Slate

"Mommy... My slate wouldn't clean." her daughter stretched out her tiny hands holding the slate.

Graffiti of the white oil pastel strokes filled the black shiney surface of the slate. She stared at her daughter who cowered in fear like a timid lamb.

She rubbed the slate hard with her palm wordlessly, sprinkled some water on the surface and wiped it rigorously.

A couple of hot tears fell on the surface, almost unknowningly while she tried to scratch the wax off the slate with all the might she had as if she didn't realise the futility of her efforts.

"Go and study in your room." she whispered in a low voice to her daughter who scurried out hastily.

She continued wiping the slate with tears stinging her eyes.

She sobbed noiselessly, covering her mouth, just as she did when her husband had bouts of angry outbursts every other day because the curry she made had a little more salt than he preffered or because he didn't have a good day at his office or simply because her voice was a little more audible than the level he expected from her.

Full sleeves, high necks, layers of make-up and scarves to hide her scars from the world... A forceful smile to put up a show of normalcy... But she knew her daughter was now old enough. The way some unknown fear peeped through her daughter's eyes these days... The way her tiny body flinched in her sleep.

She kept looking at the face of a monster her daughter had tried to draw on the slate. The slate wouldn't clean.