Stained Love (Part 1)

Writer’s note: This story is an entirely fictional piece. Created from my vivid viewings and scattered memories of numerous brave and strong women who have pulled their life together even after it was completely shattered. I admire the courage and the fortitude of people- especially these women, who have fought through their darkest times and have been able to come out of their trauma and pain. As a storyteller, I try to record their bitter times, hoping to portray how one’s will and resilience paves the path of better times and better days. This story has been written in parts and everyday, a new part will be posted on my blog. This is a new endeavor and part of the collection of ‘Housewife Tales’. I request all viewers to leave their feedback and comments which will give me an insight to what the audience thinks and believes. Happy viewing. 


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I sat on Baga beach at 4 am and sighed at the deep, mysterious waters as they gushed by my legs. It was dark and very late. I should have been at home; tomorrow was a big day for me. But instead, I was here. Scared and alone, wondering if I would ever get over the void in my heart. I didn’t know if what I was doing was right or not- but I tried to not let the intensity of the wind get to my crippled veins. The veins which had been running on my icy cold exterior yet emotionally twisted blood had been narcos free for a month now. But the hallucinations of the syringe still being plucked in my skin, drying out my desperation and sadness, wet my eyes every time. I was weak and struggling. After orienting myself with vermin and hipsters for 23 years, it was pleasant when my aunt walked into my bitter and devastated life, letting me into hers and allowing me to feel a little like ‘family’ again. The last time I felt like family, was when I found a picture of my mom and me, when I was seven years young, and put my hand through my then favorite leather jacket, hoping for some change so that I could share a cigarette with this Harley-Davidson rider who promised to take me on a yacht, if I shared a cigarette with him. He said that it turned him on. I always believed that I was ahead of my age. I could do whatever I wanted, because of the dangerous life I chose to lead and the impeccably horrid people I chose to live it with. However, even in that horrible labyrinth I had found Joe, who protected me from being raped and assaulted. Apart from that, she let me know that I was alone. Joe- had a different story altogether. But, that night, I discovered that I had my own story too. I stuck my hand in, hoping to get some change, instead I felt rough leather and worn own chiffon, as the insides were beginning to tear up. At least now, I knew I was better than the leather jacket. My insides were still held on lose joints and smoky flavors of kerosene and bile vomit. I found my mother’s picture holding me in a hospital. I stared at that picture for full seven minutes, trying to imagine what seven years would have looked like if my mother was here. However, I knew that she had died at childbirth and my father did not exist. The man had asked to use the picture as an ashtray and as we sat on his car, at Aguada, staring at the lighthouse and the warm sea, he leaned in, kissed me and I knew that night, that from that day, the tatters of my mind were hidden in deeper and darker places in me, because when he touched the white vagina discharge with his bold and crusty organ of finicky testosterone, I stared at him waiting for his grotesque projections and flavorless words to  seep in deep through my throat, haunting me and my already ruined hopes forever.

I sat up on the beach, and tried to wash away the bitter memories. I started the car ignition and went back home. I Lifted the covers over me and said aloud for the first time in 23 years, “I am going to get married tomorrow.”

Aunt Helen flew to Goa for a leisure holiday and hoped to commence her research for a travel book she was writing. She was shocked to her wits, when I served her, her usual whiskey topped with three ice cubes because in me she saw the exact visual image of her dead sister. She asked me my name, on me not replying and even pretending to be confused of what she was trying to say, due to my dramatic protrusions of being dumb and deaf, timidly, I stood aside while Joe explained to my ‘aunt’ that I was an orphan and she was probably mistaken. My Aunt then handed Joe a 500 rupee note and asked her if she could escort her to her room. Joe obliged. When she returned three men were waiting for her and she got right back to work while I took care of her restaurant for her.

Joe was a prostitute.



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