Where Shadows Learn To Dream

Etched in Ink and Pain

Aanya

It's strange how time can make you numb to horrors. Days stretched into weeks, and weeks folded into months, all blending together in this gilded prison. I had learnt to call my captor my "husband". The other wives, whom I'd always seen as part of the problem-obedient and meek-began to soften toward me. At first, I was suspicious. Why the sudden change? They had never shown me kindness before.

But soon enough, they were inviting me to sit with them in the sunlit courtyard, sharing snippets of gossip and idle chatter. It was all new to me, and in this cold, hostile mansion, I was desperate for a sense of companionship. I found myself sharing small things about my life, trying to fill the endless silence in my mind with something human. They asked questions-too many, perhaps-but it was still nice to feel noticed.

One day, the second wife, Vimla, leaned closer to me with a curious glint in her eyes. "You said you were in a movie once, didn't you?" she asked. I hesitated but nodded. It had slipped out one evening when we were talking about dreams we once had.

"Tell us about it," she urged, her smile soft and warm, like a mother's.

The other wives joined in, nodding and encouraging me. Against my better judgment, I began to talk about the role. How I had played a scared young girl who grew up to be a fierce soldier. I kept it vague, afraid of how they might perceive my scenes, especially the one where I had cut my hair. But they seemed genuinely interested-or so I thought.

For a few days after that, I felt like I was part of their circle. I wasn't as alone anymore. They even offered me small tips on how to handle my husband. They said he had a temper and that it was best to stay out of his way when he was in one of his moods. I listened, trying to learn, trying to survive.

But then, like a snake hiding in tall grass, the truth came slithering out. It was late one evening when I heard footsteps approaching my door. When I saw my husband's shadow stretch across the floor, my heart sank. He rarely came to my room, and when he did, it was never good.

I barely had time to brace myself before the door flew open. He stood there, his face twisted into an ugly sneer. His white suit gleamed under the dim lights, making his round belly seem even more monstrous. Behind him, the other wives watched, their faces masks of feigned innocence. "So," he began, his voice slow and deliberate, "my new wife was an actress, hmm?"

I didn't answer. I didn't know how to respond. My throat went dry.

"Not just any actress," he continued, stepping closer, "but one who plays a boy. A soldier!" His tone dripped with mockery and rage. "Did you think you could hide that from me, huh? You filthy, ungrateful girl!"

My stomach dropped. I looked toward the wives. They had those same placid, empty expressions. I knew then-I'd been betrayed. They had been digging for information all along, setting me up for this moment.

My husband grabbed my arm roughly, yanking me toward him. "You think you're clever? Think you're better than the rest because you pranced around on camera?" He spat out the words like venom. His fingers dug painfully into my skin, and I could feel his breath, hot and sour, against my face.

"Answer me!" he shouted, shaking me hard. I tried to pull away, but he was too strong. "Who do you think you are?"He struck me across the face, and I tasted blood. The wives flinched but did nothing. I realized then that I was truly alone.

"I... I didn't mean to-" I started, but he didn't let me finish. He shoved me backward, and I stumbled, crashing into a side table. My vision blurred with tears and pain, but I fought to stay upright.

The wives watched with smirks on their faces, their eyes glinting with cruel amusement. They seemed to revel in my suffering, their laughter ringing in my ears like a cruel symphony.

"You will learn to behave," he hissed. "I don't care if you acted like a boy in some stupid film. You're my wife now, and you'll act like it. Do you understand?"

I sank to the floor, the reality of the situation crashing down on me like a wave. I had been foolish to trust them, foolish to think there was a chance at some form of solidarity. Here, in this hell, it was every woman for herself.

The next few days, I moved like a ghost through the mansion. I no longer spoke to the wives, no longer tried to understand them or their stories. They had shown their true colors, and I had learned my lesson. I was alone, and I would have to survive alone.

Mr. Shekhar's rage did not subside. He became more controlling, watching my every move, barking orders at the servants to keep an eye on me. I felt like a prisoner in every sense of the word.

Then, one day, the horrifying reality of my situation became clear. The husband called me into a room where a crowd of guests had gathered. The atmosphere was charged with anticipation, and I felt a shiver of dread.

"Ladies and gentlemen," my husband announced, his voice echoing in the room, "we have a special ceremony today."

The guests watched with keen interest as I was led to the center of the room. I could feel their eyes on me, their curiosity a tangible weight. I was trembling, but I couldn't escape the inevitable.

Two servants approached with a tray of items. I saw needles and ink-tools for tattooing. My heart sank as I realized what was about to happen. The husband's cruel smile was enough to confirm my worst fears.

"Undress," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for disobedience.

With shaking hands, I removed my clothes, the room falling silent as the guests watched in morbid fascination. I stood there, exposed and vulnerable, my face flushed with humiliation. The shame was unbearable but I had to comply.

The tattoo artist approached, his face masked in an impassive expression. He carefully prepared the needles and the ink, the soft clinking of metal a chilling prelude to the pain that was about to follow.

The first needle touched my skin, and a sharp sting shot through me. I flinched involuntarily, my body tensing as the needle pierced the surface of my flesh. The sensation was a searing burn, each prick of the needle sending waves of agony through my body. The ink began to seep into the open wounds, intensifying the pain.

I tried to focus on anything but the pain, but each needle jab felt like a relentless assault on my senses. My breathing grew ragged with tears streaming down my face.

When the artist finally finished, I was allowed to look at the result. The fresh tattoo was a brutal mark of my subjugation: a collar around my neck with the words "Property of Yash Shekhar" etched into my skin. The sight of it was a devastating blow. I was permanently branded as someone's possession, stripped of any remaining semblance of dignity. The sight of it made me feel sick-my own body defiled and my identity erased.

As I was led away, my husband's voice followed me, full of satisfaction. "Remember this moment," he said. "You are mine, in every sense."

The maids moved in with their usual detachment. They cleaned the tattoo with antiseptic, their hands cold and clinical. The sting of the antiseptic was a sharp contrast to the ongoing pain of the tattoo, but it was a necessary step in the healing process. They applied a thick layer of ointment, but it did little to relieve the throbbing ache that persisted beneath the surface.

They carefully wrapped the tattoo with a bandage, their expressions unreadable. Each movement was precise and impersonal, a reminder of the cruel routine that had become my life.

After the maids finished bandaging the tattoo, they left me there, naked and shivering. They said nothing, but their knowing looks were enough to tell me why-I was to remain this way, exposed and vulnerable, because my husband would soon be coming for me.

As the hours ticked by, I feared that this was my life now-forever branded and forever trapped in this nightmare.