Blood on the Staircase 

My eyes traced the tiny drops of blood from the lower staircase as I pulled off my shoes, utterly petrified. My heart raced. My mind wandered into last night’s noisy encounter between my brother and his once-pleasant-now-overbearing wife. I shuddered at the disturbing sight, wondering what could have gone wrong between the early hours that I left for the bus station at the city centre and now, just in time for my dinner.

Silence. Except for the creaking bathroom door, I couldn’t hear anything. Slowly, I dropped my knapsack on the floor next to my shoes which I would usually stack on the rack close to my bedroom door. First, I descended the stairs to peek through the bathroom door left ajar. No one was inside. A few underpants were left hanging on the wall. I was tempted to touch them just to know if they were wet but I thought I could be walking on a crime scene so I decided to grab my gloves from the room.

Pushing my elbow against the bedroom door, I rummaged through my make-shift first aid box where I found a pair, unused. I fit my fingers into them and said a silent prayer for strength.

“I REGRET THE DAY I FOUND YOU.”

Those words stung as I recalled the heated arguments between my brother and his angry wife- angrier even at the thought of being considered ‘found.’ Some unprintable words were exchanged and as usual, I held the bluetooth headphones over my ears to drown the noise. It was impossible not to hear something in-between my playlist.

Taking a walk would have been an option but the biting winter cold outside has made that impossible. I would have been with Yang but I didn’t want the ‘thank you’ sex he would demand afterwards. I just wanted to focus on my studies and not disappoint my funders who deemed it fit to offer their financial support for my postgraduate studies at the University.

Since I arrived in West England last Fall, it has been a harrowing experience living with my family. I desperately wanted to be on my own but my scholarship didn’t cover the living expenses. With the worsening economic crisis in my home country, the exchange rate puts my savings at a disadvantage. Decidedly, I chose to live with my family in hope for better financial management while I looked for a job that would pay my bills.

Glancing through the steamed window in my room, I caught sight of two police vans parked in front of the main entrance door. My initial fear became justified. I pulled down my long skirt and slipped into comfortable shorts. It was unusual for my brother to be out that Sunday evening. Perhaps, the couple’s fight had culminated into something more dreadful.

They could have gone into therapy. Work out their differences. But they’d rather launch into verbal warfare that often leaves a bystander helpless and anxious. Summoning courage, I tip-toed out of my room to find out where the blood stains wound up before the police officers came knocking at the door.

Suddenly, it crossed my mind to call Yang and let him know my situation. But again, I thought I should get a first look and maybe Yang would not be the man to call in case I need to move the bodies. Trauma tore through my brain as I began to contemplate how this would impact my studies. I would be considered a prime witness if not a suspect. My time would be consumed by endless questions that would invade the privacy of my family. Immigrants’ chat rooms would be buzzing with the story of domestic violence. Content creators would have a field day narrating the episodes that they never experienced firsthand. And I could get famous for the wrong reason.

Sigh. I looked fearfully at the blood stains on the stairs as I slowly walked past them to the first floor where the c-shaped sitting room was tucked. Instinctively, I switched on the light and saw a blood-stained knife next to a black bra. My heart pounded harder against my chest. I broke into fresh sweat. 

I could see the reflection of light from the adjacent kitchen. I itched closer, stepping on my sister-in-law’s pantyhose lying next to my brother’s favourite blue shirt. I wanted to turn and head back to the bedroom but the blood stains kept haunting me. I desperately needed to find out the source.

I spotted dripping blood near the refrigerator door and touched it with a finger, held it close to my nostrils. It smelled like fish. Instinctively, I glanced at the standing mirror next to the kitchen door to see what was going on. 

What I saw wasn’t a crime scene- definitely, a couple’s reconciliation

Yinka Olatunbosun

Born in Lagos, Nigeria, Yinka Olatunbosun is a senior arts and culture journalist at THISDAY, a freelance content consultant and creative writer. Her imaginative mind led to the study of Dramatic Arts at Obafemi Awolowo University, Ile-Ife where she graduated with three awards including the Wole Soyinka Prize for the Best Graduating student in Dramatic Arts, Michael Crowther Prize for the Best graduating student in any of the three creative arts department (music, fine art and drama) and the Yvonne Akinyele Prize for the Best graduating female student from the Faculty of Arts. In 2020. Her first short story A Close Shave was presented virtually in 2021 for an interdisciplinary exhibition organized by Vernacular Artspace Lab in 2021. Her writings are mostly inspired by social issues and universal themes with sprinkles of humour.