The Confession

On my way home I saw a woman. I was on the bus; she was walking down the street. There're beautiful and scary lilac butterflies on ’r skin, pale as a sheet. The bus stopped, waiting for the green light; she was limping, it seemed she might fall and die outright. My phone rang, but I couldn’t pick up at the moment, as I was watching her through the window. Suddenly she looked up and – nope, no way – she smiled, what a weirdo. My throat felt like I swallowed nails, my head drained, no thoughts, no feelings, but finally I could understand:

The lilac bruises on the skin so pale – that was my pain, my bloodshot eyes, my tears…

Thanks to his hand.

Me and him, we used to play hide-and-seek, the one to hide, of course, was always me. When he would find me, he would squeeze my throat, he would beat the shit out of me, ’coz I was a scapegoat.

Indeed, I was a good wife.

I obeyed,

Until I grabbed a knife and slayed.

The bus moved on, I turned my head to glance at that woman once more. My own reflection, same burns, same scars, same sores. She ran away – or I should say limped away – and I killed my husband, we were both hurt and swelling, but we were free. I knew, I did a bad thing, but when I screamed for help, nobody heard. Would you judge me?

Every human being deserves a hug and a tender touch – I’ve got none. So who are you to judge?

That bus carried me away, I looked through the window as I picked up the phone. It was mum.

“Honey, how’re you? Are you out, where’s all that humming coming from?”

My chest became swiftly ticklish and tight, all I could answer:

“I’m alright”.