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“Crying on the Inside” is excerpted exclusively from “Curse of the Sharma” by noted Horror/Suspense Writer and Independent Horror/Thriller Gauntlet Press Publisher, Barry Hoffman who’s writing has been praised by such noted authors as Robert Bloch (”Psycho”) and Richard Matheson (”I Am Legend” aka “Last Man on Earth, “The Incredible Shrinking Man” and numerous award winning Twilight Zone Episodes) and Publishers Weekly. Barry Hoffman has written numerous novels and short stories and his Gauntless Press has published such noted authors as Stephen King, Ray Bradbury, Robert Bloch and Richard Matheson, to name a few. You can order autographed copies of “Curse of the Sharma” writing Gauntlet Press at their website by clicking here

Background on the “Curse of the Shamra” before you read “Crying on the Inside”

When the peaceful and isolated land of the Shamra is invaded and its people enslaved, a young Shamra girl named Dara must lead a ragtag resistance to defeat their conquerors. Dara’s quest is complicated by the Shamra’s cultural opposition to women in leadership roles, her own self-doubts, and those of her followers. Venturing into uncharted territory to seek allies, Dara encounters unusual creatures and dangerous lands. Her rebellious spirit is the only hope the Shamra have to regain their freedom. Does she succeed? And at what cost?

“Crying on the Inside” from “Curse of the Sharma” by Barry Hoffman

“The last wedding of the season,” Pilla said and smiled, watching Lyselle and Brin dance at the celebration after their wedding. Shamra weddings took place during the four planting seasons.

“And yours and Wren’s will be the first next spring,” Dara said, trying to muster enthusiasm she didn’t feel..

“You don’t sound overjoyed,” Pilla said.

“But I am—” Dara started.

Pilla laughed. “Are not . . . but I understand. When will you get it into your head you’re not losing me?”

“You’re not going to give me that lame ‘You’re gaining another friend’ line, are you?”

“No, but I’ll be with you forever,” Pilla said. “Yes, you’ll be sharing me with Wren, but we’ve been friends far too long for me to toss you aside. You won’t believe it until you see it for yourself, though, pessimist that you are.”

Both Dara and Pilla had been Lyselle’s friend, though Lyselle hadn’t been really close with either. Pilla actually got along with Lyselle better than Dara did. Lyselle was an even more traditional Shamra than most, and Dara often had to bite her tongue so she wouldn’t say something hurtful. Lyselle also had some of the same interests as Pilla, which Dara didn’t share. They’d knit and cook. Dara would often go into the swamps when Lyselle and Pilla were together.

“You won’t mind giving up your freedom?” Dara had asked Lyselle just a few days before her wedding.

“Not at all, silly girl,” Lyselle had answered, her eyes the deep blue of happiness. “Our males do the work, provide for us, and protect us. Daily burdens fall upon them. We females lead a carefree existence. I give my heart to Brin, nothing more. What could be better?”

It seemed to Dara that Brin was devoted to Lyselle, but Dara sensed a darkness within him she couldn’t explain. Dara, to the consternation of Shamra adults, still competed at the age of fifteen in athletic activities against males. All other females stopped competing with males years earlier. Shamra females were supposed to be lady-like and know their place in Shamra society. Dara didn’t feel at all lady-like. Competing against males stirred her blood, and win-or-lose excited her—even sustained her.

While no male wanted to be beaten by Dara, most accepted the fact Dara was a superb athlete and a worthy adversary. Brin, though, never wanted to lose. It had nothing to do with Dara’s gender. Dara and Brin often competed in slingshot contests. The winner would be the one who could break the most out of ten clay pots with ten shots. When Dara practiced in the fields with Pilla, she was often a perfect ten for ten. But if tied at seven apiece while competing against Brin, he would start talking when it was Dara’s turn to shoot.

“You’re good for a female, Dara,” Brin would say, “but when the pressure is on, you go all girly and miss. You fight the urge, but females are just inferior to males . . . no matter how much you might practice.”

