All through dinner, her father pestered her to tell him what it was that had been bothering her. She kept shrugging it off, until she worked up the nerve to tell him such a delicate story. As they were clearing the table and putting the dishes into the sink, she finally told him what had happened. She expected the hugs and sympathy that she had got from her best friend. She expected murmured consolations and little kisses. She was, therefore, completely unprepared for and terrified by his reaction.  

"IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT! DO YOU HEAR ME? YOUR FAULT YOU MISERABLE LITTLE BITCH! WHY DIDN'T YOU DO SOMETHING? YOU ONLY HAVE YOURSELF TO BLAME!"  

At first, she could not understand why he was so angry with her. And she could not explain the defensive note in his voice. Nor the intense look of pain and guilt in hisown eyes. Her initial reaction to his outburst was an incredulous self-righteousness, but this rapidly gave way to the same guilt that had attacked her that day in the barber shop. She realized that it was a serious matter. Her words carved themselves deeply into her heart because she knew they were true. It was her fault. No one else was to blame. She was the one who did not do what she was supposed to, and she had gotten her punishment. Her father was right, as he always was. She could only blame herself because she just sat there and allowed it to happen. An accomplice to an assassination. Conspiracy to commit murder. And worst of all, SHE HAD NOT BEEN AFRAID. She had actually been mildly curious at first, but fear had never come up and for this she could not forgive herself. The terrible weight of her guilt bled away her desire to defend herself. Her hands flew up to shield her ears from the torrent of accusations, and she curled herself into a tight ball on the kitchen floor, rocking back and forth . . . .  

Her father's tirade scarred her worse than the incident itself, but perversely it made her even more reluctant to stand up for herself. It ingrained an almost masochistic quality in her, because she felt that she deserved that treatment for failing the first time. It was a punishment that never ended.  

So, the hand thrives.  

She is appraised by nearly every man that comes along; they openly stare as they believe is their God-given right. (snip) A few grin at her as they go past, showing decaying teeth in the crude leer. They reek of sandalwood cologne. (snip) Her head jerks up at the sound of a wolf whistle. She cranes her neck trying to pinpoint him, and spots him in the third-story window across the street. She tries to glare, but her own shame betrays her into an ineffectual grimace. The sound of his laughter floats down to her. (snip) A group of young boys walks past. She quickly looks away but not quickly enough. One of them spots her and points her out to his friends. Again and again they walk past her, winking and licking their lips. (snip)  

A forty-year-old merchant touches her hand across the counter, smiling slyly as he tells her how beautiful she is, and it is all she can do not to burst into tears. (snip) A young man brushes past her in the too-narrow aisles of the store. Back and forth, back and forth, until she whirls around, pleading with her eyes. He doesn't stop. He doesn't have to. She says under her breath, "excuse me". He doesn't even bother hiding a smirk as he leaves. (snip) The shopkeeper holds the dress up to her, ostensibly showing it to her father but pinching her breast behind this convenient curtain. Her father, oblivious, buys her the dress. (snip)  

The next time she goes into a barber shop she looks into the mirror, desperately looking for the children. But there is only one mirror. And only one reflection within.  

The children are nowhere to be found. (SNIP. THERE, ALL FINISHED!) 
 
 
 
 

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