Basket-Case.

And after a certain point, I had no fight left in me. My body was bruised and my soul, absent. I could feel the lights dim, and apathy replacing every bit of soul that was around me. All I could do was pray that you’d be done soon. But when you finally finished forcing ideals of masculinity on me, I realised that I would perpetually feel the weight of your body on my soul, everywhere I go, every step I take, for quite sometime.

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She tried, for the millionth time within the last one year and four months to give a voice to her story. There was nothing she wanted more than to be heard. Her soul was demanding that her story was heard, but the societal ideals that clouded her mind cautioned otherwise.

Ironically, she was never the one to be concern of societal ideals. It’s been long since she has realised that society was more foe than friend. Her understanding of the “society” was that anything that refuted the ideals and generalisations were outcast as anomalies. Her mind was a rebel dismissing any and all societal ideals.  Hence, she has long since put her own sanity and wellbeing ahead of social concerns. She was quite aware that this act in itself was quite the act of rebellion – as the high priest’s of judgement has carefully coined the term “selfish” to identify the state of mind she grated herself asylum in – but her mind was too aware about the fragility of her soul to give in to the naivety of general perceptions.

But that was another time, another self. It was not her story to be told anymore, it was her mother’s, her father, her unborn child’s. The prejudice of societal ideals slowly seeped in through the cracks of her soul. She found herself helplessly dancing around someone else’s narrative for once. She found herself resigning to silence, resigning to apathy. She found herself dismissing the voice of her soul and replacing it with the constant chant of, “Did you ask for it?”. 

Here she was, caught among those who encourage to “speak up”, the very same who turn around to use you as the poster-child for their campaign,  with no sense of remorse and an appalling lack of empathy for self-ordained everyday heroes with a perpetual case of Moses-complex. Once again, cast out by the society due to unfortunate circumstance, like it would read in a letter of eviction or an obituary notice.

She felt his body-weight on her – multiplied by every voice that trivialised her circumstances and victimised those like her. Everyday was an agonising process of embracing oblivion, while her soul was still crying for help. And suddenly, it seemed to her, that he was the lesser culprit of the two.

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