SILENCED

SILENCED

"Why do you overreact to everything? Seriously, you women are such a pain in the head," he yelled, his voice echoing through the house like thunder. His words were sharp, laced with disdain and frustration. His eyes burned with fury, not because of what she said, but because she dared to speak at all.

"I wasn’t overreacting," she replied softly, her voice trembling. "I was just expressing my opinion, Mark."

She backed away slowly, inching toward the corner of the room. Her eyes scanned for an escape, her body already anticipating what would come next.

"Shut up! In my house, you are not allowed to speak against me!" he roared, taking long strides toward her.

She didn't move fast enough.

He grabbed her by the hair from behind, jerking her back with cruel force. His other hand came up to her face, not with tenderness, but with dominance. He cupped her cheeks, squeezing, making it impossible for her to look away.

"Mark, please..." she whispered, tears spilling over her lashes. "Leave me alone."

"Shut up," he snapped, and his hand flew across her face.

The slap sent her crashing to the floor, her head hitting the ground with a dull thud. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, the metallic taste filling her senses. Pain radiated across her cheek, but worse than the physical pain was the humiliation. The helplessness.

"You’re not permitted to speak in my presence!" he shouted again, venom in his voice.

He turned to the cabinet, yanked it open, and pulled out a leather belt. Her heart dropped into her stomach.

"Please... please stop," she begged, crawling back, trying to shield herself.

But for an hour, her screams echoed off the walls, unanswered. He struck again and again, each lash of the belt burning her skin, bruising her soul. She cried until there were no tears left, her voice reduced to a whisper, her pleas drowned beneath his cruelty.

When he finally stopped, breathing heavily, he looked at her broken form with disgust.

"Go make me food, woman," he ordered.

She couldn’t respond. Her body trembled as she reached for the bedpost, using it to lift herself. Every bone ached. Her muscles screamed. Her spirit was shattered.

This wasn’t the first time. And in this world—his world—a man’s world, it wouldn’t be the last.

While he lived freely, laughed, smiled, existed without consequence, she withered in silence. Every second was survival. Every breath a battle.

Was she alone in this suffering? No. There were countless others. Women whose voices had been stolen. Whose lives had been erased behind closed doors.

He had destroyed her dreams, her dignity, her future. She had tried to escape, once. Twice. But where could she go? With no money, no support, no one to believe her... she was trapped.

The police? Her family? Society? They all turned a blind eye. She was just another woman with “troubles at home.” Just another statistic.

And eventually, she died in silence, without justice. Without peace.

Years later, her daughter found her diary. A worn leather journal tucked between floorboards, filled with ink-stained pages of pain, of a mother she barely knew.

"That's so tragic that this happened to her," the woman whispered, her voice catching in her throat. Tears welled up in her eyes as she traced the handwriting with trembling fingers.

The woman who had given her life had received none in return. Not even after death.

No justice. No closure.

Just silence.

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