love you.”

There was a pause.

“I love you, too.”

With that reassurance on her mind, she left to the small living room that had been set up with a desk, lamp, several boxes used to organize her work, and a couch in case she stayed up far too late— a common occurrence. Letting out a silent yawn, Kupela proceeded to wander over to the small fridge and prop it open, shielding her eyes for a moment to spare herself from the fridge’s glow. Finding some plantains and rice from a couple nights ago, she tossed it into the microwave and watched it spin. She took this time to compose herself and forget what had just happened, despite it being far more than a weekly happening. The timer drained, and the brief moment between the device beeping and her opening the small door, she could see herself in the dark glass. Black circles underlined her eyes and her usually well-kept mane of hair was a rat’s nest with all the tossing and turning she’d done in her sleep. She would fix it later. For now, she just needed to get some work done and wait for morning to come.

Bringing her bowl back to the desk, she settled down with an exhausted sigh, once more rubbing at her eyes as she sorted through a few boxes. She wasn’t allowed to take files from the police station, obviously, but it never stopped her from copying the information and some of the pictures, even if she had to make sure no one was watching. After taking a moment to stretch, she found herself hunched over her table as usual, tired eyes reading over some of the reports with the precision as a fully aware detective. For years she slaved over this case— she was so close to catching the bastard she could almost taste it.

As was the nature of ritual, she found herself taking out the only police sketch available and pinning it to the small cork board propped on her desk. The Shell Shock Skinner, as the media had excitedly dubbed him.

As was the MO, he struck every month, and when he did, there was no doubting whose work it had been. Strips of flesh were peeled off bone at random, their bodies mutilated, and yet that was never the most worrying thing. It was their eyes. Their expressions were always spared from the blade, contorted in a silent scream while their gaze seemed to fixate on something in the distance, forever afraid of what had come to hunt them. For five years this had continued, and despite having led fruitless searches, she knew in her heart that she was close to busting this case wide open.

Only one witness had ever come to describe him, and it was the face she pinned up every time she came to work over all hours of the night. A caucasian with a thin, sunken face and black hair, his shoulders drooped low in a way that almost made him seem as tired as she felt right now. One of the distinctive features was a scar that ran sideways across the bridge of his nose, caused by the brave witness landing a blow on him and escaping. Even to this day, she found herself inspecting faces carefully, looking for that scar. The killers’ eyes locked onto hers, soulless and unfeeling. This was the nature of police sketches, but when she looked into these carefully outlined orbs, she couldn’t help but feel a primal sense of fear within her. Fear that what she was working on for so long would be pointless in the end. Her fear always turned to hatred and disgust in the end, and it was this that kept her going.

As Kupela opened up the file of the newest victim, her phone rang out. Taking it up and pressing it to her ear, she greeted whomever was on the other end. “This is Detective Abebe. Talk to me.”

“Already awake, I see?” came the voice of the captain, Winston. “No surprise there.” His small attempt at humor was responded to with a fake chuckle.

“Is everything alright?” Kupela questioned, wanting to get to the point.

There was silence for a moment as the tone of the call began to sour.

“Get to the station,” Winston told her. It was not a request. “You’re going to want to see this.”