Silence gnawed at her—an unhealed scar, raw and pulsating beneath the skin.
At times, she was audacious enough to talk about her achievements – a published poem or book, a new outfit or being loved back by the dog. The last one always gave her immense joy.
The response was always a stony silence – a denial of value in her existence. They feared that acknowledging her powerful presence would cast a shadow on others. She was expected to remain faceless, voiceless – yet, she dared to breach unspoken rules.
A positive review of her work drew ire at home: “They don’t know what you really are.” It was as if they had sheltered the scum of humanity and expected her to keep running the house without asking for anything in return. The only work grudgingly acknowledged was the one that fetched money.
Her sentences were brutally cut short to superimpose another’s views on them. She practised silence till it ceased to matter. She carried out her routines with clockwork efficiency, knowing well that it was taken for granted.
Yet, deep within, a wound festered. The carefully cultivated facade could not wipe out the fact that respect remained elusive in her life.
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