I rubbed the rug agilely. There was still a pellucid maroon spot that had seeped into the fur and refused to get washed away. It was mother’s favorite carpet in the house. If there was anything she was particular about, it was the spotlessness of her room. The imagery in my mind is really vivid.
I would not like you to skip the details. We will go through it every day till you reach the end without stopping. I’m proud of you.
I kept fiddling with the threads till I had the nerve to trim the carpet with her eyebrow scissors to let the minor details skip her hawk eye. I got up and went and washed myself. The first month, water pouring down my body had worked. I had felt the filth vanish but after the twentieth time, my body still felt worn out. You know, you keep eating Kellogg’s in a bowl and you wash it after breakfast, it’s spotless but after some months, the color of the ornament starts to fade.
Your body is not a bowl, Mariam.
Mother would never notice; I would always keep the sheets clean, but I told my teacher to not confine the act to the carpet. It was hard to scrub off if I bled. He wouldn’t listen. I was naive to think he would listen to anything after I had slapped him across the face with the mosquito racket. He was an animal, but you see- I had given in. I had given into the brutality that made me question the existence of our savior and I had given in to the ruthlessness that made each nerve of my body ache.
Describe the first time. It is very important that you do not skip the parts.
It was a day after my eighth birthday, and I had gotten arts and crafts supplies shipped to me from Dubai. My father adored my sketches. I had made one of his with a tall building behind him, that day. He thought it would be better if I had colored it in with pastels, so he sent those. Mother went with her friends after letting Sir Bobby inside. His name wasn’t Bobby; I don’t recall what it was, but I remember myself seeing him drive off on his motorcycle from mother’s bedroom window with B-o-b-b-y engraved on the black nameplate. The o eventually faded, but one could still make out the name. It- it was the day- um
After your birthday.
The day after my birthday, I had new oil pastels. I was so excited. I was more than excited; I was overjoyed and could barely sit still when Sir Bobby came. He smiled, one of those smirks which showed his crooked teeth and he nestled himself opposite to me. He had inquired about my happiness right away. I told him about the fifty shades of oil pastels I had just gotten. I asked him if I could show them. He shook his head. I smiled back saying that they were in my mother’s room anyway and that she did not like me going there when she’d be away. I still remember the curiosity in his eyes. As I opened my homework, he changed his mind. He wanted to see the oil pastels after all. He said that we were already late and that he’d come to the room with me.
Go on.
I broke my oil pastels that day. They had been crushed underneath me. Those colors were the only things who know what happened that day.
What happened that day?
You know, what happened.
I want to know again. Do not be afraid.
I am not scared. I am petrified. His dark, greasy raven colored hair was combed back to give a neat look, but he still looked vicious. It was something about his unforgiving eyes. His rough hand covered my face, and the scent of his hand was that of petrol. There was confusion; there was a lot of confusion for an eight years old. I don’t remember if I fought it the first time. I screamed. I yelled. I begged. But the shrieking echoed back. And that was it; I lay there; cold and numb on a hot summer day. My face covered in a mixture of mucus and tears.
Did something else happen that day?
Yes. My mother scolded me for the broken pastels.
