SCRIBBLES: A SHORT STORY
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In corso, pubblicata il ott 03, 2016
She had a scattered mind. Post-its and agendas wouldn't work for her; she'd forget where she'd stuck them or she'd forget to look at the agenda. Unintelligible scribble here, "Vey Blvd. 3:30pm" written on the back of her hand. Her skin was her most reliable notepad. 

He, an artist. Doodle here and doodle there. He treated his skin as if it was a canvas. Constellations, skeleton hands, he'd drawn it all. 

Both of them, living in a world where everything you write on your skin also shows in your soul mate's. 

[YET TO BE WRITTEN]
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"Kapde utar," he said coldly. ["Strip"] Dhimahi's hands shook as she reached for her dupatta. There was no point resisting. She knew it. But she was too slow. Trayambak stormed towards her, ripped her kurti, and forced her down to her knees. "Muh khol." ["Open your mouth"] She looked up at him, her eyes full of fear, pleading silently. "Mere paas duniya bhar ka samay nahi hai, muh khol, warna mujhe aur bhi tareeke aate hai," he snapped, grabbing her hair again with one hand and slapping her lightly with the other. ["I don't have all the time in the world- open your mouth, or I know other ways to make you,"] She was empty now. Her tears kept falling, but she didn't fight. She couldn't. Like always, she did what she was told. Because Trayambak wasn't a husband. He was a monster. And she was trapped.