Joshua wasn’t home when she emerged from the shower. He had left for the gym, like he always did after nights like those—as if lifting weights could somehow carry the weight of his cruelty off his shoulders. The bike’s roar had faded an hour ago, and with it, the last fragments of peace in the house.
Lilian moved quietly through the kitchen, her body aching in places she refused to acknowledge. Every step was a reminder. Every stretch of muscle a sting. The bruises were blossoming across her thighs and ribs like poisonous flowers. She felt them bloom with every breath, and still, she kept moving.
She made coffee. Poured it into the chipped ceramic mug Joshua liked. Placed it on the dining table. Then sat across from the empty chair, staring at the cup. Waiting for nothing. Hoping for less.
When the door finally swung open, she didn’t look up. She heard the heavy fall of his gym bag on the floor, the clink of his keys on the hook by the door.
Then silence.
Until—
“What the fuck did you do to your hair?”
She looked up, slow, measured. Met his eyes and held them. And something in her, something ancient and quiet and small, smiled at the way his face contorted. He stood there, nostrils flaring, his sweat-soaked shirt clinging to him, fists twitching at his sides.
“I cut it,” she said.
“No shit. Why?”
She shrugged. “I wanted to.”
Joshua stepped closer, inspecting her as if her rebellion lay in the dead hair now stuffed into the bathroom bin. He sneered. “You look like shit.”
“Good,” she whispered.
“Don’t try me, Lily.” His voice dropped lower, that familiar warning tone. But it didn't matter anymore. Whatever fear he expected to find in her eyes wasn’t there. Not today.
She rose from the table, slowly, her movements deliberate, calculated like every move of prey tired of being hunted. Without looking at him again, she carried her cup to the sink, rinsed it under cold water. She could feel him behind her, lingering, waiting to see if she’d apologize or cower.
She did neither.
Instead, she wiped her hands on a dish towel, draped it over the sink, and turned to him.
“Touch me again,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, but it cut through the room like shattered glass. “And I swear to God, Joshua, they won’t find your body.”
For a moment, just a flicker, she saw it—the hesitation. The brief, startled flick in his gaze like someone had cracked open a window and let the cold air rush in.
Then he laughed. Low and bitter. “Who do you think you are?”
She stepped closer. Close enough that he could smell the shampoo in her freshly cut hair. “The woman who will bury you,” she said. “And sleep like a baby after.”
And with that, she walked past him, leaving him standing there, stunned.
Back in her bedroom, she opened her diary. Sat cross-legged on the bed, her newly bare neck exposed to the ceiling fan’s soft breeze. She traced her fingers over the pages, then picked up her pen and began to write—slowly at first, then with a steady, deliberate hand, as if pouring pieces of herself onto the paper that only now felt safe enough to hold them.
Dear Diary,
I wish I could tell you the shower cleansed me. I wish I could write that as the hot water spilled down my back, it carried away his fingerprints, his stench, his weight. But even after scrubbing till my skin turned purple and raw, I could still feel his hands where they didn’t belong. They cling to me like ghosts that refuse to leave. I closed my eyes under the stream and imagined peeling my skin off, layer by layer, until there was nothing left of me that he had touched.
I stood there until the water ran cold. Until my teeth chattered and my lips turned brown. Until the ache in my body quieted just enough for me to step out and wrap myself in the towel that felt thinner than my will to keep breathing.
When I came out, Joshua was gone. The house was quiet. Too quiet. Like that silence you hear at funerals, thick and waiting.
I moved like I was underwater, my limbs heavy, dragging me down. I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the clumps of hair on the floor like they belonged to someone else. And maybe they did. Maybe they belonged to the version of me that died last night.
The good Christian girl.
The obedient daughter.
The dutiful wife.
Dead.
I pulled the diary closer and ran my fingertips over the cover. The leather was soft, worn out from years of secrets. But even the pages didn’t deserve this. They didn’t deserve the ugliness of last night.
But if I don’t write it down, did it even happen?
Maybe tomorrow I’ll convince myself it was just a nightmare. Maybe by next week, I’ll tell myself it wasn’t so bad. Maybe by next month, I’ll start to believe I deserved it.
Isn’t that how this works?
He’ll come home with flowers. He’ll kiss my forehead. He’ll call me beautiful and tell me it’s my fault for making him angry but that it’s okay because he forgives me. He’ll lie. I’ll lie. We’ll both play pretend.
And I’ll serve tea to the man who broke me.
I stood at the window and looked out at the narrow street below. The fruit seller was yelling, bargaining with a customer. A kid rode past on a cycle too big for him, his schoolbag bouncing behind him. Life outside my window kept going, indifferent to the graveyard inside this house.
For a fleeting moment, I thought about stepping out. Just walking until my legs gave up. Until I found a place where Joshua and Appa and the weight of expectations couldn’t find me. But the thought died as quickly as it came.
Because where would I go?
A priest’s daughter who belongs to no one now.
In my mind, I saw the silver sand beaches of Port Blair. I heard the waves crashing. I felt the breeze salt my skin. I saw the little girl I used to be, the one who laughed while collecting shells, who thought love meant safety.
Where did she go?
I pressed my forehead against the cold window glass and whispered to the girl in my memory, I’m sorry
I couldn’t protect you.
And then I did something I hadn’t done in months.
I prayed.
Not the kind of prayer my father would approve of. Not the polished kind from Psalms or recited at altars. But the kind you scream inside your own head because your throat is too raw to say it out loud.
God... if You’re real... if You ever loved me... please, get me out of here. Please. Before I become another ghost in this house. Before I disappear completely. Before I forget I was ever alive.
And for once, I didn’t ask Him to change Joshua.
I asked Him to change me.
To make me brave enough to leave.
Because the real truth is...
It isn’t the bruises that scare me anymore.
It’s the thought that I might get used to them.
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