The muffled voices behind closed doors

Her dupatta slid from her shoulder as she bent down to keep the cup on the table. I noticed those marks on her shoulder purpled from the blood clotted under her skin. I didn’t want to ask her again. Because I know she’s going to say the same thing she said yesterday and the day before. I see these scars every day after a night of mumbled noise of struggle. I had all kinds of thoughts in my head about what could happen inside their closed doors. I didn’t get much time to keep to my imagination after I heard her cries. Last Thursday I saw her run out of the door, crying, in a blouse that was open in the front showing her bosom, her sari in a bundle as if she was running from a predator. I didn’t see anyone chase her though, only her 6 month old baby crying louder. She stopped running to look back, then looked around and to my surprise, walked back in. May be to console her crying baby.