Slowly, you ruined her. At first, it was a neophyte’s try.
It was like stabbing her at the back. Wounded, but not enough for the kill.
Booze at every table, girls in skimpy clothes, sweat glistening under the sinful light - it was a whole new world opposite to what
was taught.
By 12, the deserted house was in full swing. The club was
crowded, hot, and people were connected hip by hip. To move was to squish
against bodies. To drink meant you either suffer from depression or you want a
casual one-night stand. To dance was to flirt and welcome groping with open
arms.
The putrid smell of different kinds enters your nose. From
sweat to perfumes, it wouldn’t matter. What would was how you’d groove and
blend in the crowd.
Girls you knew from school and even guys that never seemed
the type to party is there. You watch them as they move expertly through the
crowd as if partying was second nature. You observe them and realize they were
a new kind of specie in the dance floor.
Slowly, you find the courage to do what everyone else is
doing. You start by shredding your shawl; cat walked like everybody else into
the dance floor and follow the groove.
The second and the next time that followed, it was like a
bullet shot through the heart. Killed in a breathe.
You go into a club, you do not see yourself. But you are
there, standing in the middle of the crowd, shedding every dignity you’ve got
like everybody else. This time, it is you who is observed. It is you who sets
example to the neophytes that you used to be.
You know the reason but you did not fight for her
contentions, you neglected her values and principles just like everybody else.
You swing your hair and grind your hips into another’s to
get into the groove under the sinful light. Your modesty is long gone and Maria
Clara is dead. You killed her. A bullet of false liberation through her heart.
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