The Fear Has Teeth

I keep replaying the look on Pulkit’s face, as if the blow were an answer and not merely violence. I did not give him a reason. I think that is what frightens me most. If a person can decide that nothing is enough to deserve an explanation, then every performance I have ever given him was built on a lie I did not know I was telling.

I saved what I could without naming anyone, but my hand shook badly. I wanted certainty, and all I had was a cheap phone, a throbbing bruise, and an uncle whose “keep safe” felt both astonishingly kind and completely useless. Kindness from a stranger still frightens me. It means somebody saw what is happening and might now expect something from me.

The worst part is that part of me is already calculating escape. Not only tonight, but permanently. My mother would ask why. My friends with honest careers would pity me. Everyone would hear about Pulkit, and then they would look at my face and start forming the story themselves.

I am afraid of what I may have to do to prove I was here. I am more afraid that survival will depend on making people believe a carefully edited version of me. Apparently even catastrophe has to be packaged.