"My name? Yes, it does not sound very Indian does it? Especially for the time I was born and when you compare it to my elder sister's name- Dipti, but you must understand something: My father worshiped the white man...he lived to please the British who were in control of my country since before my birth. Perhaps that is how I ended up married to a British man who had converted to our Religion."
"I was ten years old when my father came to me after our midday prayers and told me that he had found a man who was willing to be my husband. When my father had married Dipti off two years prior, her husband had offered him a remarkable dowry. Of course, my father's addiction to opiates  had eaten through the money little more than a year later, so we once again found ourselves sitting below the poverty lines. Apparently this man had agreed to pay even more than my sister's husband, which made my generally angry father very pleased. I admit, as the naive child I was, I could not help but be excited. My sister was in a comfortable marriage. Granted, she had been fourteen when she had been married, but none the less, she had escaped the occasional blows and screaming that occurred in our house. We were very close, so I knew she was much happier now, and had a little one on the way. I had these grand visions of a freedom I had never been able to experience living in my father's iron grasp."
"The first time I saw my husband, I thought he was so handsome. His hair was the color of the honeysuckles that bloomed between the cracks of our stone path, his eyes the most beautiful shade of blue. Even then, I knew how important it was to be beautiful. I was the youngest and the prettiest of all my siblings, though it did not matter as much for my two older brothers. I had my veil on through the ceremony and he held my small hands. I remember the way his engulfed mine, and the way his deep voice drowned out my small, girlish whispers. Excited or not, I was afraid. I had looked out over the crowd and seen my sister beaming at me after the ceremony had ended, but there was no time to stay and talk with her. My new husband was eager to take me home where he could see me without my Hijab."
"As soon as the door shut behind it, he turned to me, and gone was the handsomeness from his face. His large fingers curled over my scarf, ripping it from my head, leaving tears in my eyes. Had Dipti's husband turned so very angry so very fast? Had he looked at her with such coldness in his eyes that she could feel her soul freezing?"
"You are mine, now, Godiva," He told me simply, stroking my cheek, his hands dropping down my arm, down my side, across the then flat plains of my chest, to the spot between my legs I seldom even thought about, "And as long as you keep me happy, this will be a happy home. If you are a disobedient little Macaca, I assure you that you will learn a lesson. Do you understand me, my little Wog Wife?"
"I did not understand him. All I knew was that he was slurring at me, calling me ugly names in a tone of voice that scared me,  so I simply nodded my head, murmuring a soft, 'Yes, sir.' He smiled at me then, which made me so happy. I wanted to please him. He was my husband and that was what I was meant to do. When he took me that night, there was nothing pleasurable about it. I was too young, too small, too innocent, and he was too rough, to callus, too big. But it made him happy...and when it made him happy, he was once again the handsome man I had seen at the ceremony. If I could keep him happy, perhaps I could have the life I so desperately craved."
"We fell into a routine. Every morning I was to wake up and make breakfast for my husband and his parents who lived with us. I would do my chores, he would escort me into town where he would do business while I would do the daily shopping. Occasionally, he would buy me a beautiful dress that I would later model for him, and he would tell me how beautiful I was. His compliments gave me a reason to try harder, to keep him happy longer. He told me how he loved my child-like personality, never mind the fact that I was still a child, but while others around me seemed to grow, I did not...at least not mentally. It was easier to be a child, to find delight in small, childlike things...It helped. After the trip into town, I would return home and he would leave for business...It was during that time that his father,  a fat balding man with a thick lisp, made use of me. See, the racist bastards had never seen a 'Little Wog' before...I didn't understand why they did not simply look outside to the children playing in the streets, but then I realized..they couldn't touch those children. They couldn't use them and hit them and put their cigarettes out on their wrists to hear their sharp intake of breath...they could do all of those things to me...They generally stayed for three hours each day until my Husband would come home and I would have to fix his dinner."
"This was all I did for the next three years. It was broken by occasional visits from my sister and her husband. I hated him. I hated him so much. He was so kind, so gentle..why had my sister gotten such a man, and I had been forced to live with this monster..this filthy Dholia. It wasn't fair. My sister spoke of getting me out, finding me a safe haven, but it wasn't to be. She would leave...and my hell would start again."
"It wasn't until I was fifteen that the beatings started. I wasn't pretty anymore. I wasn't good enough. His fists slammed into me, knocking me to the ground, marring my face...my skin..but then I learned...He was happy when we were fucking. He was happy when I went down on him. Sex was power. Sex was my ability to manipulate him into not harming me...It was freedom."
"This was also the time when I began to sneak out to the dances. I would glide through the crowds- illegal, my Hijab forgotten, my manners forgotten..and the men, oh the men. They were so much easier to manipulate, to control when I lacked control in every other aspect of my life. This was the only happiness that I could find, but it held me until I was twenty years old...I have learned that my sister and her husband had been killed by our angry government...they were gone and I had never been more alone...and then my husband caught me sneaking back in the house...."
"You ugly bitch! Godiva, you worthless piece of shit. Where the hell have you been?" He gripped my hair, thrusting into me hard, my arm twisted behind my back, "Where the fuck have you been? You. Weren't. Here. Stupid. Ugly. Worthless. Slut." He twisted harder until my arm snapped. The pain was unreal. All I could hear was the echoing of his words in my mind. I never wanted to be called ugly. My beauty was all that I had..all that I was permitted to have. He continued thrusting into me, ripping, tearing, hurting...all the while screaming and hitting me..twisting my arm...Something in me snapped and as I lay there on the floor, I wished for a way to end the ten years of misery. I wished for a way to bring him as much pain as he had brought me. I wished for anything...and Luce gave it to me...When I slaughtered his parents...it was redeeming, the shadows wrapping around my heart..I took my time killing him...it was so much fun. It was beautiful..and I was beautiful...and when I died three years later of a heroin overdoese, I knew that being a demon would suit me. I would reap my pain. I would control and conquor...and it was beautiful. I. Am. Beautiful.
