Where Shadows Learn To Dream

Bound by Vows

Aanya

A year had passed. An entire year since I'd been snatched from the familiar chaos of home and dropped into this relentless nightmare. My hair, once hacked off in that godforsaken movie scene, had grown back to brush against my shoulders, a mockery of my old self. Every morning, I woke up with a small flicker of hope that today might be the day something changes-maybe a glimpse of freedom, or at least some news about where I am. But each day was the same. I had spent my nineteenth birthday in silence, each day blending into the next with a monotonous dread. The dull ache of my body, the sting of wounds that never quite healed, the hollow feeling in my stomach that no stolen scraps of food could fill.

The other girls and boys in this hellish place had their own stories. Some were younger, some older, but all of us were broken in some way. I learned not to ask where they came from or how they ended up here. We'd all been picked off the streets like stray animals, used for whatever twisted purposes these men could think of, and then discarded like garbage. Some nights, I'd hear soft crying or whispered prayers, but most of us were past that now. Tears were a luxury when survival demanded every ounce of strength. But nothing couple prepare me for what happened next.

The next morning I was made to get up early. I was told to wash up, dress in something clean. An old, wrinkled woman handed me a red saree. I stared at it, my fingers numb as they traced the rough fabric. "What's happening?" I finally dared to ask, my voice trembling. The woman just shrugged, a vacant look in her eyes, and walked away without a word.

The saree felt like a trap as I draped it around myself. It smelled of dust and mildew, and the color seemed garish against my pale, grimy skin. I looked in the cracked mirror on the wall and hardly recognized the person staring back at me. My hair was longer now, but my eyes were still hollow, my cheeks gaunt. I looked like a starving ghost.

My heart raced as two men dressed in black dragged me out to a black SUV waiting by the dusty road. My mind raced with questions but I didn't dare ask where we were going. I'd learned that lesson early on.

The drive was silent except for the hum of the engine and the occasional grunts from the men in the front seat. I sat in the back, pressed against the door, my hands trembling in my lap.

We arrived at a grand mansion on the outskirts of town. The mansion was imposing, with its tall marble columns, sprawling gardens, and opulent entrance. The grandeur of the place was overwhelming, a stark contrast to the squalor of my previous existence.

Then I saw him.

He was a rotund man with a regal presence, dressed in a pristine white suit that seemed almost to glow against his dark skin. His presence exuded a sense of authority and entitlement. He looked like some kind of don from an old gangster movie, complete with a pair of burly bodyguards at his side, their arms crossed over their chests. He smiled when he saw me, a slow, sick grin that made my skin crawl.

"Ah, my beautiful bride has arrived," he said, his voice sickeningly sweet, like syrup masking the taste of poison. His eyes narrowed in on me, dark and calculating, as if he was sizing me up. "She'll do just fine."

I felt my blood run cold. Bride? My legs wobbled beneath me. I tried to take a step back, but one of the guards grabbed my arm and pushed me forward. I wanted to scream, to run, but my throat was dry, and my feet were heavy with fear.

I learnt that the man's name was Yash Shekhar, and of course he was related to the underworld.

The closer I got, the clearer it became-there was no escape. I could smell the incense burning, could see the makeshift altar set up inside. A priest stood waiting, chanting softly under his breath, as if this were any other wedding.