By Abraham Mills

All wounds will eventually heal, they say. That is not at all true. Time may make the bump disappear, the pain lessen, or even form a crust over it. However, the scar is still visible, serving a constant reminder. No matter how much time you devote, there are moments that won’t ever go away.

All of Kwame’s life, he had felt like a snowflake in the ocean. Lost. Inside that adult body was a kid, locked in at some emotional age far younger than his twenty-something exterior. He never really opened up about what had happened, but whatever it was that happened to him, Kwame appeared stuck in some time other than the present.

Kwame was a Ghanaian gay man living in Ghana. That was in itself enough suffering, but that seemed a light yoke after he met him—the man who made him redundant. People say if you lived without someone once, you could do it again. The thing is, Kwame had never had to live without him. Before they met, he was barely coping with existence. Without him, he couldn’t even do that. Kwame’s memory of him was like a snuggly teddy bear fashioned from glass shards—the tighter he clung to it, the deeper it cut. Oddly, he could not let it go; it was the only comfort he knew in the world.

“Why isn’t anyone aware?” Kwame asked,

“Why can’t anyone know about us?” Kwame asked him.

Before speaking, he lifted Kwame from the seat next to him and placed him on his lap because he appeared to be quite agitated. In an effort to cheer Kwame up, he started to run his fingers through his hair slowly. Holding him tight to his chest, he muttered,

“Kwame…”, holding him tight to his chest, he muttered, “If anyone knew, there might not be a ‘us’.” You know how my parents and society feel about gays. We’d be kept apart, and I won’t let anyone take you away from me.”

He looked at Kwame with eyes that held such sincerity that anyone would believe him. Kwame nodded and broke into a smile.

“Do you promise? You won’t let anybody take me away?” Kwame looked up at him with big wide eyes.

“I swear!”

“I love you!” Kwame whispered.

He softly cocked his head, bringing his warm lips up against Kwame’s icy ones. It was like fire meeting ice.

“I love you more.”

That’s one reason Kwame took the abuse; he loved him. He could never find the will to fight back. He knew he had to defend himself, but against him, he was powerless. He had Kwame at his mercy and could do whatever he pleased with him. The first time it happened, they were in a heated argument. He slammed Kwame against the door without warning in his attempt to ignore him.

“Look into my face when I talk to you!” he growled, pushing him harder against the door.

“You are such a fucking mistake. Nobody even likes you,” He taunted him. His deep voice was incredibly menacing,

“So why are you still here? Why continue to waste air in a world that doesn’t want you?”

He laughed—his voice, once sweet, was now sadistic. He pushed him to the floor and put his foot on Kwame’s back, crushing him. Kwame felt him spit on him as if he was nothing more than a disgusting sidewalk.

“Die, gay!”

And then he walked out, leaving Kwame wondering again why he was put on earth in the first place. Oh, that’s right.

He was a mistake.

Two years passed, and that fun activity was on every day’s agenda. Kwame kept thinking that maybe it would get better, that perhaps somehow, someway, he would stop. Each day, however, it continued to grow so much worse. Weeks became months, and soon five years had passed before he finally broke. The nightmare had become old. He was tired, truly. And so he struck back. It would be a lifetime before they found any of their bodies.