A/N If any of you have read my X rated books, you'll know that I'm raunchy as hell. Not being able to drop some smut in this story is killing me. 😩 I'm considering making a separate book for The Adventures of Kwamé and Nya (I might even call it that). What do you guys think? 677Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbML9Efo12G
677Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDaD4X4vouM
I'm also doing some studies through the summer, so I might not update as regularly as you'd like. 😢 Sorry guys.
***
I've never felt this much tension around someone else in my entire life. As I walk around the house, ever so often passing Kwamé in the kitchen, the living room, etc. I can feel the tension building. I'm very sure that he knows what I did in the shower, and every time I pass, he gives me this look, a look that says he's tired of fighting. He's giving up.
Good.
It's honestly getting intense, though. Every time he looks at me with that desire mixed with anger, I melt just a little bit more. My tummy is clenching in anticipation. It's so bad that I feel the urge to throw up. It's painful, but I don't know where to start when it comes to relieving it.
Kwamé can more than relieve it.
But he doesn't want to.
Oh please, throw yourself at him and he'll cave like a bitch.
But he'll regret it after.
So? Who cares?
I care. The last thing that I want is for things to fall apart between Kwamé and myself. I'd rather have him as a friend than nothing.
"F*ck me," I groan as I stand by the fridge, the anticipation and indecisiveness boiling inside me. It just slips out, and my heart drops to somewhere by my liver when I look up and see Kwamé looking at me in wide eyed surprise, the oil in the frying pan sizzling around the slices of plantain. Embarrassed? Yes. I don't know if I could have chosen worse words or timing, and now, I'm faced with the task of explaining this to him.
"Uh, ahh... I didn't mean--"
"I know," he murmurs just as the pressure cooker begins to whistle. I already know what he's cooking; the smell of ox tail coming from the pot makes my mouth water.
"Get a plate," he tells me in a relatively okay voice. He's calming down. He opens another pot, and I see that it's rice and peas with broad beans and escallion. He shares out the food for me, a soft smile on his face. "Watch out for pimento," he tells me as I open the fridge for barbecue sauce. "And don't scorch the inside of your mouth like last time."
"I'll use the sauce to cool it down," I tell him with a roll of my eyes.
"Just trying to help," he says. I go out to the living room to sit, food on tray, and he follows me. At least he's not avoiding me like last time, when he ran away. Then again, it's hard to avoid someone when you're living in their house.
He could have eaten somewhere else, like the kitchen, or by the dining table. He chose to eat with you.
That's my inside voice, trying to convince me that Kwamé wants me as badly as I want him. She's trying to coerce me into attempting to seduce Kwamé, as if I know anything about the art of seduction. I'm asocial and cold, and Kwamé is friendly and wonderful. There's no way I can pull it off.
Don't be so negative.
"Thank you," I say to Kwamé as I take my first bite, trying to sound calm, as if I'm not internally having a full blown conversation in my head.
"No problem, hun." Hun... Just like that, my face begins to heat up again. He looks up and sees my expression, shaking his head. It's just a little movement, almost inperceptable, but I see it. It makes me feel embarrassed, but not embarrassed enough to shut up.
"Kwamé..." I have no idea where to start. I have some very strong feelings for him, and I know that they're not entirely one sided.
"I know, Nya," he says, a look of pity on his face. Why is he pitying me? I mean, yeah, my life might be going to complete and utter shit right now, but that's not anything to pity me over, right?
Maybe it's a sign, a sign that things won't always be so perfect. Maybe, he's trying to tell me something.
"You're not leaving, are you?" I ask him, not even realising that the thought has caused me to panic until. I hear it in my own voice.
"No," he reassures me, "I'm not." He takes his knife and fork, and starts cutting away, eating as if there isn't the impending subject of our feelings hanging in the air. I don't know if he's trying to stall, or if he just doesn't care.
