The Prey 5

⚠️ Trigger Warning: This post contains depictions of sexual violence and distressing content. Proceed with caution.

I stumbled back, but Senior Akachukwu moved fast. His hand grabbed my wrist, tight, and my breath stopped for a second. My heart beat hard in my chest.

“You like him, don’t you?” Senior Akachukwu murmured. “Everyone talks about the way you’re always staring at him like the fucking social climber you are. You’re beginning to forget your place, you dirty olosho. You don dey forget say na my property you be.”

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I twisted my arm, trying to pull free. “Senior Akachukwu, please, let go.”

“Relax,” he laughed. “I just want to talk.”

He stepped closer—too close. My stomach turned as his body pressed against mine. He slapped the pad pack out of my hand, grabbed both my wrists, and pinned them behind me. I felt his crotch push against my back, and a groan of pain escaped my lips.

“Please, he’s waiting for me,” I begged as he dragged me down the stairs.

“Shut up. You think Abraham can rewrite your story, Adaukwu? I saw you first, I put my hand on you and claimed you." You mean you slapped me? "I own you, not him—na me dey wait you, and I don tire. I watched your patterns; you guys spend so much time in the tuck shop. Tell me, una two don do am? Do you scream or moan? Cream or Squirt? Is that why he allows you so much leniency? An SS1 student eating not only in the SS3 section but on the Prefects’ table. Too much leniency man, who the fuck you be?” He shoved my face against the wall.

“My girls say you no longer greet them because Abraham is sheltering you, how you no go dey greet your seniors again. Who the fuck do you think you are? You disrespectful olosho.” He bent me forward. My cheek scraped the smooth wall, stinging as his hands rubbed my butt. 

But I still do, I greet the girls he referred to as his: Senior Amara and Amala, I always do. Tears filled my eyes. Why was this happening to me? Why me?

No one came up here during night prep—just me and Abraham. Senior Akachukwu knew that. “I’m sorry, please let go of me,” I whispered. He loosened his grip, and for a moment, I thought he’d stop. Then he yanked me back, slammed me against the wall again, and his lips crashed onto mine.

My first kiss—stolen. My chest tightened. I pushed against him, fighting, but he pressed deeper, smothering my screams. His hands squeezed my neck, choking me quiet, then dropped to my house wear, fumbling with the zipper. I wondered if he’d do it right there, no shame at all.

Then his grip slipped, and I could breathe. “Abraham!” I screamed.

He slapped me hard across the face. “You no get respect oh? Is he your mate?”

His hand clamped over my mouth again, and he ripped my house wear open. “Normally, I enjoy the screaming, this school’s a jungle, Adaukwu, Abrams plays saint, but I take what the weak like you can’t hold. You should know that by now, but don't scream, not yet. Until I’m deep within you, then you can scream for your master to come rescue you so he can come see that no matter if he prances around with my title or your body, what’s mine is always—”

“Akachukwu!” Abraham’s voice cut through, sharp and angry.

It happened so fast, like a movie. I didn’t even know if I’d screamed loud enough, I’d been too scared to draw attention. Abraham grabbed Senior Akachukwu by the collar and slammed him against the wall. They tumbled down the stairs I’d been climbing, landing with a heavy thud below. Gasps rippled from students creeping up the stairs, their eyes digging into me, my torn house wear, my shaking hands. I wanted to vanish, but their whispers pinned me there, heavy as stone.

My scream, Abraham’s shout—it had pulled a crowd. My legs felt weak, like they couldn’t hold me anymore.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Abraham’s voice was low, dangerous, his knuckles white on Senior Akachukwu’s shirt.

Senior Akachukwu laughed. “My boss,” he mocked. “Relax, I was just talking.”

Abraham pulled him closer. “Talking? I know you, you sick bastard. You’re such a sore loser for the irredeemable failure that you are.”

Senior Akachukwu’s lips curled into a smirk. He shoved Abraham back—hard. The tension between them snapped.

