The bedpost at the left corner was wavering. The dim light wasn’t put off. The window pane was broken right in the middle. Another storm was approaching in the morning.

She sat down shivering at the corner of his bathroom, hair tied in a messy bun, eyes wilder than ever. Her lips were swollen, and her back was marked with long red stripes. Her toenails were broken at every edge, mascara in her eyes long wiped off. She let the warm water wash her off, if only that was possible.

She hadn’t anticipated it. Last evening already seemed like a decade ago. I should have seen the fire in his eyes, she tells herself. Brazen, his touch was. Even with an expensive six-yard on, she hadn’t felt so naked before. She felt exposed, barren. Like everything was taken away, all at once.


Survivor, that’s what they’re called. That’s what those little girls are called if they don’t die after they’re raped. Was she a survivor? Does someone survive every night?

Do husbands rape? Now she knew they do.


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