In a way almost unconsciously, she turns her head towards every shop window. She doesn't notice the objects displayed, not even bothered what type of shop they are. Her looks linger only on the reflection on the glass. Rather, she feels trapped in the exterior. It's not her own reflection she is looking at, nor to observe whether her hair is wind swept, or her new blouse looks good. Her vision detains far beyond her back, to something she can't see but threatened by, the hell from which she feels she can't escape.
Walking on. She feels the invisible terror stuck at the back of her neck. She jumped at hearing some quickening steps behind her, a smell, a sudden stop of someone's pace almost paralyses her heart each time ... and her throat tightens, dry and near choking, her body covered with cold sweat, and she can hear the cruel insults, the image of a flashing and pointed knife just inches away from her face ... Even her skin feels painful now. Then the face of the man who once told her he loved her ...
But she is in the street. For the moment she is safe, alive. What about after she turns the corner into another street she must pass to reach home?
Two more women were killed yesterday in Catalunya by their husbands. Hundreds were killed in the last 4 years in Spain by their husbands, ex-husbands, boyfriends, ex-boyfriends. Would it be her turn today?
When and who would change things so that one day the shop window glass would show her the reflection being only the stubborn wayward curl on her forehead?
Tags: truefiction, reflection
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