The atmosphere is a mixture of feelings. There are too many faces, those I know and those I don’t. Some just came here because we have crossed paths on some occasions and they are here because of some obligation. The sky is dry and the air carries with it a linger of rain. I hope it rains today.
Apparently I made this all happen. Pushed him to the limit to the point of me killing him. I had no choice! No one wants to know what really happened and so some stories about me have bloomed around this town. None of which tell my branding tale. Yes it was a branding. I have scars and recent bruises to show you. But given my circumstance I cannot be seen half naked. These clothes are boxing me in and the color absorbs too much heat.
I am expected to cry, shout out questions of why he died. Wallow in grief with my make up running over my face like a zombie. There is no point in that. In crying after being granted freedom. Everyone is sad but are they really? I have watched them talk about me as if I was a character in a book. Or a make believe movie. All of them talk about, “He was the perfect husband and a loving father”, “A gentle and caring friend”, never the truth. I have come to the conclusion of me not saying anything as it is not in line with what I am feeling. They were not there when he beat us three, our daughters and I. When he beat us and put make up on us so that we come out happy to the world. For the world to see us ok and kept.
This is my husbands funeral. Amongst these mixed feelings, I am glad he is gone…
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