INNOCENCE LOST (Rewriting)

4: STRANGER THINGS

A morning zephyr caressed my sweaty skin where pearls of moisture glistened. With my head resting on a pillow I tried to open my eyes, it was hard and they were stuck into stubborn slits. My lashes fluttered and an insignificant yawn escaped. I tried to move; a piercing pain coursed through the limbs invading each corner, seized control of my stiff arms and legs. I peeked through the haze still clouding my vision. A second passed, another one..two and three more…the mist cleared to give a glimpse of the tatters that awaited. I gasped in disbelief.

The room, rather a littered dustbin lay in disarray, with the bed sheet heaped in a corner forming a clutter, stains from dry blood dyed the pale cream fabric light brown. My green Benarasi languished on the floor, the lacy bra the groom's family gifted especially for the wedding night giving it company. Its floral pattern mocked from behind a soft lacy fabric; the bright crimson hue as dark as my red, bloodshot eyes. A turquoise curtain hanging above the khadi one warmed the space giving off a soothing glow. But, my inside was null and void. I couldn’t articulate the feeling—neither sad nor happy. It wasn’t anguish or sorrow, I was caught right in between—an area where emotions cease to exist.

A knock, then a loud voice..I blinked out of the reverie.

“Are you up? It’s already eight-thirty!”

I took a swift glance at the surroundings, there wasn’t a sight of my husband anywhere. If not for the haggard remains of my smothered body and the yellowed patches of dry semen, I would assume there’s wasn’t an existence of any Siddhartha or his mighty masculinity.

I shifted my legs, soreness radiated through every fold. Gritting my teeth, I staggered out of the bed.

“Co-coming..coming..within ten minutes I’ll be there.” My voice rose from a mere whisper to a screech an octave higher. I dragged my body, wobbling towards the toilet.

There couldn't have been a more charming washroom, it was a total discord to the one I was accustomed to back home—a collapsing brick structure with an asbestos roof, no continuous water supply. A huge mirror positioned just right of the entrance caught my reflection, I stilled in horror. Its black borders synced with the gloom in my heart. And even though the alternate arrangement of colour-blocked tiles was aesthetically pleasing, only the coldness from the bare blocks stood out—they were as cold as the frigid hearts of the owners of this house.

I sat on a stool in front of the dressing table, disillusioned and cast down. Small bulbs fitted to the sides gave it an impression of vanity—it was supposed to be beautiful. But, beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder. At that time, every frame was reminiscent of the nightmare brought alive.

I applied concealer to the reddened parts, the brush layered with a mighty amount stroked over the ‘love bites’, it stung with a sharp prick. The reflection revealed a drained image of a woman in her early twenties—her sallow skin pitted with red imprints, the black smudged mascara clouding the socket cast a veil of shadow on her oval face. I closed my eyes, the throbbing pulse spoke of my live self. I switched the vanity bulbs on, it illuminated the table, showered light on my pale green orbs—they were shining, as artificial as a single pound diamond could be. Ready with the makeover, I put on a shocking pink saree, its ghastly hue a stark mismatch to the olive of my skin. I knew how appalling it was, but it’s how I wished to remain, I felt that way—disgraced, degraded, sullied.

                               *********

“She is like water, no matter the container, she will take the shape.”

You bet I am.

A beaming mother-in-law's affectionate hands caressed my head, stroking my hair tied in a loose bun. I could barely stand the audience, as much as my insides clenched at the level of grandiosity. The guests watched in awe, or should I say faked it, nodding in unison like pre-school students.