glassing

Cracks appear. Her composure slides away to reveal a grimace of pure hatred. Her hand curls round the nearest object and pounds it absolutely without warning into the floating face so close to hers. She smashes through the confidence, the arrogance, the taunting reminder of status, inadequacies and future possibilities that she could never share. That hated voice, so full of richness. That voice had sounded like freedom. A freedom that had caused many women to worry for their errant husbands, out yet again, laughing with that English woman in the bar. She would go there on her own, she needed no escort, had no man. But she had many stories, was a middle aged beauty with an exotic background of military husband and millionaire father. Loving the company of men, laughing easily until this moment, she never reckoned on the jealousy and spite of a one-week-married, rural wife.

She was so surprised, and didn’t even fully understand what had happened. As she lay there with her face cut up she cried out for help and no one did anything. She was English. She didn’t belong. Later, they would say that the sentence and fine given for such an act was too harsh. She’d had it coming. She’d done what any woman would do. She’d fought for her marriage. She’d sleep with anyone.

She looks in the mirror and sees the scars. She no longer goes out or feels the ease of movement and visibility that once were part of her. She has been made self conscious and paranoid. She perceives her adopted home as sinister and she has learnt to fear the unpredictable thoughts of others. She has been aged and reduced.