The lotus flower, a symbol of peace and tranquil. Yet, these emotions felt foreign on the hand that was donning the symbol itself. Dotted and adorned with traditional-looking designs, the existence of the symbol in such close proximity was probably unknown to the artist themselves. But I knew. I saw, pardon, I see it. Right now. The elements of other swirls and misfitting swiggles, peculiarly fitting together to form a disfigured jigsaw, its outline evident only to my ever-seeing eyes, burning onto my skin, the weight of
such false security only adding to the numbness I now feel

throughout my limbs.

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Two hours. That’s how long I am expected to wait before I
politely extract myself from the celebrating crowd in a
socially acceptable manner, before I rush out of the area,
accompanied by heavy eyes, until I turn around the bend to
find the closest portable wash basin and violently scrub the

henna off my hands into.

​

Two hours to when I realise that though the pain is gone,
its mark stays. That though the danger has vanished, it
leaves its memory in its wake, that though the criminal has
escaped, there is evidence left behind, that though the
trouble is gone, the scars remain, and that I am going to
have to live with it until this one leave and the next one
comes crashing in, silently, or with a bang.