He just stared at me, blood dripping down his chin.
“You were blessed with twin daughters, Shamir. Identical twins. You know how rare that is? How special?” My jaw tightened. “And what did you do with that blessing? You abused them. Controlled them. Beat them. Humiliated them. Then threw them away like they wasn’t nothing.”
“They were disobedient—they brought shame?—”
I slapped him so hard the chair rocked back on two legs.
“Don’t.” I grabbed his face, fingers digging into his cheeks, forcing him to look at me. “Don’t you dare try to justify that shit to me. You ain’t a man of God. You’re a coward who hides behindreligion to control women because you too weak to earn respect any other way.”
Tears streamed down his face. “Please… I’m sorry…”
“You sorry?” I let go of his face and laughed. “Nah. You ain’t sorry. You scared. Big difference.”
I stood up, paced around the little office, let him marinate in his fear.
“You know what happened to your daughters after you threw them out?” I asked, my back to him.
“I don’t?—”
“They went to the only place they could. Meech. The boy you ain’t want Zahara with.” I turned around. “And you know what that nigga did? Cheated on her. Gave her an STD while she was pregnant with your grandson. Asked both of them for a threesome. Tried to assault Zainab when she was alone.”
His face twisted into something ugly.
“That’s what your choices led to. That’s the life you pushed them into.” I walked toward him. “And it got worse. Way worse. But you don’t deserve to know the rest. You don’t deserve to know how they suffered. What they survived. What they built in spite of you trying to destroy them.”
“Please…” His voice was barely there now. “I have money. Whatever you want. Just let me go.”
“I already told you.” I crouched down so we was eye level. “This ain’t about money.”
I stood and drove my fist into his gut. Once. Twice. Three times. He folded over as much as the tape allowed, gagging and wheezing.
“That’s for beating them.”
Grabbed his head and slammed it into my rising knee. Felt his nose crack.
“That’s for violating them in front of your wives.”
Stepped back and watched him sob and bleed and choke on his own fluids.
“And this?” I wrapped my hand around his throat. “This is for throwing them away like trash.”
I punched him dead in his windpipe. Hard. Felt the cartilage collapse under my knuckles.
He made a wet, horrible sound—mouth opening and closing, eyes bulging, face going from red to purple as he tried to breathe through a crushed airway. Panic took over his whole body, thrashing against the tape, fighting for air that wasn’t coming.
Part of me wanted to watch him die. Let him feel the same helplessness his daughters felt when he threw them into the street with nothing.
But nah.
Death was too easy. Too quick.
I wanted him to suffer. For years. The way Zainab and Zahara suffered.
I pulled my knife—always kept one on me—and tilted his head back. His eyes was wild now, veins popping, seconds away from passing out.
“Hold still,” I said calmly. “Unless you want me to hit an artery.”
Made a small cut in his throat, right below the crushed windpipe. Found the trachea. Created a small opening. Then I grabbed one of them metal reusable straws from the cup on his desk—how environmentally conscious of him—and slid it into the hole.