Dara tried to tune Brin out, but she invariably became distracted and would miss one or two of the final pots. She took the loss good-naturedly, as did most Shamra. It wasn’t Brin’s chatter that caused Dara to lose focus. While never acknowledging Brin could be correct about Shamra females, she blamed herself for her failings. She let Brin get to her. That was her fault and had nothing to do with her gender, though. The loss would only make her more aware she had to work on her concentration.

Brin would taunt Dara for hours on end whenever he prevailed. Dara thought it odd, as Shamra didn’t hold grudges and didn’t gloat. Once a competition ended, all but Brin were friends again, congratulating one another on a well-played event.

A year earlier, Dara had beaten Brin in a race. A superior athlete, Brin refused to accept his defeat graciously.

“Dara cheated,” Brin told all who had watched the race.

“Did not,” Dara said, breathing heavily. She felt exhilarated and wouldn’t allow Brin’s vitriol to taint her triumph.

“She started before the whistle.” Brin said. “Didn’t you all see it?”

Most ignored Brin. He was known for his temper, so it was best to just let him seethe. No one wanted to contradict him. No one wanted to say Dara beat him fair and square. A few of Brin’s best friends would nodded in agreement with Brin.

“Let’s race again. Right now,” Brin challenged Dara.

“I’ve been racing all morning, just as you have, to eliminate all others. I beat you. Live with it. We can race again tomorrow, but for today, I’m the champ,” Dara said.

Dara saw Brin glare at her as if he wanted to hurt her. His eyes were red with rage. His fists were balled by his sides. He restrained himself . .. . barely.

You don’t want to cross Brin, Dara thought at the time.. Dara would have fought back if Brin had attacked her. But Dara wasn’t a traditional Shamra female. Dara wished the best for Lyselle, but what if she didn’t live up to Brin’s expectations? Dara shrugged and let her concern melt away. This was a celebration, after all, and Dara enjoyed celebrations as much as any Shamra did.

Two Months Later

Dara ran through the streets, knowing by doing so, she drew disapproving stares. “Yes, yes, yes,” she whispered aloud. A disobedient Shamra female. But she didn’t care—never had, never would. She was running to a shop that Wren shared with several other craftsmen and a baker. She didn’t want Pilla to know where she was going .. . . or that she was even gone. It was Shamra tradition that the maid of honor at a wedding give a gift to the bride. Dara was Pilla’s maid of honor. Wren, a carpenter by trade, also crafted figures out of wood.. Dara had drawn a crude picture she would give to Wren of what she wanted him to carve. It was of a creature Dara and Pilla had encountered in the swamps when they were seven. The two had fallen into a pit a swamp creature had dug and camouflaged to capture its prey. Dara had broken her arm in the fall, so Pilla had climbed out of the pit on her own, only to come face to face with the creature. Pilla had killed the beast, saving both of their lives. Dara wanted Wren to sculpt the creature out of wood. It would be a lasting reminder of her and Pilla’s friendship..

Dara didn’t see the Shamra female emerging from Wren’s shop, and they collided. As Dara got up, words of apology spilling from her mouth, she recognized Lyselle. Dara hadn’t seen much of Lyselle since her marriage. Lyselle got up gingerly, grimacing.

“Did I hurt you?” Dara asked. “I’m so sorry. It was all my fault.”

Lyselle stood, her head down. She said nothing and began to shuffle off. Dara reached out and grabbed Lyselle’s shoulder. Lyselle cried out in pain.

“Did I hurt you when you fell?” Dara asked.

Lyselle shook her head without replying.

“Lyselle, it’s me, Dara. It’s been ages, but—”

“I’m fine,” Lyselle said, scarcely above a whisper. “I . . . I have to get home with this bread before Brin arrives. I have to cook dinner.”

“I could stop by later so we could talk. You know, you could tell me how married life—”

“No, not when Brin . . . Not tonight,” Lyselle snapped.

