Jasmine’s POV
It has started again. It’s been a while since I’ve had these weird dreams, yet they’ve decided to make their grand return.
I pull open the bed drawer—my hand reaching for the place it knows all too well. Taking the little container in my hand, my gaze fixes on it, quiet and tense. The room is too still. Even the faint hum of silence presses in. My hands tremble as I stare at it, my vision blurring. Tightness fills my chest, something I’ve gotten accustomed to, but at this moment I wish it would stop.
My lips part, gasping for air, the edge of the mattress pressing into my wrist. It’s just a dream, I shouldn’t be reacting like this. Yet, a part of me had hoped that I would begin to experience somewhat of a normal life. That trouble wouldn’t find me in my dreams as well.
The sleeping pills had become a bitter habit, one that had almost cost me my life. Instead of being traumatised by it, a toxic relationship had developed between us.
I remember begging the doctor for any other alternatives. The moment is still freshly etched in my mind. I was seated in his office. The visits had become frequent, which must have disappointed him, for the last technique he had recommended had once again failed. He looked at me with concern, which didn’t surprise me, as I hadn’t bothered to put on any make-up to cover one of the biggest signs of my condition. He flipped through the documents before peering up at me, as if struggling with how to tell me the next few words. My fingers itched to grab onto my sleeves, to distract myself from the overwhelming feelings that were surfacing, though you wouldn’t be able to tell by looking at me.
He let out an exhausted sigh before explaining to me the examination results. Pushing back his chair, he got up to take what looked like a white container from the shelf. “I think it’s time we try something else,” he declared, sitting back on his chair and sliding the container in front of me. I cast my eyes over at it. “It’s sleeping pills.” I swallowed hard at his response. No. “I highly recommend you take them; your body needs to remember to sleep,” he stated, as if having read my thoughts.
It had become our little secret, a truth left behind those four walls. But right now, all I want to do is scream so that anyone can hear me and come to my aid.
This time around, I was in a rundown house. There was dirt all around—it clung to the walls— and water leaked everywhere. I shiver at the sight of how things were long neglected, long ignored. Feeling wetness on my feet, I look down to see that the water has reached ankle high. My body itches at the thought of dirty water touching my skin. I continued to walk, unsure of my destination, but my heart seemed to know where I was heading. At one point, I was walking cautiously as an adult self, then suddenly, I was my child self.
A noise of someone whimpering caught my attention, so I followed the sound. The closer I got, the sound became, the loud cries of a man. As I approached the door, it was as if I knew my father was behind it. The cry stopped, and red substance leaked through the door—terrifying yet hard to look away from.
I shook my head in disbelief, my movements growing harsher every passing second as the realisation settled in.
“Dad! Papa! Don’t go…” Tiny hands knocked on the door, her knocks becoming rougher with each hit, but that was the only response she got from her cries.
The same fear, same helplessness, just years apart. I had been dreaming, but I could feel the tear streaks rolling down my cheeks, my heartbeat racing at an abnormal pace.
It isn’t the first time I’ve seen something similar to this. The last time was when I was about thirteen, and I failed to understand its meaning each time.
Pulling the cover off, my legs struggle to hold me upright. I get on my knees, my face drops onto the sheets as one arm stretches out on it, the fabric clutched in my hand, offering some kind of comfort.
A few minutes must have passed by now, and my eyelids could shed no more tears. I slide down, sitting on the floor as my back rests against the bedside. Needles prick my legs from having stayed in the same position.
“I refuse to go back to the pills. God, you will end this,” I whisper, determination settling in, though a sliver of doubt tries to hold me captive.
“It will all end.”
─ ✦ ❘ ✧ ❘ ✦ ─
A yawn slips out as I stretch my arms. Memories of what happened earlier flood me at once. I scramble up, confused about when I got myself into bed.
“Maybe I just forgot…”
I lie back, taking a few minutes to laze off before doing my devotion and heading to the shower.
“Come in.” I lift my head from the book as a soft, quick knock sounds on my door.
