Drip. Drip.

Drip. Drip.

The water droplets fell on her face as she hurried back home. She walked, no ran, into her apartment and into the washroom. She needed to hide herself in her fortress, where she could escape those disgusted stares. They kept mumbling something about her, they kept pointing figures at her. She needed an escape.

Drip. Drip.

The water droplets spiralled down the basin from the leaky faucet. She tried to wet her face and scrub to get it clean, but the marks just won’t disappear. She could see them now, the black spots people saw on her face. The black ink splashed all over her, just like the ink she used to sign those gazillion papers. Just like the ink with which she wrote all those letters to the heads of state, begging for justice, for mercy.

Drip. Drip.

The water droplets rolled down her cheeks, in no elegance or grace. They flooded her face, blurring her face in the mirror. All she could see was a disgusting woman, a woman who had no honour or respect left. A woman the society didn’t care about. A woman who was first raped by her date, when he drugged her and forced himself on her without consent. Then by the police, who asked whether she liked it, whether she asked for it, or if she was making it up. Then by the doctors, who inserted their fingers into her vagina to check her virginity. Then by the lawyers, when they questioned her clothing choices and lifestyle. Then by the judiciary, who let the man go due to lack of evidence. Then by the media, that sensationalised her story, depriving her of all tags and recognition besides a rape victim.

Drip. Drip.

The water droplets went down the tub, with a thick red liquid mixing into it from her wrists. No more stares and murmurs about her, she thought to herself, no more defending herself everywhere she went. She wouldn’t have to live her life alone now, disowned by her family. She wouldn’t have to explain to her neighbours why she wasn’t wearing her engagement ring anymore. She wouldn’t have to be traumatised every moment she opened her eyes by the world, and every moment she closed her eyes by the perpetrator. She could be free.

Drip. Drip.

Her vision had black spots, just like the spots people saw on her face. Spots of shame and dishonour. Spots of unworthiness. Her eye lids felt heavy, just like the weight she was carrying around for so long. Weight of injustice and victim blaming. Weight of patriarchy.  And then, nothing.

Drip. Drip.


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