What have you done?!

Her marriage was crumbling.

Every morning, an argument. Every evening, a drunken brawl. Every night, desperate sex to quell the anger. She knew that it was unhealthy, and knew that she had to get out. Despite the make-up, and the sunglasses, and the spray-on tans, her family was getting suspicious. It was hard to hide the after affects of her husband's dark appetites. The rope burns on her wrist, the weals on her back from the whip lashes. Dark pleasure turned to a twisted, darker pain. She feared sleeping each night, and dreaded waking each morning. It was a world of no escapes, for the trophy wife had none. Locked away from the world, only venturing out on her husband's arm...

She was dying.

It wasn't a physical ailment, or a psychological fear, or even a broken heart. She was dying in her spirit. Depression had taken hold, but only his physician was allowed to see her. The humiliation of each 'visit' still burned shame deeply into her cheeks. Her family wondered why she didn't smile so much. At least, the observant members did. Her brother. Her cousin. She found herself spending long hours away from anything that could reveal her secret. Countless hours before a mirror, inspecting her naked body; countless hours in the walled garden, kneeling in front of a flower bed where she'd buried her child. The self-abortion to save the child from a chilling future. She hadn't touched a coat-hanger since.

It was taking a toll.

She couldn't eat, she couldn't contemplate it. Often, the woman would cook elaborate meals, sit it at her place, and sit in the chair before it. She would look at the colors, inhale the aromas, and then rise, throw the food out, wash the plate. She couldn't read. Many times, she went to the library, touched the spines of the books, pulled one off of the shelf, sit on the couch and open it, leafing through the stark black and white colored pages, rise and put the book back on the shelf. She couldn't paint, which had once been the greatest joy of her life. She would often set up a canvas, fill her paint tray, lift the brush, and stare at the white expanse. She never cried, though she always picked up the paint tray, hurling it at the canvas in a rage. She always cleaned the mess. She always disposed of the canvas.

She couldn't feel pleasure, or pain.

She would lay in bed, cheek pressed to his chest, body slick with perspiration, red hair darkened by sweat, sheets stained with blood. No matter what he did, she didn't feel desire or pleasure. No matter how he touched, or how he tried. She made no sound, made no eye contact, and made no love. No matter how he tied her, whipped her, smothered her, she felt no pain. She couldn't cry out when he cut into her skin. She didn't cry when he bruised her. There was nothing left in her, just an empty shell of what was a woman. Her life held nothing.

She could remember, though.

She remembered playing soccer with her cousin, posing for pictures with her brother, and falling asleep on her father's lap. She remembered parkour, and Shaheen. There were memories of falling in love, and loving enough to let that someone be happy with someone else. She could recall college, and the fun years. She remembered her daughter, fathered and birthed for the man she loved. She could remember painting with Glass, and laughter with her other friends. She remembered so much. Especially the day that the match had been made. She remembered the wedding, and the gentility on the wedding day, and the brutality of the wedding night.

She remembered so much.

Yet, in a spralling villa somewhere in the middle of Spain's countryside, Bethel Salinas felt utterly forgotten.