"Kwamé, what are we?" I ask, because I'm not about to spend the whole day avoiding the uncomfortable. He might be up for that, but I don't like this kind of tension. I'd rather just get it out of the way.
"Friends," he tells me, the answer coming out as if he had prepared it, practiced it. It's as if he stood in front of a mirror, imagined me asking the question, and said "friends" until it sounded just right to him.
In other words, it sounds too perfect, rehearsed.
Maybe that's just me, maybe I'm being paranoid.
"There's something else," I state the obvious, because we aren't "just friends". "Just friends" don't miss the way Kwamé and i kissed. "Just friends" don't share the looks that Kwamé and I have been giving each other for the vast few hours. "Just friends" don't want the things that I want from Kwamé, and the things he probably wants from me, too.
"What do you want from me, Nya?" he asks me. I just stare at him like I'm stupid, afraid of what he'll say if I tell him, as if he doesn't know already. This confuses me, though because why would he ask if he already knows my feelings? I'm very sure that he knows exactly how I feel, what with him vaguely making reference to it on multiple occasions.
"I want to hear you say it out loud."
What an ass, I think to myself. My affection for him is embarrassing enough, and I have this fear that even though my feelings aren't one sided, he'll reject me or do something that he'll later regret, because a) his feelings aren't as strong as mine, and b) he's Kwamé, and trying to protect me from himself -- as if that's even necessary -- seems to be one of his favourite pass times.
"What happened in the kitchen was a mistake," he tells me when I stay silent, and the words just about shatter my heart. "I won't let it happen again."
Well, that's hurtful. I feel dirty, as if I've just given away a piece of my soul, a piece that I'll never be able to retrieve. Rejection: its a painful thing to feel, to experience. Never really felt it before, because even as I've been rejected, I've never really cared. It never hit me before the way it's hitting me now.
"Was it really?" My voice wobbles as tears threaten to overflow, but I manage to keep them at bay. Not knowing what else to do, I continue eating as I wait for him to reply. He looks at me, remorse the main emotion in his grey eyes, but also... indecisiveness. He looks at me for a good 15 seconds before answering my question. I have to commend him for his honesty, because I was expecting a "Yes", but instead, I got the truth:
"I don't know."
"I want to be more than friends," I tell him, as if it wasn't painstakingly obvious already. This time, he doesn't reply, even after I look at him for a good 20 seconds, waiting for some reaction. He gives me none. I halfway didn't expect him to. He's trying to show his protest for the idea that I presented him with without hurting my feelings. What he doesn't know is that his silence hurts my feelings. Maybe he knows, and this us his firm of damage control. We finish our food in silence. Afterwards, he offers to wash the plates, which I let him do before retreating to my bedroom.
***
Silver is a good distraction from Kwamé. So are books. He's still in my mind, but he's a background thought, rather than at the forefront of my mind, being the main subject of my every thought.
"You're mama's little baby," I tell her as I scratch her neck. She closes her eyes, and cuddles into my lap. I occupy my other hand by turning the pages of the book that I bought -- Plays For Today -- as I realise that this man is a genius. Why don't they put on productions like this one more often? Jamaica has this practice of putting on these simplistic plays, many times comedies, with no real qualities to make them special. Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with having these plays, but I'd prefer if there were productions of cultural significance, like this one, more often. 677Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡnITL2eqjND
677Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCZa4KZJQUM
If I were to write a play, I'd like to believe that it would be something like this. I don't realise how long I've been reading until I realise that I'm squinting to see the page. That would be because it's dark, and not enough light is coming in through the window. As I look up, my stomach growls, because the last time that I ate was mid day with Kwamé. I pick up my phone to check the time. 6:17 p.m. Silver, being the precious little gem that she is, stayed with me the whole time. I consider turning on the light and continuing to read, versus getting up and eating, and the latter wins when I smell something amazing coming from outside, presumably the kitchen. It smells like chicken... barbecue... and pizza. I get up to go, but as I do, I smell copper, and a sent that I could recognise anywhere.
