The Marks I Hide

I keep checking my sleeve, as if the concrete dust will give me a cleaner version of the truth. It won’t. The marks on my arm are fading, but my body has decided they will not disappear without my permission. I flinched before his hand landed. That is the part I cannot file away as fear. It means I have been frightened here before, often enough for the muscles to know the move.

Divya’s article is ready, and I am suddenly more afraid of it going live than I was of Pulkit following me through Pune. If I hide behind names and careful phrasing, am I protecting the woman who trusted me, or protecting myself from being seen as what I am? Both, probably. There is no noble answer. I am the woman who survived other people’s houses by becoming whoever they needed, and now an article may drag that private machinery into daylight.

My mother’s silence during the call hurt more than the questions she swallowed. She wanted the truth. I gave her the version with no edges because I could not bear to watch her understand that her daughter is good at deception and terrible at asking for help.

I changed into the evening set and caught myself posing in the mirror. Even now, I want the maroon silk to make me look untouchable. I wanted someone to see the photograph and think, She is fine. She has this under control. I wanted to be believed without having to explain anything.

The go-bag is packed. The phone is beside me. I am frightened, but I am not running yet. Running would make Pulkit’s story about me feel more complete than I intend to let it.