“Tomorrow, then?” Dara asked.

Lyselle shook her head. “Brin doesn’t like strangers in his house.”

“I’m hardly a stranger,” Dara said.

“Please, I have to get home,” Lyselle said. “I . . . I’ll come by and see you when I have a chance.” She was again talking softly and not making eye contact with Dara. “I’ve got so much to do so . . . well, it may not be for awhile.”

Without another word, Lyselle walked off, limping a bit. Dara didn’t think she had bumped Lyselle hard enough to hurt her, but Lyselle walked as if she were in real pain. Dara hadn’t gotten a good look at Lyselle’s face, but she seemed . . . older. No, she seems to have aged, Dara corrected herself. Far more than the two months that had passed since the wedding. She hadn’t shown anger or irritation at being bowled over by Dara. She’d shown no emotion at all, in fact. Dara shrugged and went to see Wren with her drawing in hand.

“What is it?” Wren asked as he looked at the picture.

“None of your business,” Dara replied.. “Pilla will know and cherish it.”

“You’re an odd one, Dara,” Wren said, still looking at the drawing. “My Pilla will cherish this? he asked, holding up the drawing for Dara to see. “Something your mind conjured?”

“Like I said, it’s none of your business. Pilla may be marrying you, but she and I still have our secrets. Always will. Now, can you . . . will you sculpt that for me?”

“For you . . . for my Pilla, I’ll put everything else aside,” Wren said.

“Yuck,” Dara said. “If that’s what true love does to you, I think I’ll pass.”

Wren smiled. “When you meet your true love, you’ll understand.”

Dara left, shaking her head.

The next day, Dara went to see Lyselle. Yes, she knew Lyselle said she would come to see Dara when she had the time, but Dara felt there was something wrong. Lyselle just didn’t seem like herself the day before. Yes, Dara had accidentally knocked her onto her behind. But Lyselle’s reaction was . . . weird, Dara thought. And Dara wasn’t one to sit back and wait for others to come to her. Maybe Lyselle would open up to Dara now that she didn’t have to rush home. Shamra, after all, did help other Shamra. Dara and Lyselle may not have been the best of friends, but that didn’t matter among Shamra. Strangers helped other strangers. It was in their nature. Dara hadn’t been able to get their encounter the day before off her mind, so she decided to visit Lyselle whether Lyselle wanted her to or not.

Dara saw Lyselle working in a small vegetable garden outside her cottage. She called to Lyselle, who turned to look at Dara. Lyselle seemed to wipe her eyes with the back of her hand. Dara wondered if she had been crying. Lyselle didn’t acknowledge Dara but got up stiffly and went into her cottage. Dara stood wondering what to do. She knew Lyselle had seen her. She obviously didn’t want to talk. Dara couldn’t believe it had anything to do with the collision the previous day. She also didn’t believe Lyselle had been hurt so badly that she’d still be in pain. And what about the crying? That, Dara knew, had nothing to do with her.

Dara went home and told Pilla what had happened, leaving out that they had literally bumped into one another outside Wren’s shop. She didn’t want Pilla to know she had asked Wren to sculpt a figure for her maid-of-honor wedding gift to her. Dara had been living with Pilla since Dara’s parents had died from a fever when Dara was two.

“She acted so odd,” Dara told Pilla. “Unlike me, Lyselle is your typical teenage Shamra, and she wasn’t acting like one.”

“Typical, like me,” Pilla said.

“Hardly. In public, you act the part of a Shamra female—with your good manners, never getting into arguments, never contradicting Wren,” Dara said. “But I’ve seen your other side. You’re almost as athletic and competitive as I am when we go into the fields, away from prying eyes. And that one time you went with me into the swamps . . . you were nothing like the Pilla I see in public. Nothing like the typical Shamra female.”

Pilla shrugged. “I guess, in some ways, I do live in two worlds—my public face and the one you see. Some would say you’re a bad influence on me.”

“Am I?”

