the silent funeral of a living soul

She was never born to be broken.

Yet here she was — lying wide-eyed in the same bed that once held her wedding dreams, now a coffin of hope, cold sheets crumpled with the scent of silence and sorrow.

Her name once danced through the house with love, laughter, and small dreams tucked into her sleeves. Now, it was a name barely whispered. Her voice — once soft and warm — had become a sound swallowed by walls that only echoed back pain.

She was a wife. But never his partner.

She was alive. But I've never really seen it.

She had a husband. But never his love.

But it wasn’t always like this.

In the beginning, he was gentle — focused, ambitious, and full of ideas and passion. He would hold her hand at night and whisper dreams into her hair: the company he would build, the life they would share, the family they would raise. She believed every word.

Then, one day… the dreams shattered.

His company — his pride and obsession — crumbled overnight.

Betrayed by his closest friend.

He was cheated out of everything he had built.

Swallowed by debts. Choked by shame. Crushed by a world that never forgives failure.

He didn’t just lose money.

He lost control. He lost identity. He lost himself.

And with the ashes of his downfall, something inside him snapped.

He began drinking. First, just to forget. Then, to survive the screaming in his own head. He drowned in cheap wine like it was medicine for the sickness eating him from within.

His eyes, once bright with ambition, turned glassy and hollow.

His touch, once warm, turned violent.

And his words — they became weapons.

The man she married disappeared.

And in his place stood something darker… something feral.

He came home, reeking of alcohol and anger. No longer the man who used to hold her waist at the kitchen sink. Now, he pushed past her like she was air. If she spoke, he shouted. If she cried, he slammed doors. If she asked why, he raised his hand.

He was lost in a prison of madness, spiralling deeper each day.

And she — the woman who once wore bangles of hope and sindoor of love — became his punching bag.

His emotional garbage bin.

The target of all his rage and helplessness.

He blamed her for everything.

“You brought bad luck.”

“If I hadn’t married you, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“You’re useless. Just like everything else in my life.”

The bruises started appearing — first hidden, then impossible to ignore.

His fists became answers.

His silence became punishment.

His eyes no longer held love — only fire, cold, and cruel.

She tried to reason. To understand. To remind him of who he used to be. But reason doesn’t work on a man who has become a beast. A man who no longer sees his wife as a human being but as a reflection of everything he lost.

And worse than the beatings was the mental torture.

He made her question her sanity.

He mocked her silence. Laughed when she cried.

He would disappear for nights, then return to accuse her of betrayal.

He broke her not with swords — but with doubts, shame, and isolation.

She began to believe she deserved it.

That maybe she had failed him.

That maybe she was the reason he lost everything.

And still, she stayed.

Because deep down, she remembered the man he used to be.

And somewhere in that shattered soul, she hoped he would return.

But he never did.

He became worse.

A monster in human skin.

Unrecognizable. Unforgiving. Unreachable.

She stopped wearing lipstick. She stopped calling friends.

Her world became him — and he was hell.

Then, one day — a day no different than the others — she collapsed.

Her body couldn’t take it anymore.

The bruises, the starvation, the stress, the weight of silence pressing on her chest like a slab of stone.

She fell to the floor, breath shallow, and heart barely hanging on.

And he stood there.

Watching.

Glass of wine in his hand. Face blank.

She reached out to him, eyes wide, lips parting for a final plea.

For help. For mercy. For anything human left in him.

He turned away.

Took another sip.

And walked past her like she was a stain on the floor.

Her body shook, then stilled.

She died.

Not by poison.

Not by accident.

But by a slow, calculated death, he designed with neglect, rage, and cowardice.

He didn't need a knife.

He didn't need a gun.

He killed her with his indifference.

---

They said it was natural.

They filed the paperwork.

The neighbours said she was "quiet, reserved."

They never knew the screams she swallowed daily.

But the truth remained inside those four walls —

etched into the bruises that would never fade,

and the silence that now screamed her name.

She wasn’t killed by strangers.

She was killed by the man who once promised her forever.

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