You know that moment where your heart sinks because you know that something awful has happened, but somewhere deep down, you're hoping that it isn't real? You don't want to confirm it, although it's inevitable. The closest thing to this that has happened before is when I first saw Kwamé, and I kept hoping that he wasn't real. This time it's different, though, because it's something that I should have foreseen. I remember promising myself that I'd wear panty shields every day, just to be extra clean. I stopped, though, because of how expensive they are. I should have continued, especially after Kwamé's prediction. As a result of my stupidity, I smell the stench of copper, the smell of blood. Deoxygenated blood. Period blood. The smell is enough to temporarily kill my appetite.
"F*ck my life," I mumble, as I get up and retrieve some new panties. There's a large red spot on the tiled floor, and I'm sure my sweatpants look awful, too. I go to the en suite to change, and as I look down on my now ruined sweatpants, thinking about the amount of soaking and blue powder it's going to take to clean them. One of my favourite pairs, too. I'm such a mess that I have to wash myself off before changing into my new panties and shorts. Even as I'm changing I think about the shit luck that I've been experiencing of late, since I met Akatua. Concerning the bad luck, I think she's more than worth it. She's been the most caring to me, and even with all of the arguments we've had, it's nice to have people who will look out for me. I walk out of the bathroom, my appetite somewhat returns. I open the door and walk outside with my dirty plate, utensils and tray, the smell of the food intensifying until I reach the kitchen.
"I thought that you might be hungry," he says as he takes a slice of pizza out of the box.
"I am." I walk up and open the box of wings and take out three, along with some dip. I also take out two slices of pizza, and put them on a plate. I don't know why, but I didn't expect Kwamé to be the pizza eating kind of person. It's probably because of his age.
People adapt, I remind myself.
Just like how you should adapt to be a seductress. What's the worst that can happen?
A lot. He can reject me. Our friendship could become strained. He might start to distance himself from me. That's too much to risk.
You were contemplating tying him.
I wouldn't have, though. I wouldn't have had the guts to do it, even if he were human, I wouldn't have. I'm not that kind of person. I watch him as he eats and looks off into the distance, seemingly lost in thought. Maybe he's wondering about our present state, like myself. He scratches his chin a little bit, before licking the side of his mouth.
"How long are you going to stare at me, Nya?" he asks as he leans against the counter, not bothering to look at me directly. I don't answer his question. Instead, I start to eat, right there in the kitchen. It's a case where once I start, I can't stop. I pretty much inhale the food while Kwamé looks at me in wonder.
"Is this a habit of yours?" he asks me.
"What?" I ask around a full mouth of food.
"Not eating until you're starving, and then vacuuming the food off of the plate." It actually is something that I do often, and I open my mouth to explain it to him, but instead of words, a sneeze comes out. I cover my mouth with my elbow just in time, but I feel a large lump of nastiness exit my birth canal as I do.
Man, I hate periods.
I look up at him, prepared to speak again, when it hits me. A large wave of pain in my abdomen. I have to clutch the counter as I resist the urge to double over in pain. It's not something that I've ever experienced before, so at first, I have no idea what it is. I think about all of the possibilities, my sudden bout of unlucky-ness, as well as the fact that I'm on my period. The answer comes to me a little bit later than it should.
Cramps.
I've never had menstrual cramps before, something that I was always grateful for, especially when I saw my Foster mother on her period. Gweneth Williamson had the worst experience that I have ever seen anyone have with periods, probably in part due to her having endometriosis. Yes, that was definitely a factor. It was the one thing that I pitied her for. Never knew that I'd pity myself in this regard.
I move to go to the couch to sit down, only to hear Kwamé say behind me: "Sitting makes it worse."
I brush him off, because what could he possibly know about periods? I mean, yeah, he's over three hundred years old, but so what?
I sit in the couch, and in that moment, I realise why they say that you should listen to your elders -- can't believe that I'm looking at Kwamé that way -- because as soon as I sit, the pain in my abdomen seems to double, if not triple.