“Probably . . . but I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Pilla said. “With you, I’m never bored. And you make me question the place of females in Shamra society. So you can continue to be a bad influence on me, regardless of what others feel. Now tell me how has Lyselle changed?”

“She used to laugh a lot. She flirted with males, even when she and Brin were engaged. She was a prankster, and we both know how she loved to gossip and listen to others spread lies and half-truths.”

“And now?”

“Yesterday was the first time I’d seen her since her wedding. She no longer goes out with the rest of us to the river to bathe. She seemed . . . I don’t know . . . on edge, I guess you could say. She didn’t make eye contact with me, but her eyes darted back and forth, like an animal fearful of attack. And for someone who had been so loquacious, she was almost mute. And this morning—”

“You already told me,” Pilla said. “Your curiosity is getting the better of you again, Dara. Lyselle said she would come to you, but you had to go to see her. Marriage won’t change our relationship, but the lives of others change drastically when they take their husband. Let it rest, Dara.”

“Like I would,” Dara said, her hands on her hips.

Pilla sighed. “That’s what I feared. Well, it was worth a try.”

“So what do we do? Should we both go to her cottage?” Dara asked.

“I’ve got a better idea,” Pilla said, warming up to the challenge. “Her house is her cocoon. Her territory. She doesn’t have to let us in. And if she does, she can tell us to leave whenever she pleases.”

“So we have to speak to her somewhere out of her comfort zone,” Dara said, understanding Pilla’s logic. “Somewhere she can’t flee when we confront her.”

“Chat with her, Dara,” Pilla corrected. “Let her know we’re there for her if she needs us. But, yes, somewhere she doesn’t control the environment.” Pilla looked up at the sun and smiled. “And I know just the place. At noon , like most Shamra females, we go to bathe.”

“But—”

“Patience, Dara.” And Pilla explained her plan.

Shortly before noon , Pilla led Dara to the river where other Shamra females bathed. Both looked at dozens upon dozens of females their age splashing water on one another, chatting and laughing.

“Like I tried to tell you, Lyselle isn’t here,” Dara said.

“I never said she would be here,” Pilla responded. “I just wanted to make sure. Now, follow me.”

They walked half a mile, following the river. They heard someone humming quietly. From behind a tree, Dara saw Lyselle bathing alone.

“How did you know?” Dara asked.

“We’re best friends, but we’re not inseparable,” Pilla said. “When you go into the swamps, I don’t just sit at home waiting for you to return. A few weeks ago, I bathed with the others, then decided to go for a walk. And guess who I spotted?” Pilla asked, pointing to Lyselle. “I didn’t think anything of it at the time. She was humming like she is now. I didn’t want to disturb her. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be alone.”

Dara walked to the riverbank. Pilla followed.

“Hi, Lyselle,” Dara said.

Surprised by their appearance, Lyselle crouched down in the water so only her face was visible. “What are you doing here?” Lyselle asked.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Dara said. “Avoiding everyone. Why do you bathe alone?”

“I’ve always been modest,” Lyselle said.

“That’s nonsense,” Dara countered. “Before you married, you bathed with the rest of us and enjoyed yourself as much as anyone.”

“I . . . I got tired of all the gossip,” Lyselle said. “Now that I’m married, I don’t want to talk about Brin behind his back, and I don’t want to hear what others have to say about him or their boyfriends or husbands.”

“I could almost believe you,” Dara said, “if you hadn’t ignored me this morning. If you hadn’t been crying.”

“I . . . I didn’t see you.”

“You don’t make a convincing liar. You can’t even make eye contact with me now, for fear I’ll learn the truth.” Dara jumped into the river, fully clothed, and waded out to where Lyselle crouched.

“Stay away from me!” Lyselle shouted. She looked around, as if trying to find a way to escape, but Dara was soon next to her. Pilla was also making her way over to Lyselle.

Dara saw Lyselle’s back and almost had to avert her eyes. Her back was full of scars, some fresh, but others fully healed. Pilla saw them too and gasped.

