Mariaa

The storm rattled the windows of the Okafor estate. Rain lashed against the glass like angry whispers, but inside, Maria Okafor sat calmly at the dining table, her hands folded neatly. Across from her, her uncle, Richard, swirled his glass of palm wine, his smile disarming, yet predatory. She knew that smile too well now.

Maria, now 28 years old, was the only child of her wealthy parents. She had grown up surrounded by every comfort money could buy, but no amount of luxury could protect her from the monster her uncle had been. Since childhood, Richard had been a shadow over her life, a dark presence that tainted every memory. His abuse had begun when she was just seven years old, disguised as affection, hidden behind the trust her parents placed in him.

"You seem tense," he remarked, breaking the silence.

Maria didn't reply. Her mind raced, yet her face betrayed nothing. The memory of his hands on her, the overpowering scent of his cologne, and the sickening weight of his body haunted her. The rage bubbling beneath her composed surface was volcanic. She had rehearsed this moment over and over in her head, each detail meticulously planned.

"It's been a rough week," she finally said, her voice steady. "Work, family, life."

Richard chuckled, leaning back in his chair as if he owned the world. "Life's too short to worry about the little things. You'll learn that as you get older."

She nodded, offering a tight smile. The knife in her pocket felt heavier with every second. She had stolen it from the kitchen earlier, its blade gleaming as if it knew its purpose. Tonight wasn't about survival anymore. Tonight was about justice and reckoning.

"You're such a good girl, Maria," Richard said, leaning forward. "You've always been my favorite niece. So responsible. So beautiful."

The words made her skin crawl. She pushed back her chair, her hands trembling but controlled. She knew better than to show him fear.

"More palm wine?" she asked, her tone polite, almost too polite.

He grinned. "Don't mind if I do."

She moved to the bar, her footsteps deliberate, the sound echoing faintly against the walls. As she poured the liquid, her back turned to him, she allowed a flicker of anger to twist her face. The sound of the rain outside seemed to grow louder, a fitting backdrop to what was about to unfold. When she returned, her expression was neutral again. She placed the glass in front of him and sat down, folding her hands neatly in her lap.

"You're quiet tonight," he observed, taking a sip. "Is something on your mind?"

She shook her head. "No, just tired."

He reached out, his hand brushing hers. The gesture was meant to be comforting, but it made her stomach churn. She forced herself to stay still, to endure it a moment longer. Soon, it would be over.

"I'm always here for you, Maria," he said softly. "You know that, right?"

She nodded, her fingers tightening around the edge of the table. The weight of her rage felt like a tidal wave about to break. She reminded herself to stay calm, to execute her plan with precision. This wasn't just about him anymore. It was about taking back control of her life.

"Good girl," he murmured, his voice dripping with condescension.

The words were the final straw. Without thinking, Maria reached into her pocket and gripped the knife. Her heart pounded as she pulled it out and stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the floor.

"What's this?" Richard asked, his brow furrowing. "Maria?"

She didn't answer. Her hand was steady now, the blade pointed directly at him. For the first time, fear flickered in his eyes.

"Put that down," he said, his voice firm. "You don't know what you're doing."

"Oh, I know exactly what I'm doing," she replied, her voice calm. "Do you know what you did to me?"

His expression shifted to one of confusion, then realization.

"Maria, I…"

"Don't," she snapped. "Don't you dare lie to me. You took everything from me."

"It was a mistake," he stammered, his bravado crumbling. "I'm sorry. Please, just put the knife down, and we can talk."

"Talk?" She laughed bitterly. "The time for talking is over."

He lunged for her, but she was quicker. The blade sank into his chest with a sickening sound. His eyes widened in shock as he stumbled back, knocking over his chair. Blood spread across his shirt like a blooming rose.

Maria stood over him, her breathing steady. She watched as life drained from his eyes, a strange sense of satisfaction washing over her. For the first time in weeks, she felt powerful. In control.

But her work wasn't done. She knelt beside his lifeless body, her eyes scanning the room. The sight of the blood didn't disgust her; it fascinated her. She touched it with her fingers, smearing it like paint. A small smile played on her lips as the storm outside began to wane.

She cleaned up methodically. The knife was washed and returned to its place. Richard's body was wrapped in a plastic sheet and dragged to the storeroom. She worked quickly, efficiently, as if she had done this before. By the time she was finished, the dining room looked untouched, save for the faint smell of blood lingering in the air.

Maria stood in front of the mirror in her bedroom, her reflection calm and composed. She adjusted her blouse and smoothed her hair, the image of perfection. The storm outside had passed, leaving the world eerily quiet. She smiled at herself, the smile of a woman reborn.

This was just the beginning.

As the first light of dawn crept into the sky, Maria opened her journal. She wrote in neat, deliberate handwriting: "Richard Okafor. Justice served." The ink dried quickly, much like the blood that had been spilled. She closed the book and placed it back in her drawer, locking it with a key.

For Maria, the day was just starting. And with it, a new chapter of her life.