“Good morning, how are you?” My mother enters, holding a tray full of breakfast.
“I’m okay, and you? Oh, thank you, Mom.” I reach out to take the tray from her hands, but my knee slips awkwardly into the bed, leading me to slightly lose balance.
“It’s fine. I’ll place it here,” she says, setting it on the bedside table.
“Thank you.”
“Mmm—why were you sleeping on the floor?”
“Ohh.”
“Imagine if I hadn’t come in, you would have been waking up on the floor. Since when do you sleep there?”
“I dozed off by mistake.”
“On the floor? Interesting.”
I inhale a light breath.
“I’ll be gone for a few days for a work conference. If you need any money, you know where to fetch it in its usual spot.”
“You’re leaving now?” Only now noticing her attire.
“Yes, it was a sudden change. I believe you are sensible enough to know what not to do while I’m gone.”
I hum in agreement, my eyes darting around my room.
“Okay, I’ll leave you to it.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.” The door clicks, and I release a breath I hadn’t realised I had been holding.
─ ✦ ❘ ✧ ❘ ✦ ─
A yawn slips out as I stretch my arms. Memories of what happened earlier flood me at once. I scramble up, confused about when I got myself into bed.
“Maybe I just forgot…”
I lie back, taking a few minutes to laze off before doing my devotion and heading to the shower.
“Come in.” I lift my head from the book as a soft, quick knock sounds on my door.
“Good morning, how are you?” My mother enters, holding a tray full of breakfast.
“I’m okay, and you? Oh, thank you, Mom.” I reach out to take the tray from her hands, but my knee slips awkwardly into the bed, leading me to slightly lose balance.
“It’s fine. I’ll place it here,” she says, setting it on the beside table.
“Thank you.”
“Mmm—why were you sleeping on the floor?”
“Ohh.”
“Imagine if I hadn’t come in, you would have been waking up on the floor. Since when do you sleep there?”
“I dozed off by mistake.”
“On the floor? Interesting.”
I inhale a light breath.
“I’ll be gone for a few days for a work conference. If you need any money, you know where to fetch it in its usual spot.”
“You’re leaving now?” Only now noticing her attire.
“Yes, it was a sudden change. I believe you are sensible enough to know what not to do while I’m gone.”
I hum in agreement, my eyes darting around my room.
“Okay, I’ll leave you to it.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.” The door clicks, and I release a breath I hadn’t realised I had been holding.
My hand tiredly covers my mouth as a yawn escapes. “What time is it?” I mutter, pulling myself up. The nap—actually, sleep—was much needed. A scoff slips out upon checking the time. Not sure what to keep myself busy with, I contemplate going back to sleep or reviewing some of the students’ answers I tutor. Opting for the latter, I sit at my study table. The folder with revision and activity sheets is already neatly on it. Feeling tension in my neck, I roll it briefly before diving in.
My stomach grumbles, breaking my flow—glimpsing at my phone, I see that almost two hours have passed. Nice job. I drop my pen and do a few stretches before heading to the kitchen. Leaning against the counter, the hum of the microwave fills the silence as I focus on the timer.
“Need to check up,” I mumble, sending a quick check-up message to the siblings’ group chat before placing my phone onto the counter. With the timer nearing the end, I check if the muffin is ready, which it thankfully is. Slipping on the kitchen gloves, I cautiously set the mug down and let it cool off for a bit.
I gather the muffin mug, apple juice, and a packet of banana chips onto a tray and make my way to the living room. A ding from my phone sounds, just as I place the tray on the table. Jogging to get it, I see an alert on the group from Aroni. Opening the attachment to a selfie of Aroni golfing. With the caption of “Enjoying life to the fullest, as you can see. What about you?” A chuckle slips as I shake my head. While I type a response, a notification from Angèle pops up, a selfie of her cuddling her puppy and laying her chest on Caleb, who poses with the peace sign as he beams at the photo. I burst out into laughter.
Crouching beside my snacks, with the television switched on to Netflix, I take a selfie as I pout—typing, “Any recommendations?”
