Whispers of the Past

4

Author's note:- Hi, everyone. I hope everyone is doing great. This is just to let you know that the reunion is on the night of 9th November 2035, and Prisha asked about attending it on 7th November ( two days prior), this chapter is based on the day before the reunion. I hope this helps :)

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Prisha's POV (8th november)

Opening my eyes, I was blinded by the harsh light above me. My head throbbed painfully, a relentless reminder of last night's turmoil. As my vision adjusted, I realised I was lying on the cold marble floor. A sharp pain radiated through my back and neck, resulting from a night spent on the unforgiving surface. Memories of last night came flooding back with cruel clarity—my pleas for a hint of freedom, my desperate request to attend the event tomorrow. It seemed like a small thing to ask, but it was met with a storm of rage.

I turned my head and saw the clock on the wall. It was already 11 a.m. He hadn't come back from the diner yet. He must have stayed with his parents overnight. A sigh escaped my lips as I forced myself to sit up, surveying the devastation around me. The room looked as though a tornado had ripped through it. The liquor cabinet stood ajar, showcasing the expensive drinks he so proudly displayed. Shattered glass bottles littered the floor, a dangerous testament to his anger. A half-filled glass of whiskey sat precariously on the edge of the tabletop, the amber liquid reflecting the morning light.

Carefully, I began picking up the shards of glass, each piece a tiny weapon capable of causing more pain. The room was a disaster zone. Clean laundry, which I had neatly folded, was now scattered across the couch and the floor. To my right, a flower vase lay in ruins, water pooling around the broken porcelain pieces. The once vibrant flowers were, their beauty damaged by the chaos. It was as if the room itself mirrored the state of my heart—shattered, bleeding, and neglected.

Two cups of cold tea sat forgotten on the table, symbolic of my own neglected feelings. The TV remote lay on the floor, broken, its batteries scattered like my scattered hopes. Nearby, a chair stood in pieces, representative of my shattered trust in the one person I had once adored and defended against all. A person for whom I had sacrificed so much—missed weddings, birthdays, and important milestones, all in the name of love.

A grim smile tugged at my lips as I caught my reflection in the mirror. A bruise was forming on my cheek, a dark reminder of his temper. My eyes were red and swollen from hours of crying, pleading, and begging. Loose strands of hair had fallen from my once neat braid, and tear stains marked my face. I looked so different, yet so painfully similar to my younger self—the confident girl who could laugh at the worst jokes, with eyes that sparkled with hope and excitement.

 Those same eyes now stared back at me, void of emotion. My honey-brown complexion, which once made me feel like a goddess, now appeared dull and lifeless, neglected and scarred.

I turned away from the mirror, unable to face the truth it reflected, and headed to the kitchen for the first aid kit. This wasn't the first time he had hurt me. "He's not like this," I whispered to myself, a mantra I repeated to maintain my fragile sanity. "It's just the alcohol." I clung to these lies every time he slapped me, every time he threw things at me, every time he dragged me by my hair and locked me outside in the rain. Every time he forced himself on me, whispering cruel words of enjoyment. Every time he screamed and humiliated me in front of others.

I mechanically tended to my wounds, the ritual so familiar it felt almost like a routine. My thoughts were a wild sea of doubt and denial, crashing against the flimsy walls of my constructed reality. How had I ended up here? How had the confident, spirited girl I once was become this broken, submissive woman?