The Devil's Headquaters

in fiction •  7 years ago 

..And the devil has his headquarters in my house.

There was always no need to cry because tears could do very little for me. And for my aunty (guardian) to catch you crying? No. It was not the nicest scenario for anyone. I would sleep by 2am after a very long night serving at her beer parlor and wake very early by 4am to start cooking for the children.

I did not complain. Complain to who? My parents ? Naaah. They wouldn't offend my aunty. Offend someone who was training their child? No, who would do that? I complained to my heart. At least, it would not report to my aunty that I had been complaining.

At the beer parlor, I had the most terrible moments. "Hey girl , come and give us another bottle!", A half drunk man would call at me. When I get to where he and his friends were sitted, he would reach out his hands to touch my breast or waist. I would shrug and walk away , giving him a long bad look.

" Madam, that your girl is very rude! Imagine she walked out on me!", they would report to my aunty. On such nights, I get severely beaten and just forget about dinner.

Now, I'm married, after a very hard life, to a man who was 'arranged' for me. Now, the devil has his headquarters in my house.
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Only sad that this struggle's existence exceeds the worlds of fiction..

Very pathetic.