“Brin beats you,” Dara said. There could be no other explanation. “That’s why you bathe alone—to shield yourself from others.”

“It’s none of your business,” Lyselle said. Dara was aware Lyselle hadn’t denied her accusation.

“We’re Shamra,” Pilla said. “Your welfare concerns all of us.”

“I know you mean well, but please don’t get involved,” Lyselle said. She was visibly shivering, though the water was warm and the sun was beating down.

“I don’t fear Brin,” Dara said. “We’re not going to abandon you because he is a bully.”

Lyselle shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “I get what I deserve.”

“No one deserves—”

“I’m far from the ideal wife Brin expected,” Lyselle interrupted. “I don’t pull my weight on the farm. I don’t anticipate Brin’s needs. I can’t even get pregnant and give him the sons he craves.. I try, but . . . I’m just not good enough for him. Brin doesn’t want to hit me, but I bring it upon myself. And he’s always sorry afterwards. He always gives me another chance to prove my worth.”

Pilla hugged Lyselle. “Where do you get these notions that you have to prove your value so you won’t be beaten?”

“My father often . . . still does, quote the words of the prophets, as spoken by the clerics,” Lyselle said, pushing Pilla away. “He tells me I was lucky to win the heart of someone like Brin. I’m plain. I have no great talent. I’m not nearly as smart as you, Pilla. Still, Brin chose me. My father tells me to do as I’m told—cook, clean the house, and give Brin many children. Brin isn’t wrong when he punishes me for my failures.”

“Your father hits your mother,” Dara said. It wasn’t a question.

“We females must know our place,” Lyselle said, not directly answering Dara’s charge.

“Stand up for yourself, Lyselle,” Pilla said. “Your father has misinterpreted the words of the prophets. You should be a good wife—devoted, obedient, and respectful— but no husband can demand perfection. And no husband can abuse his wife for her failings. It’s never been the Shamra way. You can’t allow yourself to be brutally beaten. Go to the clerics, and have your marriage severed. Dara and I will accompany you.”

“No, no, no,” Lyselle said. “You haven’t been listening to me. Brin is a good provider. He loves me. He can be tender. I bring his wrath upon myself because I’m a failure as a wife. He deserves better, and I’ve vowed to him to be the wife he expects. I have no desire to see my marriage severed. I have no desire to be the one others gossip about when they bathe. I can’t live with others knowing my failings. And I’ll never find anyone else as good Brin.”

“Lyselle—” Dara started.

“I’ve had enough of you prying into what doesn’t concern you. You’ve had your say, and I respect your advice. Now have enough respect for me to let me lead my life. Stay out of my business.”

Lyselle pushed Pilla aside and made her way to the riverbank. She put on her dress and looked at Dara and Pilla. “Leave . . . me . . . be,” she said, emphasizing each word. “I don’t want to see either of you ever again.” She walked off.

“What do we do?” Dara asked.

“We . . . we respect Lyselle’s wishes,” Pilla said . “She knows we know of the abuse. She’s scared, but she now knows she has someone she can confide in. Not today, not tomorrow, but one day she’ll get fed up being Brin’s punching bag, and we’ll be there for her. That’s all we can do.”

Dara didn’t argue, but she wasn’t content to sit around and wait for a bloodied and battered Lyselle to seek them out. She had no plan, but she knew something would come to her. For now, she just nodded to Pilla, and the two of them went home.

The next day, there was another slingshot competition. And, again, the final two standing at the end were Dara and Brin. Dara hadn’t planned it . . . hadn’t planned anything, but after each had knocked down seven pots without a miss, it was Dara who began talking.

“You’re a coward, Brin,” Dara said.

“Still good enough to see you fail . . . again.”

“Tell everyone what you do to Lyselle,” Dara said, “so all gathered can hear.”

Brin said nothing. Dara hit her eighth pot. Brin hit his.

“Tell them why Lyselle bathes alone and not with her friends,” Dara continued.

