"THIS PIECE IS NOT TO HURT ANYONE. PARDON ME IF I OFFEND OR HURT YOUR SENTIMENTS. PLEASE, DON'T COMMENT DOWN ANY EVENT ABOUT THIS MATTER. I WILL BE HIGHLY PLEASED. THANKS FOR YOUR PRECIOUS YET KIND READ :)" _____________________________________________
Fixing her gaze on the glistening stars, her mind, an abode of those awful events that she was trying to abandon. Her heart was yearning to hear... "ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴀ ɴɪɢʜᴛᴍᴀʀᴇ". Every scene was running on her mind's screen.
There, in a room a lady of about 30, who was here for consolation and solicitude is now having a scrumptious meal. This lady was her mother's long lost relative. Who is now here to meet her and to cry out some fake tears out of ruth.
A knock on the door, diverted her attention. "Lock the door and don't let anyone near this room. I want to talk to her something really noteworthy." She heard that lady whispered in her mother's ear. Her mother nodded affirmatively. She went out and locked the door.
The lady sat beside her. Took her hands in hers and ask with much curiosity. "Are you pure?" She looked at that lady questioningly. "Do you mean to ask If I'm still a virgin?" That lady throw a disgust filled look towards her. "How can you say such word so openly? I can't understand this generation. May God bless all of us."
"Haha! Why? Now you are feeling disgusted of this word? The same word you said after hiding it with many curtains of so called 'respect'. It's very easy for you to ask such a question from me. Just you came after hearing many gossips about my impurity and now you are asking me so you can get more stuff to add taste in those tasteless rumours. Where were you in all these years? Who are you Madam? To ask me such a personal thing of mine? And as you have asked now let me answer you .
Am I pure? The girl! Whose body was just A play thing for someone A statue! Emotionless Maybe I had a soul.
Soul! That he ripped off? From my body Crushed it into pieces Just tiny fragments left.
Yeah! Maybe a structure also I was. A flawless, beauteous Body I had. But now it's a residence.
Residence! Of all those scars And stitches.
Scars! His filthy hands on my Precious being.
Stitches! That I sewed those Scars and turned my body Into a torn, futile Impotent puppet.
Yeah! He took my purity But was I willing for? Did someone heard My screams of pain, Call for help, when.
When! He forced himself on me At that time, Where were you? All those so called friends And relatives, Who came now and broke Connections with us.
Maybe! You all see me alive I'm not alive; I'm just Breathing.
Once! Because of my trashiness These breaths will also Leave me, I will stop! Moribund.
Punishment! Why are you all testing me? Wasn't that all enough ? The way he used me, Murdered me Aren't you all entertained Enough?
Dead! I'm, but picking myself up Again and again Then, you people come Ask such questions.
Kill! Me once, How many times will You kill me with your words? Am I not a human?
Please! Let me live in this darkness Maybe three to four breaths More to come, Let me inhale exhale Peacefully.
And yeah the answer of your respectful question is, 'I'm not a virgin. I'm not pure. And it's not my fault nor my wrongdoing'. " She looked at that lady with tear filled eyes but with proud smile on her lips.
A tint of sadness and regret can be seen in that lady's eyes. Reflecting that she understood the real meaning behind that unique but concealed word.
With a pale flesh and a broken smile, She stands before the honest mirror baking inside a million lies. What more can she sneeze upon ? When the course of wind's a mere curse. And all that's left to staple her steps are mad after her unrhymed verse.
She is the child who's left behind the mob that races not to learn But to win a rusty race. She's the bud who fears to bloom amidst the crowd that not seldom burns her every breath within her sigh. At stygian nights, when she returns home holding back her fatigued soul she flashes coldness on her inflamed freckles to stare back At those eruptions and suppose it a beauty blush.
She needs the wind to sit by her side and pat her head. She needs the grass to promise her that fatigue isn't a gesture of the dead. For every sunset brings an orange tale and droops on sky to mark a fate.