Prologue
478 Words
* * * The Beginning of the End * * *
As I lay here, staring at the ceiling, crumpled at the bottom of the stairs, my body battered, bruised, bleeding and broken, I wonder where my life went so drastically wrong.
How did I become the victim?
It had started with small remarks, controlling and manipulative behaviour, and then it had been a little slap and always apologies to change after it had happened. Of course, I can see that now. Isn’t hindsight a wonderful thing?
How hypocritical of me, to work supporting victims of domestic a***e, while pretending that I don’t experience it myself.
I realise the truth, in this moment. This way of life, this life of servitude, has been ingrained in me since the beginning.
I hear his heavy boots coming down the stairs, and I watch as he steps over me, glancing down with a look of disgust on his face. I watch as he ignores our son, puts on his coat and leaves the house.
And now I’m laid here, hearing my son crying for his Mumma to please get up, to please not cry Mumma, because Papa is gone Mumma, and he’s asking can we please go somewhere safe Mumma. But Mumma can’t get up right now sohna munda, Mumma’s body is not working little one, Mumma’s body is broken my sweet little boy.
Oh, how I wish I could get up and hold him, and wipe his tears away. How I wish I could remove this image from his memory, but I know he will be scarred for life, as am I. How I wish I could give him a better life. A happy life.
And what of the baby?
Is the baby ok?
I feel the slow movements, my tummy swirling as I feel wetness between my legs.
I need to call for help.
Laid on the floor, I realise that my life will continue this way, until I either leave or he kills me. He may have come close this time.
The pain becomes too much and I fall into darkness, clawing to escape it so that I can reassure my son. But I lose my fight, and surrender to the blackness.
My name is Priya, I’m 28 years old, I’m from Toosa, India and I am stuck in an arranged marriage. I was sold off, like cattle at a market.
I wish that I could tell you that I have been strong. I wish that I could tell you that I have been brave. I wish I could tell you that I am able to easily escape. But life is full of wishes and dreams. I suppose to understand me, to understand my culture, to understand arranged marriages, to understand my story and realise my a***e, you need to hear my story. . . . . .
- Writer
