A chilling justice: his suffering, my unexpected calm.
Last year was a storm. My husband and I were on a 'break,' as they say, though in our conservative society, it felt more like a social earthquake. I was adrift, vulnerable, and perhaps, terribly lonely. That's when G entered. He seemed… kind, understanding. A temporary anchor. We spent time together, talking, walking, sharing moments that felt like a quiet escape. He stayed over a few times, and I thought we understood each other, respected each other's space.
One night, I clearly said goodnight, turning away. But my words, my will, meant nothing to him. Without going into the horrifying details, my boundaries were shattered, my spirit bruised beyond repair. I woke up feeling violated, used, stripped of my dignity. The shame, the confusion, the silent scream inside me was deafening. I didn't tell anyone, just tried to bury it, reconcile with my husband, and rebuild my life brick by painful brick.
Months later, after my husband and I had slowly begun mending things, a rumour reached me. G had been in a terrible accident – lost both his legs. My first thought was a flicker of shock, perhaps even a fleeting, automatic sympathy. But then… nothing. A profound emptiness where remorse should have been. It’s unsettling to admit, but I felt a cold, quiet sense of… equilibrium. He took so much from me, leaving invisible wounds that ache even now. And now, he carries visible ones. People talk about karma, about divine retribution. I don't know if I believe in it, but I find myself strangely unburdened by his suffering. It doesn't make me happy, no, but it doesn't sadden me either. This lack of human empathy for someone in such pain, it scares me sometimes. Does it make me a monster? Or just a woman who finally found a strange, unsettling peace?
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