From Purple to Black

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She sat in front of the mirror, gazing at herself, observing the colors changing. She knew those marks, they seemed very familiar to her, each with a different story and a different day. She touched those marks slowly with her soft and her delicate trembling hands but the sense was gone. The pain they gave her had already subsided, the feeling was gone and she was numb.

Remembering her moments of a failed survival she laughed at her image in front, it was a sardonic one accusing her very presence and being. While laughing and crying at the same time she kept on touching and feeling herself, finding ways of erasing those marks of her now numb body. Those intruding marks represented her weakness, her very submission. She couldn’t , they were a part of her now-deeply integrated into her soul with an intention. An intention to show her her position, her mistakes, those marks were her little punishments. She sat there naked all pale and motionless, the laugh gone and the tears dried up.



With her stillness came to her a rush of memories, she was completely filled and exhausted but wise at the same time trying to choose the one that gave her less scars, the one that hurt her less. Alas! she failed. A failure again but nothing new or extraordinary for her,she was well used to being one. She closed her eyes now-they pained, and saw those clinched  fists on each side of his composure, those high raised brows, those half closed expectant eyes and a pressed mouth. A shiver down her spine, the pain coming back and a tear shamelessly fell from the corner of her left eye.Relief. She would often move back horrified by that look she was slowly getting familiar with. That face made her question herself, her acts, her deeds, oh! her very existence. She had done something wrong she would know but ” what” was the most annoying guess of her everyday life. The results of his stance were very obvious but she would still plead for the ” what” she wasn’t aware about and still finding an answer to in the back of her head. No use for he would still take the pleasure to let her know but it only gave her a little time to prepare herself for his act of undefined love.

While she was preparing herself, his clinched fists were desperate for a blow. ” Why?” he would often question her after his first always successful attempt. Oh! how much pleasure it gave him to punish her for her unpardonable mistakes. ” Sorry, please ” would be her obvious answer almost always just sometimes she chose not to say that too. Tears were inevitable and the pain after his numerous blows too. Her hair was his favorite part of her’s , they helped him pull her back to life after that. Soft, easy to hold and manipulate, just the way he liked. She hated it when his straight angry restless face would turn into an evil smile, mostly stretching to the left side of his face. This part scared her the most, shattering her dignity to pieces so small that there was no way they could be put together at peace and this fact disturbed her to a great extent.

She would now shut her eye not even trying to prepare herself for it was painful while he played with her hard on that pallet. Bump, throw, ravish and demean her in any possible way he could, sucked her soul out of her body forgiving her conscience in that moment of rut. Her pretty long tresses that he loved , those were the only part of her that provided her some shame and hide her highly weakened femininity in that moment. She would get all red and swollen and why not , she deserved it for everything she had done or not done. She definitely asked for it and her very act of defiance proved that. He loved her dearly , only she could not understand the pain he gave her to bring her back to place, back to realities of life for sweet imaginations were far too dangerous.

His control over her was static, persistent and the amount of happiness this gave him could not match the intensity of pain she would go through, the necessary outcome for her act of defiance and deviation.

She finally opened her eyes slowly looking at those scars on her numb naked soul. Those marks she endured in her learning of self although they reminded her of her decay and deficiency. They were no victory but just marks of her debilitated soul. These scars often played with her conscience sometimes giving her the pain and sometimes taking it away. Their existence on her skin often confused her, sometimes reflecting her strength and then her feebleness and defeat as a woman. They changed colors too, from red to purple to black.

She gazed at herself harder now. Pushing the strand of her long hair behind her ear she noticed the shade of the scar just beneath her left eye. It had turned from purple to black further diminishing her femininity. Another failure! she thought.

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