My hands are broken and calloused, the skin is stained with dry concrete and mud. I clench them into fists. The bones crack and pop. A slight relief. Nothing much. My back is twisted and bent. Sweat trickles down the spine, gathers in my pants. I hang my head. Exhausted. More people board the bus. Sweeping by me. Silent.
The sun beats through the windows. We're lodged in heavy traffic. Screaming horns, and the smoke of tired engines. People shouting. The bus shudders beneath me.
I stare out at the looming buildings, the sun splashing across their shimmering surfaces. I count three that I've helped to build. They belong to millionaires. All steel and glass. I broke my body building those things for people I don't know, and now they're up there, probably drinking expensive coffee and staring down at the top of this bus wondering about the peasants inside.
I wish I was one of them. Wearing a clean shirt. Shaved. Enjoying the same coffee. Watching the filth of this world pass me by. But, instead, I'm heading out of the city to a village that no longer wants me there. I've been shunned. Ignored. Embarrassed by a daughter who ran away with a man I don't know, and a son who likes to bed other men. They watch me as I pass, whispering and sneering. My younger son is bullied by the other kids. My wife, she blames me. She'll be in bed when I get home. I'll make love to her while she sleeps. It's the only way.
My head is full of broken glass. I rest it against the window, hoping that the vibrations will clean it out. I close my eyes against the pulsing sun.
I must've fallen asleep. When I open my eyes it's dark outside. We've left the city. The bus has pulled over and stopped. We're surrounded by fields. There's a noise behind me. A woman screams. Men shouting. I turn and see four men, including the driver, snatching and clawing at a woman wearing a burka. One of the men lurches forward and punches her in the face. She falls back and cracks her head against the window. She slides to the floor. The men pounce, jumping on her and kicking her. She continues to scream.
They drag her by the legs into the middle of the bus. Two men pin her down while the other two pull the burka up and over her head. Then they tear off her undergarments and toss them aside. She kicks out and one of the men repeatedly punch her in the face. After that, she falls silent. The men then proceed to rape her, taking it in turns to tear her open and rip her apart.
I get up. They haven't even noticed me watching. One of them spots me coming forward. I struggle with my belt. My hands are sweating. One of them crawls off of her, pulling on his pants, heaving. She's not moving.
The men laugh and cheer when I take my turn. One of them hits her again. He has a knife in his hand and I let my anger out. My frustration. My shame and embarrassment. I grab the burka and tear it down. You will watch this. You will see who is doing this to you.
It slips from her face, all shattered and bloody. My body convulses, twisted by the seething rush of completion, and the sickening realisation that this is Pita, my daughter.
