Pride (20/4) | OS Series: Peccatum | UPDATED- Page 19 | COMPLETE - Page 7

She lifted the glass to her mouth as she sat underneath the tarp shading her from the blistering rays of the sun, allowing the burn to soothe the thickness in her throat. She smiled wryly as she reached for the bottle, enjoying the sound of the liquid sloshing into the glass messily, staining her baggy clothes.

She knew she had put on weight in the last six months. Her body, which would once have made men turn and look twice, was no where near as well kept as it had been. She had no reason to stay in shape, really.

She only worked the bare minimum to sustain herself, taking on any client as her customer. She was no longer picky, and no longer passionate. The man would take her to a hard, uncomfortable bed, pulling off her clothes in what he hoped was seduction. She went through the motions as well, running her hands down his biceps and moaning when necessary. She would allow him to finish, and then pretend like she had as well, letting out exaggerated screams of passion that seemed to convince him.

They never came back.

But she couldn't bring herself to care. She didn't care that her eyes were too made up, the dark liner smudged to cover the dark circles that surrounded her piercing, dark gaze. Her long hair was messy and unkempt, lacking the shiny luster it had for one man. The seductive, saucy smile had been replaced by a disgusted smirk, contorting her chapped lips in a horrendous way.

She stretched her legs out on the blanket, feeling the cooled sand between her toes, the silver toe ring sparkling in the harsh light of the afternoon sun. She was waiting for one person, the one person that would show without fail.

"Bhaiyya, I refuse to pay this much for a tomato. You know how much the men in our family eat? They are a part of the BSD. They serve you, and you charge them this much? Nahi, shame on you."

She could hear the giggles of the woman's sister-in-law as the voice of the woman floated above the rest of the crowd, her sweet admonishment easily winning the heart of the vendor. Every single day, without fail, the vendor would begin by quoting a price higher than he had for anyone else. By the time she left, she would leave with the cheapest vegetables.

Their good natured arguing was a ritual, one she waited for every day. She knew that the woman would make her way towards this stall.

Every day, she would throw caustic remarks at the innocent beauty. But the woman never flinched. Her eyes were shuttered and serious, despite the revelation that she, a prostitute, had shared an intimate relationship with her husband. Retaining her honeyed smile, the woman would unfailingly bid her hello and goodbye, ignoring the venom in her remarks.

Today, however, would be different. She would not laze around anymore.

She would tell it as it was, the brutal, harsh truth. She readied herself as the woman approached, watching carefully as her sister-in-law split off towards another spot in the market. She observed the quiet murmuring between the family, the older woman clearly unwilling to let this beauty out of her sight. Grudgingly, the older woman left, but only to a vendor across the street, where she could keep an eye on the pretty girl.

"Namaste, baisa. It's a pretty day, isn't it?"

"He is not... Passionate, is he?"

For the first time, she saw a flicker of hurt in the woman's hazel eyes, and she felt a dark satisfaction. So it was true. She plowed on, knowing it would hurt her.

"Don't you ever wish he would just rip your elaborate ghagra cholis off, and expose your naked skin to this heat? Don't you want to feel his stubble graze you roughly, leaving rashes? Don't tell me you don't wish he would nip at your slender neck, Baisa. You want that, don't you? You want him to leave his mark on you, to have bruises of pleasure to hide in the mornings and to blush when someone catches sight of them. You've never felt his calloused fingertips graze at you, thrusting deep inside and causing you to throw your head back in pleasure, have you? Have you felt his tongue against you? Bringing you to the point of release, making you scream his name over and over?"

The woman was silent, her eyes downcast and pained. From her perspective, it was clear she had hit a nerve. She had finally found her weak point, and she felt the elusive twinge of satisfaction.

"I've felt that, Baisa. I've felt his hands run all over me, I've had him throw me against the wall and take me right there. I would leave marks on his back as my nails would run down him in the sheer ecstasy of the moment. He was good, so incredibly good. But you already know that, don't you? You're jealous of me. Of me! The prostitute that no one even gives a second glance anymore. Baisa, at one point, no one would give me a second glance because he was there. He wouldn't allow it. But now... It's because I won't allow it."

She felt her voice break at the end, the pain evident in her cracking vocal chords. Her voice was deep and husky compared to the woman standing stock still in front of her, listening in rapture. At least she had the attention of somebody.

"You want to know why he doesn't take you that way? Why he's not... Passionate with you? Because it wasn't passion, Baisa. It was never passion. It was an animalistic need, a desperation to heal the wounds that are lodged so deep in his heart. I gave him momentary satisfaction, a small period where he could forget his worries." She fell silent as she attempted to collect her thoughts once more. When she began again, her voice was soft, barely audible.

"He isn't an animal anymore, he doesn't need that. Because he has you. You don't just put a band-aid over his wounds so he can rip it off later and feel the pain. You heal him, filling in every cut that stings."

She took a shuddering breath, swallowing her burning saliva as she closed her eyes, willing the hot tears that threatened to spill to go away.

"He isn't trying to possess you or control you. He wants you, all of you. With me, he was... Rough. Intense. And I gave it to him. Oh, I gave it to him. I kept on giving it to him, for eight, long years. And he would take it, and I never asked for anything in return. He just took, and I gave. That was our relationship. Without it, I- I have no reason to work, no reason to live. It was all I knew. He saved me from the demons, and I repaid him. I loved him. More than I loved anyone else. I'm not lazy, Baisa, I swear I'm not lazy. I'm-"

She reached for the murky shotglass, taking a deep swig of the bottomless, amber liquid, despising the desperation her voice had taken on.

"With you, he wants to give. He gives himself to you, leaves a part of himself with you. He treats you like a doll in bed, doesn't he? A precious, porcelain doll. He's gentle with you. He doesn't pull at your hair in passion, he cradles it, doesn't he? He strokes his hands through your thick, lustrous strands, caresses it with loving adoration. He takes extra care to not leave rashes on you with his stubble, to not mark you with the pleasurable pain of his teeth. Because he can't bear to see you in pain, even if it is clouded over with desire. He makes sure you feel loved, that your pleasure comes before his. He-"

She broke off, her throat catching on the words as her tongue rested, leaden in her mouth.

"H- He loves you, Parvati." Her voice cracked with the dam holding her tears back, allowing the river to flow down her cheeks. The hot tears burned her skin, feeling like they were exponentially hotter than the sun beating down upon them. She didn't dare look up into the woman's eyes, unable to bear the pity she was sure to find in them.

To her utter shock, she felt a pair of warm arms go around her, caressing her head as a mother would a child's. Soft words of love were whispered into her worn ears, the elegant jewels that adored the woman digging into her skin. She clutched her as if the woman was her last source of strength, the only thing keeping her alive.

When they pulled back from the intimate embrace, she was shocked to see tears in the woman's eyes.

Not tears of pity, or of sadness- but of understanding. Then, without a word, the woman was gone, pressing a small sheet of paper into her hands.

It was the name of a seamstress, a place she could go when she was ready. Laila clutched the small slip in her hands, taking a shuddering breath in as she closed her eyes, letting the last of her tears flow. She wasn't ready, not yet. She needed to heal first, to remain unemployed by the side of the road. Her lack of motivation had given her a new perspective on life, a view of the harsh realities. But she would move on.

From a distance, she saw the radiant red of Parvati's ghagra shining underneath the sun. Their eyes met for a moment, the gentle hazel meeting the hurting black. Parvati raised her hand in a small wave, before slipping into the car. A tentative smile graced Laila's face, restoring for a moment, her enchanting beauty.

She would be okay.