Fists flew. They shouted and crashed into each other. Two SS3 boys grabbed Abraham’s arms, another pulled Senior Akachukwu back. “Stop!” and “What’s this?” echoed around them.

Then Senior Akachukwu’s voice rang out, loud and cruel: “I’ve seen the hesitation scars, Abrams! Do the world a favor, just finally grow some balls and go through with it! Your brother misses you, you know. Fucking join the bastard down there.”

Silence fell, heavy and sudden. Some didn’t catch it, but others did—heads turned, eyes narrowed. What brother? My stomach twisted.

Abraham’s chest heaved. His jaw tightened so hard I thought his teeth might break. For the first time, he looked like he could kill. The air felt thick with sweat and shock. I stood there, shaking, the stairwell spinning around me. Then, without a word, he turned to me. He picked up the pad from the floor, and eyes followed his hands upward. My torn house wear showed my cleavage—I froze—but he pulled his sweatshirt off and slipped it over me. We climbed back to the lab together. The stairs blurred under my feet, Abraham’s hand steady on my arm. Voices faded behind us, but my skin still crawled, like their stares followed me up.

He locked the door and pulled the blinds down. I stood there, my mind spinning. What had just happened? Not just the fight or the crowd staring at us—Abraham with his sweatshirt on me, pad in hand, walking like he owned the place—but the disgusting feeling Senior Akachukwu left on my skin. I wiped my lips over and over, trying to scrub away his kiss, but it wouldn’t go.

I knew I’d be hounded before lights out: “How could the labour prefect and the senior prefect fight over an SS1 student?” “How could anyone fight over an SS1 girl?” “The senior prefect protecting his lackey or his girl?” Akachukwu’s girls would be waiting at my hostel. I wanted to disappear. It was too much—too many fears crashing in.

Abraham went to the en suite restroom and came back with wet wipes. He handed me the pack, then pulled a bottle of water from my school bag. He watched me wipe my lips, and I could tell he knew what had happened.

I took the wipes and water, went to the restroom, and scrubbed my lips hard. I gargled the water and spat it out, trying to wash away the memory of Senior Akachukwu’s mouth. It didn’t work, but I kept going, my hands shaking. I didn’t want to feel him anymore. I wanted him gone from me.

When I came back, Abraham let out a bitter laugh. “That stupid bastard.”

We sat in silence. I couldn’t laugh—not yet. But I needed something else, something to push that monster out of my head. I looked at Abraham, his tired eyes, his messy hair. “How’d you get there so fast? How did you hear me?” I asked.

“I…forgot” He frowned, then spoke carefully. “I wasn’t even fast enough, your gown is ripped, he kissed you. Once again, I was a moment too late.”

Once again? I tilted my head, curious.

“You’re not going to sleep in your hostel this night,” he said. “I’d send someone to grab your things for tomorrow but Aka’s girls would be beyond pissed at you. You’d spend the night in my hos—”

“Girls aren’t allowed in boy’s hostel,” I cut in.

He sighed long and loud. “Come on Adaukwu. Heroine isn’t allowed in this school either. The rules don’t apply to me. I’m the senior prefect, and unless you would rather not, I don’t even have to sneak you in, you could waltz right in with me besides you and no one would do anything but greet me. Get with the program, I’m the senior prefect.”

I thought about it. My hostel felt like a trap—Akachukwu’s girls waiting, ready to jump me. I didn’t want to face them, not tonight. Not after everything. Abraham’s room sounded safer, even if it broke every rule. I nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll stay with you.”

He relaxed a little. “There’s a room for the senior prefect’s ‘conjugal visits’ in every male hostel,” he said. “You can sleep in mine tonight, all of this is if you would want to, I would rather you not risk sleeping in your hostel this night because knowing my classmates, they’d be waiting for you and I can’t fucking protect you when you’re not in front of me. They could blindfold you, cover your head with a pillow and you wouldn’t even be able to tell me who exactly touched you. Fuck!” He screamed suddenly, and the windows shook with his voice.

