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Saturday, August 6, 2011

Tortured.

He slammed the door shut on her face. The tears rolled down her face as she tried hard for them to not fall over the brink of the eyelids that they were resting on; and she failed in collecting both, her tears and the clothes strewn and scattered around.

The main door shuts. She's trapped.

Years later, she could not recall if he used to smoke or not. Erasing him had taken all her energy and she had trouble placing if a cigarette was one of his many, varied vices. A sudden flash.

She's down to her knees, pleading with her eyes, refusing to go through it again when he casually lights a cigarette. As her head makes contact with her resigned fate, he ashes the cigarette in her hair and contemplates stubbing it on her skin. "You really need to get better you know."

He did smoke. She did wipe off his stains from her skin. She did hate her hair coz there were always traces of him in them. she wanted to chop them short just to never have them entangle and hold her back ever again. But then again, she never had the right to make that decision.

He's ringing the doorbell. She's home alone, unwilling to open it. The phone rings and rings incessantly. She finally lets him in and faces the wrath for making him wait, after. It's platonic, it's misery and yet he derives some pleasure from it. From her lifeless limbs and broken eyes.

She cries not once, but often, when she looks in the mirror. She can't face her reflection anymore. She cuts open a vein everytime, but never one big enough to drain her of her life or her senses. Just big enough to scar her wrists and mark each night and day with him.

He's making her listen to a hymn. She's crawling from beneath him, trying to scamper off but there's nowhere she can hide. He knows this house too well. Down to every inch of it. He knows she can't run. He knows she wouldn't run. She loves them too much.


And so she stays there, for a long time to come, under him, his slave, bound. And long after he's gone, she's bound to him in her sleep forever. She can't forget that face, those barbaric muscles that pinned her to the bed too often, those mad eyes which glinted with every moan of her agony which very rarely ever escaped her lips since she was so good at stifling her screams and that smirk which he had on his face forever because it was his game, his rules and he won, over and over again. And every face in her sleep turns to his as she relives that horror, a stranger in her own skin.

Five years later.
She wakes up drenched in sweat. Her flatmate hands her a glass of cool water.
"Bad dream?"
"Kinda. How come you're in my room?"
"I heard you whimpering in your sleep again."
She gulps down her nightmare with the water. 
The friend continues, "You really need help you know.."

She did really need help. She just didn't know whose.

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