“Stop talking, and get on with it.”

Dara hit her ninth pot. Brin did the same.

“Tell them her back is scarred from you beating her. Tell them how she’s not good enough for you. How you beat her again and again,” Dara said, then hit her last pot.

Brin said nothing, but Dara could see his hand shake slightly, and his shot missed the pot.

“Tell them—” Dara started.

Bring threw his slingshot at Dara. She ducked, and it sailed over her head. She saw Brin’s eyes red with rage. He ran at her, grabbed her with one hand, and tried to hit her with the other. Dara tripped him, and both fell to the ground. They wrestled, and Brin tried to choke Dara. Dara kept slipping out of his grasp. She would roll away, and he’d be back on top of her. He finally pinned her and choked her. Dara couldn’t move from his grasp and couldn’t breathe. Suddenly Brin was pulled off of her by two of his friends.

“That’s enough, Brin,” one of his friends said. Dara had trouble focusing. Everything was a blur as she took deep breaths of air. “She’s a freak. Don’t let her get to you,” the same voice said. “Everyone knows how devoted you are to Lyselle. She lied about you to distract you. She said vicious things so she could win a foolish contest. Let her be. She’s not worth it.”

“Then . . . why was he .. . . choking me?” Dara said, forcing the words from her mouth. “Just like with Lyselle, he lost control. He would have choked me to death if—”

Brin broke away from his friends and ran at Dara. Dara stood her ground. “Go ahead, show everyone who’s vicious,” she said, her voice getting stronger.

Before Brin could reach Dara, his friends grabbed him again and led him away. Brin turned, and Dara could see the rage in his eyes. He’d lost control, just as he lost control when he beat Lyselle. He would have choked Dara to death. Dara also saw that others who had gathered for the contest looked bewildered. Dara smiled. Some—maybe just a few, but enough—wondered if Brin really did beat his wife, if he really couldn’t control his tempter. Word would spread. Someone would see Lyselle’s scarred back. Then Brin would pay for his abuse.

The next morning, Dara and Pilla were awakened by commotion outside. Wren, who had been on his way to his shop, knocked on their door.

“Lyselle’s disappeared,” he told Dara and Pilla when they answered. “Brin is going to the town square to organize a search.”

Dara had told Pilla of her altercation with Brin the afternoon before. Pilla had said nothing, but her normally emerald green eyes had turned grey. Now both Dara and Pilla were silent as they made their way to the town square.

At least four dozen Shamra were gathered at the town square when Dara and Pilla arrived. Brin was speaking in hushed tones to some of his friends, as if waiting for someone to arrive before he addressed the others. When he saw Dara, she saw a malicious look cross his face. He raised his hands for silence. He had been waiting for her to arrive.

“Friends,” Brin began. “Some of you may have heard the lies Dara spread yesterday about my wife.” He did not elaborate. Those unaware would know soon enough. Gossip spread like pollen on flowers among the Shamra. “Lyselle was humiliated. She wondered why Dara would say such spiteful things at her expense,” Brin said. “I did all I could to comfort her, but she left our house, saying she needed to clear her head. She hasn’t returned. I’ve been beside myself with worry. I’ve spoken to Lyselle’s parents and friends. No one has seen her. So, as good Shamra, I ask that we search every nook and cranny until we find my wife.” He seemed to want say more but wiped his eyes instead, as if unable to continue.

Brin’s friends organized the search into groups. Finally, only Dara and Pilla remained to be picked.

“Pilla, you can accompany Lucien and me, if you want,” Jalen said. He looked at Dara. “Brin says you’ve done enough harm already. Pray to the prophets for Lyselle’s safe return, but Brin doesn’t want your assistance.”

“Dara goes with me, or I don’t go at all,” Pilla said.

“Suit yourself,” Jalen said.

“We’ll go look on our own,” Pilla said to Dara once the others had gone.

Dara shook her head. “No need. Lyselle’s dead.”