I flinched but said nothing. He needed that shout. We sat quiet for a few minutes. My mind wouldn’t stop—I wanted to know more, to drown out Senior Akachukwu with Abraham’s story.

“Was it true?” I asked, my voice soft.

He pulled a lighter from his pocket and flicked it on. “What he said. The scars? Your brother? You have a brother?”

Abraham breathed out hard. “Had a brother. When I was fourteen, my twin brother overdosed.”

I sat up straighter, my eyes on him. His shoulders dropped.

“My grandparents from my dad’s side are fucking racists; they hated us,” he said. “Nazi apologists, perfect package, fucking blonde and blue-eyed assholes. They raised us in Anaheim, California, that’s where my dad’s from. My parents were just starting up their Christianity rubbish, and it was like they just had children to prove they were fertile according to God’s word and how fucking blessed they were to score identical blue eyed male babies.”

He stopped, staring at the flame. I waited, letting him breathe.

“They just abandoned us there,” he went on. “My childhood was fucked up. The last thing my brother fucking said was ‘Thank you,’ when I found him, because he thought he was going to live. He wanted to. He thought I’d saved him, but I didn’t. I couldn’t, he closed his eyes for good feeling like he’d open them again, but I was so fucking useless, a moment too late.”

His voice cracked. I swallowed hard, feeling his pain in my own chest.

“My mother sent me here after that,” he said. “Thought Nigeria would fix me. I live with my maternal grandmother, a frail white woman with blue eyes, she's not racist but she's a spiritual extremist. She took me to all kind of programs because I’d wake up screaming at night, and she thought I was possessed. I was fifteen, getting whipped at exorcisms.”

I shivered, picturing it. He flicked the lighter again.

“Eventually she sent me here, because she too couldn't stand me. I came to Lux et Gloria Academy no longer a twin,” he said. “My brother was dead. And when I came…”

“You were angry,” I said, understanding.

“Angry?” He laughed, short and bitter. “I was fucking furious. I came to this school bloody mad. It’s why I was always fighting. In SS1, I whipped your set’s entire male population in less than thirty minutes because I’d just seen my mother on YouTube, crying about losing her son in a purple gown—he hated purple, she didn't even know him. They were so noisy on the field, and I needed silence.”

I nodded. The whispers about “Senior Abraham the possessed” made sense now—his screams at night, his rage, why he snapped like that at my "thank you" and suddenly something else made sense. 

I leaned forward. “I get it now,” I said, piecing it together. “You two were close. He called you Abrams tonight, and you call him Akas. You both were friends.”

He nodded slowly. “Akas and Abrams. We were despicable creatures in SS1. We weren't just friends, we were brothers. We’d sneak out on the night buses, Akas laughing as we torched a junior’s mattress for mouthing off—back then, it felt like Asher was alive again, wild and free in him.”

“But time fucks things up, or fixes shit because I started healing,” he said. “Or maybe I just got numb. Either way, I started seeing him for who he really was. He's nothing like Asher."

“What do you mean?” I asked. 

“Akachukwu enjoys the power that comes with rape, Asher was not a beast.” he said.

My stomach dropped. He looked at me, his eyes hard.

“Akas on the other hand is one, he's wanted to be king of the school right from his JS3 days,” he said. “He was so invested in school politics, always dragging me off to go see some seniors, using my image in this colorist fucking country for his benefit, ‘Oh look, the biracial light skin with blue eyes endorses me, you should too,’ ‘I know we have a lot of white kids here, but what white kid look as good as him? He's my best friend, vote me.’ It sounds stupid but for some reason his networking was working. I was pretty privilege and he was brute force. We became popular, the godfathers liked us, invited us, our names appeared on lists.”

He shook his head. “The hidden night buses that move in and out of this school is fucked up and the deeper I got involved in all of this, the more I just wanted someone to fix it, but Akas enjoyed it all, he didn’t just enjoy it, he wanted to direct it, own it, become it.”

“And then they changed the rules,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said, his mouth twisting. “The original plan was for me to be his right-hand guy, as the assistant senior prefect. Akas was my second shot at a brother—until I saw the beast Asher never was, grinning over that JS1 kid. It's what caused our huge fallout a week before they even changed the rules. "

"Wait?"

