It has been raining since morning, without a pause. And I am thankful. I have been standing in the rain for quite sometime now. I had hoped to wash last night out of my hair. But it is still perfumed with his scent.
I look down at my wrists. The glass handcuffs he bought me are not losing their colours either.
I remember the first time he had forced himself on me. I was scared. I remember telling my mother about that night. I was inconsolable. I remember her saying, “I am sorry I didn’t explain everything to you properly. But he is your husband.” I was shattered.
I don’t remember what she said after that. But if the shiver that had run down my spine was any indication, my tears had probably frozen on my cheeks.
I have always loved him, my husband. And I have always loved the nights I have laid in his arms. We were not naked bodies, but bare souls. Until one night, when I refused because I was exhausted.
Was my denial not loud enough for him to hear ? Or did he turn deaf with the urgency to be inside me?
I had never realised that I was transferring the ownership of my body to him when we exchanged our vows. I do not have enough wounds or bruises to show the world. But I have one on my sanity, one on my dignity and one on my heart that has known nothing but to love the man I shared my body and mind with.
And today, with every step I take, terror oozes out from the bruises on my thighs.
With his fragrance lingering in the air, I’ll stand here in the rain for a few more hours, hoping to fall sick. Perhaps he won’t ‘make love’ to me for a few nights.