They Watch Everything

They Watch Everything

I knew I didn’t belong there the moment the door closed behind me. It wasn’t gentle or welcoming, it sounded final, like something had been decided for me without my say. His family were already in the room, watching me before I even had time to take in where I was. Their eyes weren’t warm or curious, they were measuring and judging, as if I had already failed something I didn’t even understand.

I learned quickly how to survive in that house. I had to stay quiet, stay small, and speak only when spoken to. I realised very fast that even the smallest thing could turn into a problem, and here, a problem didn’t just mean an argument. I used to believe I had chosen love, that I was starting a new life and leaving everything behind for something better. Now I understand it wasn’t a choice at all, it was a handover.

He doesn’t need to shout anymore because I already understand what his looks mean and what his silence means. His mother watches me like I belong to her, like I’m something she now owns. His sisters whisper in a language I don’t fully understand, though I always know when it’s about me. Everything I do is noticed and repeated back to him, how long I stand by the window, how quiet I am, what I eat, when I sleep. There is no such thing as privacy here, not even in my own thoughts.

The window is the closest I get to freedom. I stand there and look out at streets I don’t recognise and people who don’t see me, and it feels like the world is moving on without me. England feels so far away now that it doesn’t even feel real anymore. My family feel like memories instead of people, even though I can still hear my mum’s voice in my head, clear enough to hurt, telling me to come home like it’s still possible.

I think about running more than I should. I’ve gone over it again and again in my mind, what I would take, when I would leave, how fast I could move before anyone noticed. Then reality settles in and reminds me that the gate is never unlocked unless someone is there, the neighbours speak to his family and not to me, my phone is checked, my messages are read, and even my silence is noticed. There is nowhere I can go without them knowing.

And if they knew I was trying to leave, he wouldn’t shout or argue, there wouldn’t be another chance. I’ve seen the look in his eyes before, cold and certain, like my life is something he could end without hesitation. His family wouldn’t stop him, they would stand there and watch, just like they watch everything else.

I stay. I move carefully, I speak softly, and I exist in a way that doesn’t draw attention. I hate who I’ve become here, someone who measures every breath, someone who fears every sound, someone who dreams of home like it’s something out of reach. I don’t want much anymore, just a door I can walk through without being followed, without being stopped, without risking my life.

I don’t know if that chance will ever come. I only know that if I try and fail, I won’t survive it. So I wait, and I keep everything inside, and I hold on to the idea of England like it’s the only thing that still belongs to me. However, deep down I feel the truth settling in, that I may never leave this place, that I am too far from everything I know, with no money, no support, and no one here who would help me.

It feels like the end has already been decided, and all that is left is waiting for whatever comes next, hoping I don’t lose the last parts of myself before it does. However I will probably die here, India is so far away From the uk. I have no money, no friends. So it’s over I await my death, hoping it will come soon before we have the chance of me giving birth to more slaves.

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