"Told you," he mumbles, when I groan. Why is he being an ass? He goes to the kitchen, takes something out of the cupboard, and gets some water from the water dispenser/mini fridge. I get up and go to the counter, because I need something to hold, to Lean on. I stare at the ground, the pain coming in waves. First, my right, then, my left. After that, it finds its way so far back, it's around my asshole. I clutch onto the counter as it hits me repeatedly. I find myself wondering what I've ever done to deserve this. It's similar to the thoughts that I had when I sliced my hand and saw Kwamé through the window. I mentally ask the universe why. Why me? What did I do wrong? I promise I'll do better, if--
"Here you go," Kwamé says to me, handing me two small tablets -- ibuprofen -- and a glass of water. "This is what Akatua uses on the rare occasion that she has them."
"Thanks," I tell him, putting the pills in my mouth and raising the glass to my head. He looks at me as if waiting for something to happen, and as I swallow some of the water -- and the tablets -- it splashes in my face, some of it making its way up my nose.
"For f*ck's sake!" I hiss, before grabbing a napkin from the counter and trying to expel the water from my nose.
"With time, you'll learn how to control it," he tells me as if he's some guru, some spiritual guide to help me on my path to self discovery. In a way, he is.
"I wish that time would come sooner," I tell him, grumble more like, before setting the cup down. I don't really know what is going on, but I know that if it isn't explained to me soon, I'm going to blow.
***
I'm thirsty. It's what wakes me up at 3:26 in the morning, the need to stop a feeling akin to sandpaper in my mouth. I rise much like a zombie, crust sealing my eyes shut. I literally have to pry open my left eye because my left eyelids aren't strong enough to do the job themselves. Checking the bed is a must before leaving the room, and luckily, there's no blood on the sheets. It's a good thing I decided to wear a pad and a tampon to sleep last night, something that I do to deter leaking due to my heavy flow. I stumble, almost falling on my face several times as I go to the kitchen. It's partly because the ground is wet. I don't pay much attention to it, though. I'm too thirsty. I reach the water dispenser, and drink four large glasses of water, gulp them so fast, my throat hurts. I drink it as if I won't be seeing water again, as if I'm a camel in the desert, as if I don't live in a house with water, because even after I'm no longer thirsty I continue to drink. The feeling that I get is soothing beyond belief, despite the pain that I now feel. I rub it, trying to soothe it from the outside, as my sleepy mind becomes more and more aware if the situation. I look down and I see that I'm standing in water. Everywhere is wet. It's as if there was a continuous stream of water coming from different parts of the house, coming together and ending in front of my bed. Coming to me. I was thirsty. I wanted water... I bump into the couch, waking Kwamé, who's light snoring comes to an end.
"Nya?" he asks as his eyes open. "What's wrong?"
I don't know what to say to him; I blink. Several times. When no words come to my mind, I use my body to answer him. I point at the ground, and watch a look of concern and understanding cross his face. Understanding. He knows what's going on. As for me? I know that it has to do with my water powers, but apart from that, I don't know what's going on. I'm in the dark, and I feel... confused. Left out. Angry.
I don't know what to tell him, because I don't know what's going on. All I know is that my house is flooded with water which came from the pipes -- leaked from the pipes -- and came to me, like some freaky horror movie crap, and I know it has something to do with whatever Akatua won't tell me about the river mummas and myself. Kwamé looks at me, before saying something that I would have never expected him to say.
"I'm calling Akatua."
I wonder if this time I'll get something out of her, an answer. She should know better than to not answer me at this point. I find myself thinking the same thing I thought last night: if it isn't explained to me soon, I'm going to blow.
I hope to God I don't blow. I have a feeling that things will get a lot worse if I do.
***677Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBih2vwXHo9
677Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgHEBSKZBH7
A/N I don't know how to feel about this chapter. 😕 Let me know what you think.
~ Aliyah 💋
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