The girl who had a voice.

The girl who had a voice.


She stared at the ceiling.
 She let her voice trail to the nape of his neck.
She stared harder as the drops of tears ran down her face,
And blood down her legs.
She was crying into muffled groans
God was wicked she thought.
Only if the hole hadn’t been so small the rod going into her vagina wouldn’t have hurt so much.
Only if she did not have the vagina this man would not have been fucking her.
Only if she did not have a voice she wouldn’t have raised it at the man and wouldn’t have been teared like he was trying to pull out her skin and scalp.
The fear in her, he said, provoked him to go down on her, to go inside her. It turned him on.
What a savage beast he must be, feeding on fear and ecstasy running down his skin at the smell of horror.
She stopped struggling.
Her hands weren’t beating his back anymore.
They were resting like a corpse on the bed that had been stained and drenched in her blood.
Her voice was lost somewhere where she had first found it. She will never find it again. Perhaps, she had said too much.
She should have girled up and ignored his remarks on how he would like to lick and eat her as if she was some piece of cake.
She had said too much so he took it in his hands to silence her. Forever.

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Isha Choudhary

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