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My Time.

Would you prefer collecting my body as it washes up on a beach or would you rather find it hammered into the wall with your invisible screws?

Would you rather replace all the figurines in our home with my little fingers or would you rather stitch up my mouth permanently?

Would you hang the blood stained sheets on the terrace, for everyone to see? Or would you use it to strangle me for something that isn’t my fault?

Would you rather pluck out all my feathers and leave me bare or would you leave my skin scalded and scarred, like those before me?

Does it really matter which one you choose? Does it really matter if I have anything to say?
Am I a secret that has to be hidden? Am I a disgrace, too shameful to be let loose?

No, Mother, I am none of that.

I am a part of you, Mother. I am a part of your journey. You created me. You made me. Now, you suffocate me. You dismiss me. Is that why I constantly have hot, scarlet, ringing ears?

I am too little to tell you how to raise me. I know you know best. You can tell right from wrong, can’t you Mother?

I wonder why my friends are scared to come to our home. What could be keeping them? Is it Father’s violent look? Is it your incessant screaming?

I never hear you scream at Brother. I have seen him done some very wrong things, but he scares me into keeping shut. Can’t you feel my pain?

Oh Mother, I don’t think I should smother you with these little troubles of mine. You would never listen anyway.

I wonder, as I do with everything, why Father has never objected to Brother’s actions. I wonder why you never object to his actions, actions against me. Am I really that trivial?

Some people had come to our house yesterday, Mother, and you told me to get dressed for them. I wore the yellow kurta for the first time in my life. I didn’t know new clothes could feel so nice.

There was a man, amidst all those people yesterday, who kept staring at me, Mother. I didn’t like his eyes. They told me that his smiling face was just a facade. Why was he staring, Mother? I wanted to leave the room, but I couldn’t risk you or Father staining my walls after they left. It has happened before, and painting my wall yellow after it had been tainted with a deep red was a tedious task and it made my hand hurt, in addition to my back.

Is this my eternal cycle? What happens when I grow up? Can I do something for myself then? Can I choose what to wear, where to go and how to dress? Will I be subject to the decisions of the unknown person you sell me off to?

What is my fate, Mother? Is it the same as yours? Will my children’s fate be the same? Will they be murdered before they learn how to live? Will they have to learn to struggle with the mind games and the torture?

No, Mother, I won’t let them.
I will not be brushed under the carpet.
I will fight. I may be little, but I know what I can do. I have seen countless of my kind aquiesce to this life, but not me.

There’s a little voice inside my head, a voice strong enough to reach out to the entire world, if I want it to. You know everything, Mother.

I may be small, but I know I have a place in this tiny world, and that place is not beside him, Mother. He is rich. He will give me nice things, but he will not listen to me. I could see it in his petrifying glare.

I belong in a different world. A world where I won’t be made a slave to my own family. A world in which I am not the caged admirer of the soaring bird, but the free bird itself. I belong to a world where my Father would be proud to have me and my Brother would protect me.

Is this world really so hard to create? Won’t you atleast try? I know you know best, Mother, but I cannot wait any longer.

This is my time.

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