The Letters In My Diary I Will Never Post

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I’m an orphan. My father abandoned us when I was three. He was a drunkard. My neighbor has told me. My mother said he was a man of dignity. He loved me.
My mother? She died of brain hemorrhage when I was six, the kind of death caused by a clot in the brain, choking and depriving it of oxygen. I know this because I have researched about it.
I like to look up random things in my free time.
I was never educated in a school.
Did you know that the brain clot is caused by extreme levels of mental stress? We were unable to pay our bills, and she had to place my three years old brother for adoption. She was a seamstress, she had hopes in me.
Before you start sympathizing with me, let me tell you who I am.
I am a slut.
I sell my body to feed it.
I don’t want your sympathies. In our society, sympathies are not for sluts.
And it feels like I’m robbing a failing bank.

I had an honorable childhood. Ragged clothes, and chunks of food to satisfy my malnourished stomach, that’s the biggest amount of honor I have had in my life, for I wasn’t contaminated then.
My neighbor, a woman of forty five, the only true companion my mother ever had, she was my second mother. For she raised me after my mother, like I was her last memory of her beloved.
She taught me how to sew. She taught me how to live an honorable life.
My father? Had he ever been alive for me to come back for me? No.
When she was almost sixty, my first suitor showed up.
A grinning middle-aged man, nice clothes, I still remember the Cologne he was wearing.
I was married to him, and taken to this big city. My mother? I could never pay her back, I couldn’t see for her burial, For I never saw her after that.
In that big city,
I was sold.
I sobbed. I cried. I died. But death doesn’t come that easily. My innocence cried for mercy. There came none.

It hurt, I wanted to scream so loud the world should turn deaf. But wasn’t it already deaf enough?
I got used to the pain, the suffering.
In the beginning, I was kept under guard, and now? They don’t think I can escape. I’m allowed to go out as I please, for this is where I’ll always end up. This is my home now. I belong here.
When I go out for work sometimes, and I stop by at some dinner place, people look at the lonely woman with suspicion, some with bitterness and hatred, others with a desire.
People keep their females away from my bad influence. Women look at me with disgust.
Men and women like you.
Sometimes I enjoy the reactions. Little do they know that their share of being horrified at the humanity is so slim.
And mine? Well…
So are we friends now?
Can I open up my darkest secrets in front of you?
I told you I don’t need sympathy. I need a friend to talk to.
I need to feel human enough.
Did I tell you about that well-respected man I saw in the family Park yesterday? He was with his graceful wife and two daughters. Not a trace of recognition on his face, for he’s an honorable member of the society, for he pays; for taxes and bills, and for my body.
He’s my weekly client.
They pretend to forget me. I remember them, for they scar my soul.
I visit the family Park sometimes, to be mocked by my deprivations.
I see families, I smile at kids I’ll never have, and I envy every respected wife I can never be.
My husband didn’t bother to utter the three words to set me free from this marriage.
Maybe he did it later. Maybe our wedding was fake.
I don’t know if I was ever married. I don’t know if I have been divorced. I don’t know if I am a married woman.

Sometimes, I wonder if my dad would ever show up on my doorstep.
I won’t recognize him and he won’t remember producing me. Is he like all the other men who molest me, as a client? Or will he protect me?
Are you alive dad? Do you remember creating this misery?
I never get answered.
Oh wait, I didn’t tell you about my mother’s daughter.
I didn’t tell you how I dress up in pretty scarves, just like my mother would have wanted me to be, and go to the far-off grocery stores sometimes. Women greet me. They tell me I’m pretty. I steal the respect I crave for.
Oh the bliss! I’m the happiest person when I’m my mother’s daughter.
In hijab, people don’t see the stain, the contamination.
I’m a stained white cloth.
To escape my reality and be respected in this society, I either need to be a man or a wife.
I’m neither.
I’m agony and I’m shame.
I’m claustrophobic in my own body.
I yearn to be loved.
But I was born with a stomach. Can I escape this life? I don’t know.
I am in a puddle with the scarlet letter imprinted on my whole body. I need help. Will you help me?
I don’t expect you to. It’s okay to say no. I understand our society. This is how it is. Thanks for being my friend for a little while.
– The letters in my diary I’ll never post…

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I’m a student of Literature who recently began to write.
I’ve lived all my life in Pakistan and stayed in the USA for a year.
I’m a student Journalist and a fictional content writer.