“Right,” He said, eyes roving over her with interest, “What can you bring to the marriage?”
She looked at him as if he were the only man in the room; to her, he was the very oxygen she needed in order to survive, “I will love you with every fibre of my being. Until I die, everything that I am will be yours.”
He nodded slowly, “Right… erm, but can you iron a straight pleat in formal trousers? It’s really an essential skill in a woman, you know?”
Every night, she read the same book.
It became her nightly escape; dancing into the world that she encountered on the crisp pages.
Until tragedy struck one stormy night.
Her dingy bedsit caught fire.
Everything was destroyed, except for a book of fairy tales that lay on the charred remains of the bed.
Pages scorched; it lay open as if it had just been read.
Except that, no body was ever found.
What happens to a woman
between being born as
and spending the rest of her life
peeling away the layers of her body,
and eviscerating her soul
in order to be considered
I looked across the room and there you were. Even then I saw that you were broken in the same places that I was.
For a brief moment it gave me hope that I was not alone.
Our scars linked hands that day.
How beautiful it has been with you at my side.
Her legs, muscles atrophied, were useless by day, but when she stepped over the threshold of sleep; pushing the veil between worlds aside, she ran through the meadow of sweet grass until the moon bade farewell.
Her withered legs wet with dew in the morning.
Darkness was falling.
The shadows alive with evil.
Her strength failing, she had been struggling to free herself for hours.
Abandoned by the others, she had given up too. But then scarred hands found her, the lost one, and carried her home.
“Look at my scars,” she whispered, “I feel so ugly.”
“Don’t hate your scars,” He gently replied, “Your scars are guiding lights that draw those who are still bleeding from the same wounds. Your scars give them hope.”