“How do you know?” Pilla asked. “She could be by the river, where—”

“Brin’s sandals,” Dara said. “There was an insect on one of his sandals that can only be found in the swamps. He must have killed her in a rage when he returned home after our fight. He dumped her body in the swamps, knowing it is prohibited for Shamra to venture there.”

“And you can’t go into the swamps to find her, because it’s prohibited,” Pilla said.

Dara nodded. “Even if I found her body, there would be no proof Brin killed her. She wandered into the swamps, he’d say. Her body would be ravaged beyond recognition by the creatures and insects there. There would be no scarred back to support our claims. And no matter what I say, Brin has discredited me. I’m to blame for Lyselle’s disappearance, as far as most Shamra are concerned. He may not have deliberately killed her, but I lack any credibility. I can’t back up my claims of abuse. And to most, I’m the villain.”

“Would Brin actually kill Lyselle?” Pilla asked. “As vile as he is—”

“You didn’t see him yesterday,” Dara interrupted. “I humiliated him. If his friends hadn’t pulled him off me, he might have killed me in front of the dozens watching our contest. And when he left, he was still in a rage. I went too far, Pilla. I should have heeded Lyselle’s advice and minded my own business.”

Pilla shook her head. “You may have acted impulsively with Brin, but you acted like any other Shamra who sees another in distress. You acted in Lyselle’s best interests.”

“And it cost Lyselle her life,” Dara said. “I should have backed off. Thought before I opened my mouth to bait Brin.”

“That’s not you, Dara. You don’t back off. It’s what makes you unique, for better or worse,” Pilla said. “You can’t cure all the ills of the Shamra. You won’t always succeed. You have to learn to live with failure. It doesn’t make what you did wrong.”

Dara shrugged. “My head tells me you’re right. And I will think long and hard about what you’ve said. But my heart tells me I’m responsible for Lyselle’s death.”

“I don’t have your Gift of Sight, Dara,” Pilla said. “I can’t see into the future. But something tells me this won’t be the last time you’ll feel responsible for something you have no control over. You’ve got to learn to deal with it, and move on. If not, the heartache will consume you, and you’ll be no good to those who need you most. So grieve and despair, but get over it. Do you want to be left alone?”

“Without you?” Dara asked. “Never,” she said, without waiting for Pilla to answer. “We’ll grieve together. I need you, Pilla. Now and forever. You put me in my place. With you by my side, I’ll mourn and rebuke myself, but I won’t be consumed by guilt. Without you—”

“You’ll never be without me,” Pilla said. “No need to even consider it.”

“My pillar of strength,” Dara said, and for the first time that morning, she forced a smile.

The End
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Alternate Ending

[Author’s note: As with “Me, Me and Only Me,” when working on the story, I came up with more than one ending. I felt that the original ending (which I never ended up writing) was a bit too contrived. The ending you’ve just read seemed to be the most realistic. It’s what too often happens in cases of spousal abuse. However, another ending beckoned, and I liked it as well.]

That night, Dara heard tapping on her window. She got up and went to the window and saw Lyselle. Tears were running down Lyselle’s cheeks.

“What’s wrong?” Dara asked in a hushed tone, so as not to wake Pilla.

Lyselle shook her head. “Come with me,” she said.

Pilla awoke and stared at the two girls. “What’s going on?” she asked.

Dara turned and shrugged. “Lyselle want us to go with her.”

Fifteen minutes later, they were at Lyselle’s cottage. Lyselle hadn’t said anything on the way to her home. In a small kitchen, they found Brin lying on the ground. His head was crushed. Blood pooled on the floor around his head and shoulders.

“What happened?” Dara asked. She looked at Lyselle, who resembled a cornered animal. “Snap out of it, Lyselle,” Dara said, when Lyselle didn’t respond.

“It’s your fault,” Lyselle said. “It was none of your business, but you just had to humiliate Brin in front of his friends. You told everyone what Brin did to me. What did you expect him to do when he got home? His friends stopped him from hurting you—”

“Killing me,” Dara said.

