He gazed at her. She was walking down the street past him. She hardly noticed the gaze piercing her body. But she had the intuition of being watched. She always had. She always felt conscious of her body, her slight limp, her curved hips, and the beautifully crafted shoulders, which made people, pass a second glance at her. She knew she was not worthy of it. She felt herself falling victim to the culture which she had always tried to avoid. However, on a second thought, she understood quite well, that only she had encouraged it, that avoiding it always encouraged it. She felt agony on being speculated upon.

 

She scrubbed herself off every time she returned home from the street. As much as she encouraged it or discouraged it, she wanted to wash away every bit of it from her body. She felt unkempt, unwashed, and dirty from the gaze which made her feel naked.

 

Today, as she was walking through his gaze, his perverted eyes tore away her dress like a beast. She ran nude on the street crying, shouting, and bewildered. She tried to cover herself up, but to no avail. As much as she wanted to be independent, she wanted a shield for herself now. Back home, she locked the door, and double-locked it. Closing all the windows and checking all the rooms, she shut herself behind the bathroom. She shed her clothing and was scrubbing herself. Her skins started to burn and irritate her. She stopped and looked into her face in the mirror. She found a helpless lady, a child drowning in her own pool of blood. She mustered up her courage and cleared the steam and replayed the scene once again in front of her. She found nothing.

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