Dear diary,

“I was standing in the hotel room, watching my distorted bridal reflection in the window when another figure joined me in the glass. As I turned to look at the ghost who had suddenly appeared behind me, I found the man I loved, the man I had married, the man I had taken for a husband – wearing a smile that had something sinister about it. And before I knew it, my arms were twisted behind my back and my hair pulled by its roots. His rough hands were pawing at my clothes, tearing them off the body he craved so much – the need shot right through his eyes and spread as a smile that brought me tears. I let out a yelp and tried to wriggle free of his arm but my retaliation was too weak against the weight of his tall frame.

A feeble ‘why’ had only escaped my lips when the words ‘coz your body is mine to use now, wife’ were hurled right back at me. And I realized, in the ensuing moments of futile retaliation to the way my husband ravaged my body – that I was just that to him – a body. A body he’d call his wife outside the bedroom and ravish as an asset within it. As I struggled under his enormous weight, he kept pounding against the bed between my thighs – until he felt he’d claimed me as ‘a body that was his to use.’ I lay there, weak and defeated, a sharp, stinging pain shooting within my abdomen. The pain throbbed inside me, as if someone had their hands inside me, squeezing my organs. When it waned, I tried to move but it returned at my movement, punishing me for something I hadn’t even been a willing participant of.  So I waited until the sun rays streamed in through the windows where I had seen my reflection as a bride. Now I saw a raped bride, a raped wife. I saw the blood-sullied sheets lying in a crumpled mass on the floor as a post-wedding trophy of my torn hymen and myself lying in a corner on the floor, half-covered by my bloodstained dress, a raped bride, a raped wife. I also saw my rapist husband sound asleep on the bed as I writhed in agony on the cold floor.  

I had hardly scrubbed my wounds clean when I felt his brutal touch again. ‘How about a shower together, huh, wife?’ he laughed. And I felt a pang of hurt, more intense than any physical pain, sear my insides. The way he called me ‘wife’ betrayed any meaning of the word I knew. It wasn’t hard to guess I wouldn’t have a choice in the matter. I had little energy left after the violence of last night and gave myself up. He spent the next hour nailing me to the wall, feasting on me, as the water pouring down camouflaged my tears and failed to wash his filth. After he was done, he left me on the bathroom floor, a dead, wet mass who he averred would have to learn to ‘do this’ better. 
Am I not a human? Am I a sex slave?

Am I not his wife? Am I a prostitute, unpaid?”

To be continued…


13 Replies to “THE UNPAID PROSTITUTE #02”

  1. What should I comment?
    I feel too proud and at the same time too insufficient to comment on something so meticulous and breathtakingly phenomenal.
    Women empowerment starts with women like you who can express the little and big issues and problems of women’s life with utmost perfection.
    This is one hell of an amazing job. Keep it up. 😊😘

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Ouch!!!

    Such abuse..

    Why do some men use their tool like a hammer 🔨.. driving that nail deep as it can go without a thought of the hurt or the pain it causes..

    Some men just sees us women as someone to be used and abused

    So sad 😭 when we fall victim to these men…

    Liked by 1 person

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s