A few minutes pass, and they are both flooding my phone with recommendations. Although we may not have much of the same taste, they know what interests me.
Aroni: You’re lucky, I came across a few videos on TikTok that seemed exactly like what would interest you.
Me: Awww, thanks guys. Now I have three months’ worth of options
Angèle: You’re welcome, my baby.
Sherlock: Angèle, greet Caleb for me and tell him welcome back.
Me: Same here
I type, adding the raised hand emoji.
Angèle: He said thank you and that he will do a group call sometime soon. Oh, and that he has some gifts for you guys, which should be arriving in about a week.
Sherlock: What a blessing it is to have such a brother-in-law.
He sends a sticker of an old lady raising her hands, saying hallelujah.
Me: Caleb, you’re the best!
Sherlock: Hey now, aren’t you getting a bit ahead of yourself…
He remarks, with an unamused emoji.
Me: Jealousy doesn’t suit you, big bro
Sherlock: Just reminding you to rank it properly
Me: Unbelievable.
Sherlock: By the way, a heads up…expect a text or call from Mikiah.
A small knot forms in my stomach as I read the message.
Me: Huh? You gave him my number, why?
Angèle: You did not…
Sherlock: He wants to marry you.
Me: Lol. And so? Since when do you play wingman for your friends when it comes to your sister?
I snort, low-key annoyed.
Sherlock: I didn’t. He kept on insisting, so I gave in. Either way, it’s not like I don’t trust him; he’s not going to misbehave if he gets rejected, so…
Angèle: Yoh, what a situation
Sherlock: Sorry
I wasn’t exactly mad; it’s not like we didn’t have each other’s contact in the past. I assumed he lost my contact and just didn’t bother to ask my brother for his new number.
Me: It’s fine, he’s no stranger either way.
Sherlock: Low-key hoping you will say no, because what the heck! That will be an eye sore…my baby sis and my best friend a couple? Nah mahn
Angèle: Lol, does he know you are rooting for his downfall?
Sherlock: Yep! Straight up told him, also laid down my conditions. If he so happens to mess around, just let me know, okay?
Me: Mmmm
Sherlock: I’ll take that as a yes.
We wrap up our conversation, each going back to what they were previously doing.
It was hard to focus on the series. The possibility of Mikiah reaching out at any given moment—with marriage in mind—wasn’t something I had on my agenda. Although it’s not like it is the first time I am hearing of his intentions. Yet, I’ve never known what to do with that piece of information. He had outrightly proclaimed it one day when we were seated in the backyard around the fire. I don’t know what had come over him. I had side-glanced my brother, unsure if he was up to limbo—the dropped jaw and widened eyes were a dead giveaway.
Angèle had simply chuckled at the revelation, saying it was expected and that she had known for a couple of years now, when it was just us in the kitchen.
To say I was shocked and confused was an understatement. Although I know the joy it would bring our mom, despite not being an advocate of marriage herself.
Letting out a deep sigh, I pause the series. Massaging the sides of my forehead as I get up from the couch. What a change of plans.
I should probably head to the orphanage; they should be back from church by now—I peer at the clock on the wall. Usually on Sundays, I don’t make an appearance; however, Ray asked me to come spend time with them today.
Putting the dishes away, I change into sneakers and quickly braid my braids into fishtails—checking myself in the mirror once in a while to ensure it’s properly done before grabbing my car keys from my bedside table.
─ ✦ ❘ ✧ ❘ ✦ ─
The robot turned red just a few seconds before I was going to drive past. Slowing down just in time, I turn the radio down, not being satisfied with the music but also not knowing which channel to switch to.
“Hi Aunty,” a girl who seemed to be about fifteen years old calls out to me from the window.
“Hi, how are you?” I softly say, ignoring the aunty comment.
“I’m good, thanks and you?”
“I’m good.” She beams. “Would you be interested in joining our service?”
Oh, church evangelism. I glance at the flyer she holds up, then at the robot, expecting it to turn green any moment now.
