She counted the cracks on the ceiling. One, two, three—there were too many to keep track of. Her tiny fingers traced the old, rough edges of the frayed blanket, trying to focus on something, anything, that wasn’t the burning pain across her arm. The mark would bruise by morning, a fresh imprint of her mother’s wrath.
Eight year old Meera had already learned to anticipate the storm in her mother’s eyes, the way the quiet would stretch thin before the rage hit. Her mistake today— a missed answer on her worksheet. This was enough to ignite it. Then came that tight slap, the whip of the belt, the harsh pull of her hair. Each blow left a scar deeper than the skin could show.
The physical pain, though sharp, always faded. But what lingered each time was harder— the cold silence after, the way her mother’s face twisted in disgust, as if Meera were a stranger, unworthy of innocent, unconventional love.
At school, she wore long sleeves, hiding those bruises and forced smiles for her friends. People missed noticing her trembling hands when someone raised their voice, or those flickering eyes when footsteps grew louder. They couldn’t see the bloody nightmares that awakened her, gasping and the endless echoes of her mother’s screams ringing in her ears.
Meera’s world was small, confined to the house where love felt alien. Yet, deep inside her, there was a quiet rebellion.
Every time she looked in the mirror, she whispered to herself, “I am more than this.”
Her bruises would heal, but her emotional scars? Yet, somewhere deep down, Meera believed that one day, she would be free—not just from her mother’s hands, but from the weight of the hurt that followed.
Word Count: 289 words excluding the title