"I stopped him from raping a JS1 kid—tiny, trembling under him—and it hit me: I’d been blind, feeding a beast I could’ve caged out of desperation, I was so desperate for my brother back I tainted his memory for even thinking they were anything alike."

I felt sick. He really was a predator.

“Then in a perfect twist of fate, just seven days after, they changed the rules,” he said. “He thought I had something to do with the new rules and I tell you everyday, he’s book smart sure but that bastard is fucking retarded.”

I stared at him, seeing it—the bond they’d had, broken now. “Were you always using drugs?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “I was absolutely clean until when I became friends with Akas, he introduced me to weed—always something small, to dull the pain from my grieving, to distract me from my loneliness, he also dipped my feet into the sexual arc of this world. My first time was with three SS3 students when I was in fucking SS1.”

I blinked, shocked. He kept going.

“He was entrenched in the system even before I transferred,” he said. “And trust me, the system is even darker than you think. It’s not only drugs that get trafficked around here.”

“What?” I asked, my voice small.

“That’s why it’s crazy how you’re a virgin in this world,” he said. “A virgin has a high price on her head. This school is a master key that opens many doors.”

I froze, my mind racing. He leaned closer.

“I started heroin because I had to win the position,” he said. “I had to change the system. Control it. Regulate it. Prevent senseless deaths. Bring awareness of overdose reversal medicine. You never look inside what I ask you to deliver, but I now ensure a supply of naloxone.”

He paused, his hands flexing. “I might be a part of the system, but I’m not the system.”

I understood him now—his fight wasn’t just for power. It was for his brother, for others like him. But that taunt about hesitation scars stuck with me.

“What did he mean, hesitation scars?” I asked, my voice shaking.

His face changed—something broke in his eyes. The lighter fell from his hand and hit the floor. He turned away, breathing hard, hands pulling at his hair.

“I can’t—” His voice cracked. “I can’t fucking talk about that.”

He started toward the door, his steps shaky. I watched him, my hands still trembling from Senior Akachukwu’s touch, from the fight, from everything he’d said. He’d saved me, stood up for me, spilled his soul. I couldn’t let him leave like this.

I stood up, my legs wobbly, and reached for his hand. “Please don’t go,” I whispered.

He stopped, nodded, and squeezed my hand back. His skin was warm, rough.

“You’re shaking,” he said.

“So are you,” I whispered, looking into his eyes.

He swallowed hard. His gaze dropped to my lips. My heart beat faster. This was wrong—crazy. He was broken, dangerous, full of pain. But he’d fought for me, covered me with his shirt, shared his hurt. I couldn’t let him carry it alone.

I hesitated, my mind spinning. Senior Akachukwu’s hands, his lips—they were still there, clawing at me. I wanted them gone. I wanted something real to take their place. Abraham’s eyes held mine, and I saw the boy who’d lost his twin, who’d screamed at night, who’d pulled me from that stairwell. I could choose this. I could make it mine.

I leaned in, unsure, and kissed him. He froze for a second, then kissed me back—hard, fierce. His hands grabbed my face, fingers digging into my hair. He pulled me closer, his body pressing against mine, hungry, like he’d been waiting for this. I gripped his shirt, my hands shaking, and pulled him in tighter. His lips moved fast, desperate, a low growl in his throat. He groped my waist, his hands sliding down, pulling me against him like he couldn’t get close enough.

My stomach flipped, heat rushing through me. This wasn’t soft or gentle—it was wild, messy, alive. Not like Senior Akachukwu’s force. This was mine, ours. I pushed deeper into the kiss, claiming it, letting it burn away the dirt he’d left on me. Abraham’s breath hitched, and he tilted my head back, kissing me harder, like he needed me to survive.

We broke apart, gasping. His eyes locked on mine, bright and sharp. “You’re okay,” he said, his voice rough but steady.

I nodded, my chest still racing. “Yeah. I am.”

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