The Woman Who Blasphemed

Untitled Part 1

THE WOMAN WHO BLASPHEMED

The cell was dark, very dark. She had been brought in, screaming and kicking, crying, wailing, "my children, my children, what will happen to my children." Her husband was a good-for-nothing man. He was abusive. Appeared mild mannered in front of others. But at home, he was a terror. She stayed with him because it was even worse for women in this society to be without a male "guardian". And he could take her kids away from her, as he constantly reminded her. He could kill her, throw acid on her, strangle, mutilate. All in the name of some honor. She couldn't leave him because his honor would be lost. She kept her mouth shut. Didn't say anything that could provoke him. She prayed to the Father, the one prayer she made, "I give myself, but please do not let him harm my children." She didn't ask John not to harm her children.

The one time she had, he had looked at her, an ugly sneer on his face. It was replaced, contorted by rage, "You think I am a monster?" he shouted at her. So close, she could smell the cigarette. She winced, not because of the shouting, or the cigarette smoke trailing out of his mouth. But because of the spittle, red, tinged with paan fillings, betel juice, leaves, and all. When he spat, that was when he was most angry. She winced, silently cursing herself. She would be beat. She knew it. Her body tensed in preparation. She flinched as he moved. But away from her. It took a split second before she realized. And it was not too late, but she couldn't do anything about it. She held his arm, he shook her off. Thundering, she grabbed onto his leg, he dragged her along. When she became too heavy, he kicked her in the face. She let go, she could smell the salty, feel the warm crimson liquid dripping down from above her left eye. She was lying on the ground trying to push herself up. Eyes shut tight, arm struggling to push herself up, still aching from last week when he had twisted them because his food was not warm enough. She closed them even tighter, tried even harder to get up as she heard John wake up the two angels of her life, Maryam, and Jamil. She heard Maryam screaming. Smack. Loud. Hot, salty tears, mixed with the crimson now streaming through her cheek started to fall on the floor. Drip, drip. Smack. Drip. She heard Jamil crying. She screamed, it was hoarse, her throat was raw. It came out as no more than a rasping whimper. "Come here, woman," came the thundering voice. She screamed in frustration. Her arm gave way, her head hit the floor with a thud. She lifted it, as the anger in his voice grew, "All right, I'll bring your little bitch to you." He dragged her in, her vision was blurring. Oh, Maryam, her sweet, innocent Maryam. Poor sweet Maryam, being dragged in by her hair. Her vision was blackening. Sides were blurry, mixed with tears and darkness. Narrowing. She heard more than saw. Heard the screams. The thud of hardened flesh upon the soft flesh of her lovely child.

She had never asked him not to hit her children after that.

She only asked the Lord.

She didn't care if he hit her. That was what life was for her. For women in the country she lived in. In her village. It was their way of life.

The drip, drip brought back the memory of those screams. She could smell the crimson from that day, or was it crimson, salt, left behind by the blood and tears of some other prisoner.

Were they abused? She wondered.

How were her children. She thought of them a dozen times a day, she asked the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost to keep them safe. Jamil she had long ago realized would be spared his father's beatings. That day only brought it to her conscious. She had always known. But she saw it that day. Her beautiful daughter Maryam, that was who she was more worried about.

Drip, drip. Splat. Splat.

The water smelled bad. Sour, of shit. It tasted even worse. She had been forced to drink it, they had starved her, and deprived her of water for a few days. Was it days? She didn't know. There was no night and day in this place. Just the collective quiet and screams for food, for water, for mercy. Confessions of sins that the prisoners had not committed, anything to get out. Most harrowing were the screams. The whips, the flays, the screams. She winced every time she heard one. She shivered the first time she had heard one. She shuddered as she thought of that. The hair on her back rose, she pulled her arms around herself.