Written By: DIDI

She was a flower, ready to blossom. She was so naïve, ready for love.

Yet what she got was beyond repair; what she got, would haunt her forever.

Every night, like clockwork, the deed will happen. He will take her life away, and every good memory will drown whilst she screams, trying to block him out. She tried apologizing; she tried hitting back; she tried restraining him and running away; but what could a frail woman do against her own husband?

His touch, once pure and loving, has turned into hatred and anger. Once upon a time, he cared. Now, it's for fun. Entertainment. She was his maid; she was his own personal punchbag. Beaten to the core, hurt till she was numb, but she never stopped loving him.

The screams they could hear wasn't from the TV shows and movies and whatnot; oh no, they came from a woman who was dying on the inside, hopeless and friendless - from a flower whose petals were falling down because of the hurricane destroying her.

Her words failed her. Nothing could describe her pain, sorrow, or despair. She was trapped; her voice was so small, nobody heard her shouts for help. No-one. She was a mute woman in a world of noises, and her voiceless mouth opened and closed as she realized no-one had time for her.

Her eyes – once a treasure to look into, full of sparkles, and fireworks, and life. Now, they're just a shadow of what she used to be like. When she smiles now, it doesn't reach her eyes.

His furious fits left deep wounds on her; she was consumed by all of this. Long sleeves, trousers, long skirts and jumpers became her new fashion statements. In summer, she had to make up excuses why she couldn't see her family, friends or why she couldn't go to the beach or walk outside even.

She drank herself to sleep; she drank herself so her memories would fail her for the night. She smoked up to four packets a day, inhaling and exhaling, her life becoming black and white. She moved on. She had to. It was unhealthy for her and for her babies. 

She had to smile and restrain her tears from falling as she nodded to her children, whispering, "I'm okay, why do you ask that?" If you were lucky to catch her smiling alone, or laughing wholly to a joke, it would be a moment's miracle. 

She is still trying to piece back together her heart, stitching it slowly, finding new lost bits. But not a day or two would pass without her mentioning his devilish name, or without her looking up his profile, just to check that he's happy.

Because even if he killed her over and over and over again, she still likes to believe – or fool herself – that there's still this human part to him, and that he has some remorse.

If only she knew how wrong she was. She didn't want to hear it, even from her own babies – he doesn't care. He never did.

Every night, as she goes to sleep, she still awakes in the middle of the night, panting. The flower she was meant to be, is now but a seed left to regrow. As she tries smiling and laughing, it's still not as strong. "Ain't no crying, no," she still tells herself. 

She hugs herself, hugging her feet, too. Her sobs were so soft you'd miss them if you weren't paying attention; her heart so fragile that anything can break it up into a million pieces. And gluing them all back together is something she cannot do, yet again. 

But every day she fights; every day, she wakes up to the sound of a quiet, chilly morning. No screams have been wasted, no tears have fallen, and no part of her has died. She sighs and stands up, ready to face the world, and rediscover herself. But something still stings to know. No-one was there to believe her; nobody noticed. No-one, but her children.