Writing Prompts #1
She opened her apartment door to hundreds of roses. She knew they were from him: he had finally found her.
The grocery bags in her hands suddenly felt heavier. She had trouble breathing. How, how in the seven hells could he have found her. She covered her tracks well, moved 500 miles away, changed her identity and still lying all around her were these flowers, these beautiful symbols of his horrific love for her. No, not love, addiction. Because people don’t hurt those they love, at least not intentionally.
She looked around; he wasn’t there. Then came a noise from the washroom, and she knew he was in there, her husband who not too long ago destroyed her physically as well as mentally.
Roses had always been his favourite, he even proposed to her with one. Oh how her life could be different if she had said “No” that day, she often wondered. But he was a good, loving person back then, or at least appeared to be. And they were so in love.
A month had barely passed since their wedding when he beat her up for the first time. She still remembered that night; she remembered it damn too well. How he had come home late that night, gone straight to the kitchen, drank a glass of water and then approached her with the same fire in his eyes with which a predator circles his prey.
That night she thought perhaps he had a bad day and didn’t know how to let his anger out, but she had never been more wrong in her life. Then onwards it became a regular occurrence, he would come home and beat the hell out of her, for no apparent reason.
She often wondered how she did not see that coming, was she too naive and in love to see the monster inside him or was he too good a pretender.
But after two years of abuse, she finally had enough. She finally had enough of making excuses for her injuries, of putting her dislocated shoulder back in its socket. Too many times had she cried all night. Enough is enough.
One day when he went to the office, she left that hell called home, never to return. And she didn’t mean to now. She had formed a new life for herself, got a job, an apartment. She was finally the strong independent woman she always wanted to be. But more importantly, she was finally happy.
No, she won’t let him take this happiness again. She would fight for it; she will fight for herself.
The washroom door unlocked.
‘He loves the red roses, I wonder if he bleeds the same shade of red’, she thought as she picked up the kitchen knife.
Note: This post is a part of Writing Prompts series. The bold line at the top is the writing prompt, and the rest of the post is based on it.
Nitin Sharma
