Strings Attached

~Chapter 15~

When I've vomited the little contents of my stomach into the toilet and flushed it clean, I proceed to take care of my face. Rubbing it sore to get the nonexistent taste of alcohol out of my mouth.

I try toothpaste. I try soap. I try washing soda (don't know how that came to be in my bathroom cabinet), I try face wash, mouth wash, anything that I can get my hands on!

But the rotten smell of whisky (or whatever he drank) and the feel of his strange, disgusting lips against my face just doesn't go away, even though they had touched me for a second. It sure felt like eternity to me. And only when I feel my throat tightening painfully do I come to know that I've been crying all this while.

I was working mechanically the whole time, expecting that by the time I was done, I wouldn't feel a thing. And it would be as if nothing happened. But I was wrong. Also, I'm getting desperate.

I clutch the basin tighter with one hand as I crazily attempt wiping everything out of my memory with the other, running it repeatedly across the right side of my face with extra vigour. But it isn't skin deep. The taint... is not going anywhere, anytime soon.

The realization makes me stomp my feet in frustration. I wipe my blurry eyes and with renewed determination, have a go at it once again. Needless to say, I'm not successful. Simply because what I'm trying to undo can't be undone.

It's already happened. To think that I, somebody who never touched a guy as if he was burning coal, have been defiled in this manner, is unthinkable. But that's where the problem lies. I can't stop thinking about it, and wishing that it never happened.

By the time I'm done dissecting my face, my eyes have dried themselves out, and there's a strange emptiness in them that I don't like. It looks as if they've stopped caring, or don't give a sh*t. But I don't want to feel like that, not yet.

So, I quickly make wudhu to get ready to pray. The fact that I didn't wake up for Fajr is nagging me. It's my fault. I wasn't pure enough to stand in front of my Lord and He (SWT) took away this luxury from me. The thought that He didn't deem me fit to pray is so painful that my eyes begin to water once again.

I'm choking with sobs. 'Ya Allaah SWT! Will You be unforgiving too?! You know it wasn't my fault! You know I was grabbed against my will and that I'm innocent. You know my intentions were pure. Why do You cast me away, Ya Rabb? Why??'

I'm exhausted with my fitful bouts of weeping, and it takes a humongous effort to make my way out of the bathroom. Even when I do make it out of there, I slump down on to my bed and go to sleep.

So much for naught.

_____

The next time I wake up, I'm more than rested and all of my senses seem to be super alert. I can hear Ayaan downstairs, back from school and creating a ruckus as usual. There's loud music blaring from a certain room on the same floor as mine.

The sun is beating down on the street below with so much ferocity that it seems like there won't be any tomorrow. Most probably there won't be, another sunny day, that is.

And I hate myself for wasting a wonderful day like this. All the unwashed laundry in the bathroom comes to mind and I push myself to go and take care of it.

But who am I kidding? I'm not emotionally fit to get out of this room, let alone have the courage to go out on the sunlit balcony to put the clothes pegs in place. And face the people basking in the heavenly sun.