I should be mad. I should be VERY mad.
I’m forever fraught over while trying to decipher human relations. Especially those where the heart tricks the head. A young woman I know is the cynosure of all eyes. She’s sassy, ballsy and quite the feisty Sheila. Gifted with looks to die for as well as a beautiful mind, not to mention the gift of gab, what she lacks in is better sense.
Four days ago, this woman lay battered and bruised in her fiancés apartment. The git she’s engaged to is a drunken slob for the most part. I suspect he’s also a carrier of nefariously unspeakable diseases. It is rumoured that he used to dope with alacrity until a few months ago. And if all of the above wasn’t repulsive enough, he looks like a cross dresser undulating a very, VERY bad hair day.
Skinny-ribs thinks it immensely macho to punch his girlfriend around for when he’s feeling powerful and Lord-like. Nothing wrong about it, especially when one is brought up to believe that women ought to be treated as door-mats. In particular, those of a sounder genetic make-up.
Anyway, point is, I’m looking at her right now – her jaw is clenched not because she’s brevity incarnate, but because it hangs loose if she as much as opens it a whisker. She can’t speak, can’t smile – her sides are swollen. She has, what appears to be a concussion from severe blunt trauma. Her arms are bruised. I’m walking all over her esteem since it lies tattered and torn on the linoleum flooring between us.
She has just lied. To me and to herself. “I walked into a door”. Gawd. Woman, that’s the flimsiest excuse anyone can manage. Where lays your ingenuity? And here’s what pisses me off – she’s not exactly the epitome of the stereotypical and docile to a fault ‘bharateeya naarie’. Known to mouth off at the slightest stimuli, her recent shopping escapades fortify her reputation as the woman with a sailor’s vocabulary. Why then, does she endure the drunken stupor of a colossal looser?
The tosser she’s going out with is a wastrel of ginormous proportions. His modus-operandi is pretty predictable (even for us) – drink, snog, fuck, bludgeon, gift, snog, fuck, and bludgeon. What gives?
Young women ought to be very grateful to their mum’s and grand mum’s and those before them who had the gumption to stand up and be counted. To think of all the laws that have been enforced to protect women from physical abuse, one would imagine making use of them when needed. Instances like these traduce them to nothing more than a monumental waste of time when educated and liberated women endure such degradation.
I’m enormously disappointed also to learn that she’s back with her repugnant consort. He deserves to be pushed off the stairs or worse.
What exactly can she not see about this character? What is she hoping to achieve…- transfiguration through abasement with voluntary suffering? That which would seem like a descent to hell in the eyes of the world is for her the path to the absolute.
Nobody, as women say, escapes their destiny.
