Those Faded Faces

A Shade Fucked Up

I talked to a friend at Skype this dawn. After three long years I had spoken to her again seemingly vis-à-vis. We had to laugh at how chubbier we had both grown to be and laughed even more as we still believed ourselves to be the most wonderful creatures on Earth, not to mention the sexiest. We had fun in our way, the way we remembered it since college.

She asked me how I was and I told her I was missing my husband and that it hurt so much. She laughed at me, saying it was my fault for not going to Dubai in the first place while a lot of my friends had been begging me to come. Leaving my country didn’t appeal to me that much now. Leaving my hometown didn’t appeal as much either.

Yet what caught my attention wasn’t at all the fact that she had grown older and more mature. After all, in our group, not only was she the one lacking in height, she was also the most childish-acting. What caught my attention was that she suddenly stopped speaking, tucked a lose strand of her black hair and forced a chuckle.

Then she had to turn sideways to show me a bruise that resembled a hand across her left cheek.

Imagine the shock I had to go through. We had often warned her in the past about being too in love with the idea of love, giving herself fully to all her relationships without minding the consequences each might have on her very self. But this was too much.

She finally revealed to me that the man she was in love with now, father of her son, man by her side when she vowed eternal love, was actually a sadist.

I had to laugh first. There shouldn’t be anything of such in real life. Should I just take that as she said it was and believe that Christian Grey was a man walking in a different color and in a different suit and was actually married to one of my friends?

I mean, I’ve seen his pictures with her. I’ve seen how they cuddled close in each and how he had sent her flowers each anniversary and each affair that passed the year. I’ve seen how ruggedly handsome he was and how capable he was of taking care of my friend.

But as she went on and on about how her marriage now was at the brink of a divorce because of another woman, I guess I was right to not take it as a living ‘Fifty Shades’ story.  Because apparently, the man wasn’t a calm and reserved hero out of bed. He was a sadist. Period. He was just a shade fucked up. He was a sadist in every way she could imagine. She could not even go to details telling me about it without forcing a smile and shrugging her shoulder.

She was begging me to come to her. She had all the friends she could ever want there but just needed one who would be there to hold her. But come on, it wasn’t easy to come to someone’s aid if it meant having to go through a lot with the immigration people. I wanted to come to her and hold her as she needed. I told her I really would if I could.

Yet that wasn’t the question here. So if I came to her and comforted her and made everything seem okay, what would happen next? I asked her if she would run to him should he decide he’d worn out the first mistress of their marriage and missed his wife. SHE SAID YES. She said she would run to him anytime.

It would be easier for me to accept her answer if the man was actually every bit of prince charming and of noble hero, even as he was a sadist in bed. Anastasia fell for a sadist. Isabella fell for a vampire. But I really could not compare her relationship to those two wonders. It simply wasn’t possible.

It’s funny how love worked. The man always had his hand across my friend’s face every stupid chance he got and yet my friend loved him dearly.

Call her stupid. Call her fucked up. Call her every demeaning word there could be for how much she was in love for the wrong man. The right word was just a matter of opinion.

I call her a heroine in her own right. She was fighting a battle she knew how, keeping to her marriage vow no matter the cost. Be it for her or for her son, it didn’t matter. She was going to fight for it until perhaps she had worn herself out and probably just say everything failed. She was going to do it. I feel it so.

My advice to you – I hope you are reading this – love yourself first, darling. And it would never hurt as much.


Just re-posted this entry



I have great people around me with different stories to tell.

Each story had a face to show yet to me that didn’t matter. For each time I gazed at their faces, I couldn’t help but conclude they never looked the way their stories went.

A man cracking the most hilarious of jokes at the center of the party didn’t always mean he couldn’t be suffering from abuse, did it? Or a woman always walking tall with her chin up and her heels clacking didn’t always mean she had golden stars to her name, did it?

A face would always try to make everything seem to be from a hearty tale.

That – and more – are what I would be sharing with you guys on this new tab. (check it out. up there.)

So just read every single story of real people I have around me. And feel what they feel.