Broken: Chapter One

Saumya

I must have been half asleep when it happened, because it's all a blur now. Maybe it blurred with time, with me consciously trying not to think about it.

I don't know.

But it comes back to me occasionally, like a nightmare;
Vivid yet not making much sense but still managing to leave me scared and anxious.

What I remember is, that I was on the verge of a deep sleep that night, when I felt a hand on my back; feeling me up.
I had frozen for a few seconds; trying to get some clarity, trying to make sense of what was happening.

Was it a nightmare? How I wished it turned out to be one.
It didn't.

I was too scared to say or do anything.

I clearly remember that the hand had fixated on my behind.
It was all literally blurry now. My eyes had welled up.

Should I turn and see who he is? Will I be able to make out his face in the dim yellow light? Or should I start yelling? Or maybe I should suddenly get up with a jerk so that he is left dumbfounded and then switch on the lights and then yell?

The numerous questions running through my head and the lack of answers was making me feel sick. And helpless.

Fuck, he was feeling my stomach now. I could make out it was a man's hand.
Some relatives had stayed at our place that night.
Who could it be?

Slowly, the hand was moving upwards.

I felt angry. I wanted to grab his hand and bite it so hard, that he wouldn't again in his life think of doing, what he was doing now.

I discreetly touched his hand trying to figure out who he was.
My eyes were a puddle of tears by now and the tears threatened to fall. I tried to take them in for I didn't want him to know that I was awake.

"He'll be done in a while and leave." I told myself.
It was quite a long while.

"It's just a one time thing" I consoled myself.
It wasn't.

I regret not speaking up for myself. I owed that much to me. But I was shocked. Or maybe, I just didn't say anything because I wasn't  quite ready to accept the gravity of the situation.
I didn't have enough guts to deal with the truth and I didn't know if my parents had them either.

My parents had anyways always been a little cold towards me. Sometimes, I felt like I wasn't even their daughter. Or maybe, they didn't love me because I was a girl.
It had been apparent, they loved my brother more.

I remember him, squeezing my breasts.
My world had crushed when I  felt his watch on my flesh. The watch I had gifted him with so much love.
I'd saved for 3 months to get that watch on his birthday.
He had wanted it so bad.

He hadn't even said a proper thank you and that had hurt. My brother, he can be like that sometimes, unemotional, cold and a bloody asshole.

Thud! Thud!

I was brought back to the now, by the sound of my copy of 'The Notebook' falling to the ground.

'Snuggles' my pup, is jealous of my novels; maybe because other than him, I spend all my time with these. He keeps pushing them off the table.

He and my books. They are love to me.

I picked him up in my arms,  kissed him and decided to go to the terrace for a walk.
I badly needed one.

The memory had drained me.

2 years, since he last abused me; but it still feels like yesterday.
I feel as if he has left imprints of his hands all over me.
And no amount of bathing could wash them. 

P.s. This one's a long story. Will post the next chapter soon. Hope you like it. :)

Hugs
Surbhi Kukreja

Poem: Only you

Here's a poem I wrote. Hope you like it. :)

ONLY YOU

And now I realize, how stupid it was of me to think that I fell in love with you because I needed someone to lean on.

Maybe I did liked leaning on you.
But then again, it was only you I liked leaning on.

Now that has to mean something, doesn't it?
     
                           ~Surbhi Kukreja

Poem: Submissive

Another poem. Hope you like it. :)

Short poem: Choice

Here's a poem I wrote. Hope you like it. :)

On why I haven't posted anything lately.

It has been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. My mom says some days are like that. ~ Judith Viorst

I don't know what's happening to me. Sometimes, I feel so much that I cry all day, sometimes so less that I'm almost robotic. Mostly, I feel lost.

And no matter how I'm feeling there is this constant sense of emptiness. It's like somebody has taken away a part of my heart and now that place in my heart is empty. I think it'll always be empty.

I'm not even sure I want it to fill. Mom occupied that space. Now her memories will. Forever.

I can't write these days. Generally, I can't write when I'm not okay.
Because when I'm okay... I think, I ponder, I hope, I dream, I create.

Now, there aren't many thoughts in my head, and not half as many epiphanies as I used to have. 

I'm not me.

It's unfathomable why sometimes I want to tell everyone about what I'm feeling and the next instant, I want to guard my privacy fiercely.

I get defensive easily. I cry easily. Well, I used to cry easily earlier too... but not many people would find out. As I would quickly gather my composure (Mum always did though. She'd see my eyes and she'd be like... You've been crying, haven't you? And then she wouldn't leave my room until she felt satisfied that I was okay.)

Now, it's different. I'm unable to gather my composure. The other day, I was in college and just because of a small issue, I broke down into a puddle of tears. And I had to run to the washroom to cry. I cried there. I couldn't hold it in. It felt like my heart would come out of my throat. I wanted to sit down and cry. Cry hard and loud.

I cried. Quietly.

Then, after a few minutes when I got back to the classroom;  thinking I'll be okay now, I broke down again. My friends asked me as to what happened suddenly. And all I could do was ask them, not to talk to me for a while.

For I couldn't have told them that I'm hurting, I'm hurting because I'm missing my mom and I'm hurting because I didn't get to bid her goodbye (I hadn't seen her for 5 days, when she left us. And I didn't think I would regret it in the long run. But I do. I fucking do!), I'm hurting because I'd give everything for a few more moments with her. But the sad part is, even if I give everything away; I can't have her.

I don't think anyone can understand the desperation I feel at times, to just be with her.

I didn't think they would either. And I didn't have the strength to explain.

I'm very vulnerable these days. Smallest of things make me want to cry. Cry Hard.

The other day I was coming home from college and I saw a girl holding her old mother's hand and helping her cross the road. It struck me that I wouldn't ever be able to do that and I broke down into a puddle of tears.

Nani (grandma), at times talks to me about mumma. I have recently realized that mumma and nani shared such a close bond. Nani talks about mumma as if she was her little girl and not a grown woman.
Now, I've realized the true meaning of the statement "That a child is always a child for a mother".

I also want what nani and mumma shared.
But sometimes, you can't get what you want. And that fucking sucks.

Things have changed.
Mumma always gave me the first chapati. I'm a slow eater.
And when I used to cook at times; I used to cook for everyone and then would ask her to make chapatis for me. I hate cooking for myself.

Or should I say I used to. I sort of don't anymore. Not with that intensity at least.

Now, I'm the last one to eat and I have to eat what I cook. Sometimes, I have to push the food down my throat. It bloody won't go in.

I don't talk about all of it to many people though.
Not only do they, not understand but people eventually get tired of hearing your shit.
And maybe that's why people write. Paper never gets tired.

So now, that you know the background story. This is why I haven't been posting anything:

1. I can't write much.

2. And when I do write something, all I write about is mum.
And there are days when the thought of people knowing what I'm feeling, terrifies me. It makes me too vulnerable.
So, I don't share what I write.

3. Writing about anything other than mom feels wrong. Why? I don't know.

And then there are days like today, when someone compliments my writing and tells me to write more. (It just makes my day!)
Those are the days I find myself able to write.

How?

Because it does something to me.

And somehow, again..
I hope. I dream. I create.