“—so I had to face his wrath,” Lyselle said, ignoring Dara. “‘How did Dara find out,’ he asked me? Why did I tell you? Our private life is none of anyone else’s business. And now everyone knows. I’ve never seen him so angry. All that pent-up rage—he was going to take it out on me. And this time, I knew he couldn’t control himself. This time, he’d maim or kill me. So when he turned to get his whip, I hit him on the head with a pan,” she said, pointing to a pan that lay beside Brin. “I hit him again and again because if I stopped, I feared he would have killed me. Now what am I to do? What will the clerics do to me?”

“Calm down,” Dara said. “You defended yourself. You had no other choice.” She paused and paced back and forth for several minutes while Pilla comforted Lyselle. Finally, she turned to Lyselle. “Pilla and I are going to drag Brin to the barn. You clean up here. Tomorrow, you find Brin dead in the barn. Call for help, and tell them what you found. Nothing more—nothing about how he flew into a rage when he got home. Understand?”

“Why won’t you tell me what you plan to do with Brin?” Lyselle asked.

“If you knew, your eyes would betray you,” Dara said. “This way, you’re telling the truth.”

Lyselle nodded.

Dara and Pilla dragged Brin into the barn. They put him in a stall with one of the horses. He’d be trampled. A terrible accident. Nothing more.

They returned to the cottage. Lyselle had gotten rid of the blood and sat on a stool, sobbing.

“I never want to see either of you again,” Lyselle said. “My life is ruined. I have no husband. I have no one to provide for me. And no one else will have me.” She glared at Dara and Pilla. “I can never marry again. How would I explain the scars? And all because you couldn’t mind your own business.”

“Brin would have killed you,” Dara said.

“Or not,” Lyselle said. “You had no right to interfere. Brin’s death is on your hands. And I no longer have a life. Now not another word. Get out.”

Back at their home, Dara looked at Pilla, her friend. “Am I to blame?”

“To blame for Brin’s abusing Lyselle?” Pilla asked. “To blame for being a Shamra and coming to Lyselle’s aid? You did nothing wrong, Dara. Brin would have killed Lyselle sooner or later. He couldn’t control his rage. So you did nothing wrong, even if the result is not what anyone wanted. I don’t know what’s in store for Lyselle, but she did what she had to do, and she’s better off without Brin.”

“With no future, though,” Dara said. “Everything she said was true.”

“Who knows what the future holds, Dara,” Pilla said. “Lyselle has to make her own future . . . her own life. We all have to live with the consequences of our actions.”

Dara smiled weakly. “What would I do without you and your wisdom?”

“Something you’ll never have to worry about. I’m here for you, like it or not,” Pilla said.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Dara said.

Epilogue to Alternate Ending

[Author’s note: Sometimes an author just can’t help himself. The alternate ending is perfectly satisfactory—different from the original ending, to stir debate. But . . . something gnawed at me, and I couldn’t help myself; I just had to write it down. Is it plausible? You be the judge.]

One Month Later

Dara and Pilla walked toward the river to bathe. Dozens of Shamra females bathed there at the same time. It was the one time females could get together, away from the prying eyes and ears of Shamra males. As always, the scene was raucous. Children, teens, and even adults splashed one another. The spread of gossip was rampant. And laughter could be heard from half-a-mile away.

At the riverbank, Dara and Pilla stared at one in another in disbelief. Right in the middle of a group of teens and women in their early twenties was Lyselle, splashing water good-naturedly at several of her friends. She laughed as they splashed her back. If she’d been grieving, Dara thought, it hadn’t been for long.

In the wake of her husband’s tragic accident, none of Lyselle’s worst fears had come to pass. Shamra had always come to the aid of those facing hardship, and this was no exception. Lyselle was showered with sympathy, and when she confided in a few, then to all, that Brin had repeatedly beaten her, her plight was met with compassion and understanding. From the day of Brin’s death, