Samantha Memi

Posted on October 24, 2011


My Home and Mr Sun, Demolished

I have blood on my hands, sticky, still wet, my arms, splattered on my face. How could I have known he had so much blood in him. Why did he come in here? I hadn’t asked him in. His breath smelt of tobacco, so he was obviously evil.

Him, telling me my home was in a mess, to clear it up. Who was he to tell me what to do.

I wash my hands. Blood comes off easily. But stains in your head are far more difficult to remove. By stains I mean evil images like Satan rising out of the toilet and sinking his teeth into your bare bottom. That’s a stain of an image because it stays in your head and makes you not want to do what you have to do.

I have a shower, just in case blood is in my hair. Then I have to get rid of the body. The blood still moves, it soaks the carpet. Worms live in the blood and when I’m asleep they will crawl into my bed and eat me from the inside out. I have to seal my bedroom door so nothing can get in.

I can’t sleep. The ceiling looks at me. I know he’s in there waiting for me to close my eyes. When I move he watches me. I stay still.

In the morning Mr Sun peeks through my window. Hello Mr Sun, I want to say but I daren’t in case Mr You-know-who hears me and leaps into my open mouth. He is a spirit now, he can do things like that. I get out of bed. In the living room he’s still there. I wish they had body fairies like they have tooth fairies. I don’t want to go near the body in case there’s still life in it and it leaps at me and tears out my tongue and eats my eyes. Like in the movies; they shoot the monster fifteen times, but when they turn their backs it rises up and the heroine covers her face and screams and the scientist fires his super gamma ray gun and the monster flashes green, then orange, then red, then disappears. I don’t have a super gamma ray gun. If the monster moves I have no defence.

I go into the kitchen, the bread is mouldy, the fridge isn’t working, everything is mouldy. I’m hungry. I daren’t go out; what if I can’t get back in, if the monster barricades the door, or I come back in and he jumps on me and eats me. Monsters do that. Maybe I should tell someone, I killed the monster. They’d think I was so brave. I’d be on TV. They’d make a film of me. I’d be on talk shows: and our next guest is…

Bang bang bang.

What’s that?

“Samantha, open the door, it’s your dad.”

That’s not my dad. My dad’s dead, or nearly dead. Maybe he’s come back to life, like a zombie.

“Samantha, I know you’re in there.”

How does he know. He hasn’t got x-ray eyes. He’s not Superman.

“I heard you talking”

I wasn’t talking. Was I?

“Open the door.”

“I’m not well.” I nearly have a cold, he can’t say I’m a liar.

“You need help.”

“I’m not well. Go away. You’re not my father.”

“Open up or I’ll call the police.”

I wait.

Now he’s gone I can go out and get some food. Need food. Without food you die. What if he’s waiting for me. A big net hanging from the ceiling and as I leave the safety of my home the net falls on me and I snarl and scratch but I can’t escape.

The monster smells, it’s a thick smell, it chokes my throat. Where are the body fairies? I’ll have to throw it out the window.

In a cupboard I find tins of soup but when I open them they’re fruit. Who changed the tins of soup into fruit? The spirit of the monster.

The smell is too sickly, I can’t go near the body. I cover it with old clothes, blankets.

Flies buzz.

Bang bang bang.

“Open up, it’s the police.”

I bet it’s the man who says he’s my father.

The door opens. A policeman comes in, Then a woman, looking older than her years, as if anxiety and worry has aged her. Then a man who looks like my father.

“My God,” says the policeman. I didn’t know policeman were religious.

“What you do,” asks the woman, “what you do my husband?”

The policeman pulls the blankets from the monster. The man who looks like my father, but older, doesn’t speak. He doesn’t speak because he knows he’s not my father and I’ll know by his voice.

The woman screams, “you kill my husband, you kill my husband, I kill you.” She rushes into the kitchen and comes back with a knife. The policeman stops her.

I tell him, “you should arrest her, officer, she’s dangerous.

“He only want rent. She kill him.” Is she raving mad.

The man with kind eyes like my father speaks, “what have you done Samantha?” He sounds like my father, but not preachy, not telling me all the things I do wrong. “Well?”

“He tried to rape me,” I say quietly.

The man puts a blanket round me, not a dirty one from the monster, a clean one. I saw him get it from a cupboard. How did he know it was there? I didn’t know.

Then another policeman, then another, and another, hundreds of policemen and policewomen, and they take me out of my home. I cry, tears fall down my cheeks. The neighbours come to watch. Their faces leer like creatures from Bosch.

Now I’m here. It’s dark. Every time a nurse gives me an injection I fall asleep. But I still wake up. I still see Mr Sun, but he doesn’t smile any more, he scowls and tells me I’ve been a bad girl.


Samantha Memi used to spy for western powers. She was caught and subjected to fiendish torture. Noticing her nail polish had been scratched she broke down and divulged state secrets. The full extent of her treachery can be found at

Posted in: Samantha Memi