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She Had No Option But To Speak Up About The Invasion

Posted: October 10, 2019

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Words wobble as she pours out her harrowing tale intermittently, and her struggle rolls down her cold cheeks like a splash of hot lava from the otherwise dormant volcano.

Trigger alert: sexual abuse

It is the same room but the nights are more melancholic than before. Hibba gropes the blanket tightly; her wide eyes clamp shut with the fear of what was impending, and her deepest afflictions knock vigorously.

But before she slips deep into slumber, two hands take charge. The unsettling fingers savor her youthful frame yet again; his magma pushes past the holes and cracks in her heart’s crust while she lies in sullen silence. Unlike the maiden invasion, when the muffled shrieks battled only below the jaw, and by inch meals dwindled into whimpers, the frazzled soul still writhes in pain. This is precisely the nineteenth time in the last two and a half years.

Hibba is still his luscious morsel; his blood runs through her anatomy.

The insatiable cravings have escalated with each passing year. He devours her every time he arrives from his work for a sojourn back home and leaves her wailing with an intimidating diktat. The meek Hibba lies stashed in a conformist milieu where there is no scope for the slightest of protest. Her mother too, has conveniently begun to brush aside her distraught adolescent girl, instructing to zip her raging trauma, for any amount of rebellion could cost the roof on her head and the requisites of a smooth survival for her other two daughters in that patriarchal set up.

Hibba is seventeen now.

She remains solitary like the decrepit dwelling on a distant shore where the poignant invasions form spume of wounds that rub against her appalling present as she continues to inhale a disconcerting reality despite a spree of bobbling resistance.

She longs for love and compassion in a place where her smiles lie buried, her heart accumulates innumerable lamentations instead of a thousand splendid dreams. A voice inside her incessantly screams in torment.

“Go heal your soul’s crevices; else you will continue to bleed like the wild waterfalls all your life”.

Hibba perhaps, cannot wait any longer for love to come her way, for she needs to unburden her mounting bitterness. It’s time she unlocks her cloistered agony and bares it all. And while the following morning awaits her profound and imperative metamorphosis, the jittery lass gathers all that is left within her.

Hibba quietly abandons her periphery and her long withheld inhibitions. She walks anxiously, though carrying a chunk of grit on her frail shoulders. She enters the local police station; her legs tremble as she stands besides the wall. Hibba takes a moment, regains her left over strength and sits on the chair in the corner. Words wobble as she pours out her harrowing tale intermittently, and her struggle rolls down her cold cheeks like a splash of hot lava from the otherwise dormant volcano.

In over an hour into the unraveling of the years of surrender, the air of melancholy gradually eases and a sense of stoical calm begins to settle in her strained nerves.

The next day’s newspapers were filled with her gut- wrenching journey.  And although, it might take a lifetime for her hideous scars to heal; Hibba has finally unshackled herself for she did not wish to die one more time.

Image source: pixabay

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