i came home late after classes to find amna already asleep, a diary on her lap. her hand was resting on the top of her belly, rising and falling with each breath. her eyebrows were furrowed as if she was in a great deal of pain or having a bad dream.
maybe she was lying in an uncomfortable position, i thought. i went up beside her, placing her old leather-bound diary on the nighttable and attempted to help amna shift into a more comfortable position. she moaned in her sleep, mumbling something in urdu that sounded something between a prayer and a curse. her hands were cold to the touch placed in my palm. that would be the first time i held her hand. they were surprisingly callous, from the upkeeping of the house, but weren't unpleasant.
i turned her hands over to see her palms. and there i saw them for the first time.
the moon-shaped scars running down the middle of her skin, deep enough to have drawn blood.
a couple of times i had noticed amna's clenched fist-- at dinner, in the car with him, doing to the market. i had no idea this was how bad it had been.
guilt washed over me so hard for a moment i forgot how to breathe. this marriage--our marriage-- was supposed to be so that people wouldn't talk about the muslim girl having a bastard child. but people still gossiped, rumors got around. i would flush hearing them from my own ears. how could she manage all this pain inside her? amna wouldn't say a word.
i snapped out of my thoughts when i felt amna's hands tremble. I looked up to see her watching me back. her eyes-- they were frightening.
i don't think i've ever seen a person devoid of life.
YOU ARE READING
afaaf
Short Story•Completed• "i'm sorry. it's not pity that i'm showing you, it's a goodbye to someone very special to me." Amna's life has been turned upside down and she is writing it all out as she buries the anguish burning inside her.