“Umm, the robot is about to turn red, you can just give me the flyer if you don’t mind?”
“Okay, thank you. Hope to see you soon.” She exclaims, just as the robot turns green.
“Sure,” I offer a half-hearted smile, low-key, feeling bad that I couldn’t match her enthusiasm, before driving past.
It doesn’t take too long to arrive at my destination. Waving at Joseph in gratitude as the gate opens before driving through, I park my car. Applying some lip gloss, catching a view of myself in the mirror, once done, I grab the few treats I had brought yesterday for them, including Maman Aida and Papa Abdou.
Ringing the doorbell, I patiently wait for someone to open the door for me.
“Ah, Jasmine, you are here.” Maman Aida opens the door and pulls me into a hug.
“Bonjour Maman Aida,” I greet, reciprocating the hug. “I brought some treats.” I lift the plastic as we pull out the hug.
She laughs, “Thank you, always so generous.”
“It’s quite heavy, so let me drop it for you,” I say, before she can take it from me.
“My daughter, you went shopping for us?” Papa Abdou questions, joining us. Most likely wanting to check in on his wife, a habit of his.
A chuckle slips, “Just a few fruits, vegetables and juices. Oh, also—” I pause as I reach my hand into my bag. “Here are the supplements you were looking for.” I extend the brown paper bag to Papa Abdou. They briefly look at one another before bringing their attention back to me.
“Thank you,” he whispers. “I didn’t think you had taken it upon yourself to go search for it. You didn’t need to, but thank you.”
“It’s no big deal. It’s a pleasure.”
They have honestly been among the few who display what a stable home looks like. Ensuring to make the kids feel like a family, and all I want to do is show them a fraction of the care they give.
“Are you sure?” Worry covers Maman Aida.
“Business is going well, if that is your concern.”
They let out a sigh of relief. About a month or two ago, one of the businesses that I run—well, it’s co-shared by my mother and me—was going through some problems. It took longer than expected to be fixed, and they had caught on that I looked stressed. After some time of asking, I gave in and briefly explained what was going on. Since then, they tend to check that I’m not spending much on them—not that they weren’t before, but it worsened.
“Let me take care of these; they seem heavy.” He takes the plastic from my hand.
“I’ll go with him; you head to the kids. They are in the living room by the rooms.”
“Okay then, thank you.”
“Ewww,” one of the kids exclaims as I near the room, “Gosh, that’s disgusting.” The boys laugh at her reaction, one of them sees me coming, and I signal him to keep quiet by bringing my finger to my mouth—the rest catch on. I cover Ray’s eyes, a mischievous smile resting on my lips. Some kids snicker as Ray jumps in surprise.
“Who is it?” He demands, his hand taking a hold of mine.
“Guess!” Someone comments.
“Miss Lockheart?”
“How did you guess so quickly, Ray?” I huff, folding my arms.
“Your scent, but it’s not strong today, so I struggled a bit.” He beams up at me, and my mouth shapes into an O, having forgotten that it could be a giveaway, but also surprised that he keeps note of such a detail.
“So how was church?” I ask, taking a seat on the floor, legs crossed.
“It was fun!” some chorus, their excitement bouncing off of them.
A chuckle escapes my lips, “That’s great, what did you guys do that has you guys so happy?”
“The teaching was good,” Ray says, nodding his head as if thinking back to the moment.
“And we played different kinds of games, it was fun. Our group won against the girls,” one of the boys exclaims, high-fiving those around him.
“Ms Lockheart, why don’t you go to church?”
“How do you know if I don’t?”
“I asked Maman Aida if you have your own church, if that’s why you don’t come with us, and she said you don’t.”
“Oh, okay…”
“You should go to church—it’s—it’s fun.”
I just hum in response, offering a half-smile.
How am I meant to explain to a child my predicament? Something I am still asking God to intervene in.
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© 2026 Emmanuelle Ngoie. All rights reserved. The Crying Girl is an original work. No part of this work may be copied, reproduced, or distributed without permission.
