Her hand slipped out of his, as soon as he fell asleep. The evening episode still fresh in her mind, she flinched, as she felt the bruises on her soft hands. He had complained about the rice being undercooked. Yet again. She stifled a sob as she lay there, still as a statue, scared she might waken him. She turned slowly to look at him in the faint light that streamed through the slit in the heavy curtains. The slender beam of light failed to soften his harsh features.
Four years, and she still had been unable to come to terms with this life. With what had become of her life. Marriage with this misogynist tyrant of a man -- all for her father's honour -- had robbed her of her very essence. Every time she looked at her reflection in the mirror, she failed to recognise the sickly pale skeleton of a woman, who looked back at her.
But, life changed. It had to. Wasn't that the rule of this world?
The eerie looking mask and the sword that he had bought from the flea market, had disturbed her, at first. But, as she gazed at the sly smile on that one-eyed mask, she deduced 'it' was there for a purpose.
The mask would not be of much help, though, except frightening the hell out of people. But, the sword -- now, that sure could be used for some butchering, eh? she thought.
And, the sly smile lingered on.
This post is part of Wordy Wednesday.
This week's prompt: Picture prompt.