Scar

It’s 5:15 am, I stare at the woman in the mirror before me. She’s covered in marks, all sorts of marks. There’s a bite mark on her left bicep, a missing patch of hair from the left side of her hair. She looks like a waif. And what looks like a whiplash across her upper body, from her left breast through to her thorax, almost a straight line like somebody took his/her time to draw across her body. A few other marks she can’t begin to discern. If this woman in the mirror was me, I’m sure she’s contemplating suicide, second guessing her decision to get into a marriage with a man that took off sheep’s wool with time to reveal the wild beast that lurked beneath.
I touch the bruise on my left eye, I don’t know how my make-up would cover this palimpsest from spending another night with an untamed animal. I tear up, thats all I’ve done in this marriage, that’s all I’ve contributed, tears. tears. tears. And more tears. My beautiful skin-at least thats what the boy I loved in university used to say to me, he would ask me if I ate the light or swallowed a portion of the sun from time to time in order to retain my healthy glow-is no longer as it used to be. It looks like a wasteland now, a wasteland left in the wake of an atomic bomb or a piece of plain paper that was attacked by a fat ugly child wielding a blunt pencil. I cry some more. It hurt when I sponged myself in the bathroom, when the soap met my scars, it hurt. I reach for my foundation bottle, to conceal my bruise on my left eye. If I wear my make-up right, I can hide them, the scars on my face, the ones on my body have taught me to be more prudent with my dressing. I will wear long clothes.
There’s music pulsing in the background, it’s Elastic heart-Sia. This song soothes me, takes me faraway somewhere else when I knew how to dance and laugh. Shit, my euphoria has a short lifespan, I hear footsteps pacing towards me from the other room. Oh God, It’s him. I just wore my makeup and my wig, I can’t take another beating not now, I consider jumping out the window when the door opens, there’s a hulking figure by the door. He’s just standing there,eyes fixing me to my ottoman facing my mirror, a beast appraising his prey. This beast wears a smile on his face. A leering smirk across his face. No. He’s not here to beat me. I feel less than human that I'm relieved by this. I know what he’s here for. He’s here to rape me. Again.