"Damaged people are dangerous,
They know how to make hell feel like home "
-Quotes 'nd notes.
Not long after she finished up, the doorbell rang. Her chest tightened in fear. She smoothed out the absent wrinkles from her dress before opening the door.
Her mother- in- law scanned her appearance and wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Still here, I see." She muttered just loud enough for her to hear as she pushed past her, emanating judgment like the strong scent of Arabic Oud.
Her father- in- law offered no words. Just a snort and a glare, as if her presence in that room itself was a form of pollution.
His brother also entered, leering at her as he always did. She shivered in fear and disgust for the unsheathed and unhealthy passion she saw in his eyes, as though he couldn't wait for her to become his prey.
"Sister- in- law, how are you doing today?" He asked as if he were a gentleman, his mocking expression betraying his real intention.
She got them all settled before proceeding to serve them dinner. She couldn't leave in case they wanted her to do something for them.
She stood silently in a corner of the dining room while they spoke to their son like she is nonexistent, laughing at bland jokes as though her misery weren't echoing through every corner of the house. She stood in the corner, her spine stiff, hand clasped before her and head bowed like a servant awaiting the call of her master.
After they had their fill of the dinner she made, they occupied the living room, sipping tea from the dainty porcelain cups she had spent the afternoon scrubbing.
He husband was with them, laughing at some stories they shared. One that was clearly aimed at hurting her. She had learned long ago, how to let the noise wash over her without letting it get to her. She had learned the power of silence in order to survive.
It hadn't happened all at once, it started slow-
Like water eroding rock. A word here, a slap there. Sometimes a burn mark, sometimes a blade snipe.
As his mother handed back her empty teacup to her for a refill, she told her " If not for this house, you would have been begging on the streets.
You're not here because you're special, but because we allowed it."
She bowed her head and took the cup with both hands, making sure not to let their skin come in contact because the older woman didn't like it.
Behind her bowed posture, her thoughts flickered like dying embers. As they laughed again, this time at something the husband said- she retreated inward, away from everything else, she retreated into herself for it had become her favorite and safest place to be.
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There in the quiet corners of her mind, she replayed the tiny fragments of her childhood, the ones she remembered before she was sold. Her mother's smile, her father's laughter booming through their home, the way he carried her with him everywhere he went. She remembered the way he praised her whenever she did something and fished for his compliments.
She remembers that years after her mother died, he still loved her. She tried finding any clue that could give away the reason why she was sold by the same man that treated her as his princess.
That girl- the one she used to be- felt like a stranger now. She also had dreams once, even after she was sold. She had dreams of a prince, no, a king. She wished her king would come cart her away to his kingdom. She had also wished for a fairytale kind of love, of one who would love her with no restraint. But, it is all gone now.
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After they were done, she stepped forward to clear it. Her movement was smooth, practiced- submissive. She knows exactly how many steps it took from the living room to the kitchen sink without running into any obstruction. She knows everything about the house except how to feel safe in it.
As she rinsed the cups, she stared through the kitchen window. Outside, a small bird flew past, wings fluttering with quick certain energy.
She envied it! Something in her watched that bird, longing for the freedom it has. " Just a little more time …just a little longer ." She whispered under her breath.
Later that evening, after his parents had left, he looked at her and nodded his head. She felt relieved because it seemed she had done a good job and didn't make any mistakes. When her husband retreated to his study with a bottle of liquor, she sat alone in the darkened kitchen. The house was quiet , but not peaceful. It only gave the illusion of peace.
She slid down the wall, not bothered to turn the light on. She didn't shed even a tear. She only felt tired, like she was being weighed down by something heavy. Crying had become useless. There were only so many tears a person could shed before they are burnt out .
Instead, she thought about the way her hands trembled whenever he reached for her with his hands, about how she had memorized the pattern of bruises and cuts that he had inflicted on her, about how she stopped dreaming about a good life because he made her believe that the world act just like he does. She never prayed for something extravagant, just a simple and peaceful life that belongs to her.
And that thought—hers—was the one she clung to- quietly, fiercely.
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The next morning came like all the others- early, tired and feeling like death. She made breakfast without complaint and cleaned up before going to inform him that she was done. She moved through the routine like a soulless one , present body , absent soul .
After he left to work, she sat to think of her freedom. She only wished that she could get at least a tiny sliver of opportunity to escape. She knew she was taking it without any hesitation. She brought her diary out again to note some things down.
Since she was not allowed access to anything entertaining, the only thing she could do was sleep before going to prepare dinner an hour before he arrives.
She closed her eyes to sleep, wishing she could meet the man in her dreams again. She needed answers and she needed help.
He seemed like a man in power and also a man that knew her. He even called her a name- what it was, she had forgotten. Praying to see him again, she slept off.