She lurks around the dark corridor, hidden safely from
“madam” who watches TV. She peeps
fearfully into the parlor. She hasn’t seen a television before.
Suddenly, a hand forcefully drags her into darkness. This hand searches her dress in a filthy
exploration and pokes her mound. She cries out in pain but only in her heart.
Who would believe her? Who would fight for her?
“Wash
these plates, you wretch!” Madam thunders. “I don’t care about how you feel and
why do you walk like that, little wretch?” before she can reply, five chubby
fingers swiftly lands on her cheek and her eye water spills slowly. If only father is
alive and mother is not poor.
She is a victim of not one abuse but multiple. “Who stole my necklace?” Another blow sends her sprawling on
the floor. “Bastard! You now steal from me.” Her
clothes are burned and she is sent back to the village, empty.
Defiled
Iris; flower once beautiful.
She died of syphilis.
Little
Maid, Rest In Peace.
Most of us have you in our homes but we treat you like a
modern day slave—a beast of burden.
Little maid, when will your light come?
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