His eyes roved over my body, the lushness of youth evident in my newly arrived curves. He squeezed his fists like I knew he would squeeze my breasts if he ever got his hands on them. And in intervals, he'd wipe his lips with his tongue, his eyes promising what I knew was a fate worse than death.
How could anyone not see it? It was obvious, glaringly so. He was everywhere, every time, asking questions, charming the pants off everyone. His' was a smooth game, and I, the rookie with no hope of winning.
Every day, I could feel the noose tightening, my palms growing sweatier with each pass of his shadow outside my door. My brother called it a thing that men do: protecting their families.
Who would protect me?
It's a sad truth that people on pedestals can never do wrong. That's a lie, a lie smattered with rainbow sprinkles. Man isn't perfect, and the ones who have a seemingly perfect facade are the ones with the most rot.
So, who would protect me from the one that ought to protect me?
Who would I tell my truth and be unstained at the end?
Who would believe this child and fight for her?
Who would see black and not call it white?
Justice is skewered more often than not in one direction. It favours the strong, the mighty, the affluential. It doesn't run its full course, many times than most, it is terminated before it even begins the race.
I live in fear.
My eyes searching, my body is hidden beneath baggy clothing, my head bowed.
I have become a shadow, a ghost, an apparition walking the stairs of the house. And they have called it 'teen angst.'
I am alone in this crowd.
The End.
I'm working on showing not telling, and I hope this attempt counts. Do let me know if you get it or if you don't, I'll be glad to fill in the blanks.
And also, say NO to abuse of any sort. And shut down enablers and offenders.
Much love and light.
Photo by Mikhail Nilov on Pexels.
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