When she was six years old, something happened, something that Mary couldn't even put a name to, couldn't understand. The school owner's daughter, a teenager with sharp, knowing eyes and a smile that seemed to hide too much, began calling her into dark, secluded corners."Come,"
she whispered one afternoon, her voice a soft command, pulling Mary by the wrist.Mary followed, unsure of what was happening but always obedient. Inside the dim room, the girl pressed a finger to her own lips.
"Don't tell anyone, okay?"
Then, she placed her lips against Mary's. She guided Mary's tiny hands to places on her own body that felt strange, deeply wrong, yet not entirely frightening in the confusion of the moment. Mary didn't understand what was happening. She only knew that the girl laughed afterward, whispering,
"Good. You're my secret now."
Sometimes, this girl would lead Mary to the hostel, where two other girls would be waiting. Mary did exactly as she was told, far too small to question anything, too afraid to even think about resisting.
Months later, another pair of eyes discovered the secret.
It was the eldest son.
He caught Mary sneaking out of his sister's room late one evening and quickly cornered her, blocking her path. His voice was sharp and accusatory, but his smile was chillingly cruel.
"So, you like playing these little games, do you?" he asked, his eyes narrowed
Mary shook her head vigorously, holding unto her dress tightly in her small hands. "No…" she said, her voice barely audible.
But he didn't listen, not one bit.
That night, he came to where she slept on her thin mat. The room was pitch dark, and Mary could hear his heavy breathing growing closer before she even saw his shadowy face. He pressed her small hand against himself, forcing it there.
"Do it," he ordered, his voice low and firm.
When she tried to pull her hand away, a sharp, stinging crack echoed as his palm landed hard across her cheek.
"Don't stop. Or I'll beat you again, even worse."
It happened night after night after night. He demanded more each time, pushing boundaries Mary didn't even know existed, didn't understand. One evening, when he brutally forced himself into her mouth, she gagged violently, tears streaming endlessly down her face. She managed to whisper, "Please… stop," but he only tightened his cruel grip, holding her in place.
"No one will believe you,"
he hissed into the darkness, his words cold and sharp.
"Be grateful. Nobody else wants you, but I do. I'm the only one."
Mary finally found a flicker of courage born from pure desperation.
One night, as his heavy footsteps crept closer and closer to her sleeping spot, she bolted from her mat, her bare feet hitting the cold floor as she ran to the entrance of his parents' room. She pressed herself hard against the wooden door, trembling uncontrollably, knowing with a desperate certainty that he would not dare to drag her out from there, not where his parents might hear.
And it worked. For several nights, she slept right by that door, the hard wood biting into her back, but at least she was safe from his terrifying hands.
Weeks later, the house became a stage for another, different kind of cruelty. Mary was playing innocently in the yard with the younger siblings, a rare moment of peace, when a calabash of water slipped from her small grasp, splashing all over the youngest boy's clothes.
"You stupid, clumsy girl!" he screamed at her, his face contorted in anger.
Before Mary could even think to apologize, he disappeared into the kitchen, only to return moments later with a bowl steaming menacingly with boiling water.
She froze, rooted to the spot, too shocked and too slow to move out of the way.
The scalding liquid poured down her arm and shoulder, and an agonizing pain exploded across her skin like wildfire. Her scream ripped through the entire compound, raw and terrified. Her flesh blistered instantly, turning raw and angry red right before her eyes.
But no punishment came for the boy who had done it. No scolding, no slap. No one even bothered to ask if Mary was alright, if she was in pain.
For days she lay curled up on her thin mat, whimpering with every slight movement, the sickening smell of burnt skin filling the small room, a constant reminder of what had happened.
In her tormented mind, one agonizing question circled endlessly, relentlessly:
What did I do to deserve all of this?
Mary's physical scars healed slowly, painfully, leaving lasting marks. But the far deeper pain of being unseen, utterly unloved, and completely unheard sank much deeper than the burn ever could. It was the kind of wound no one else could see and no one else cared enough to.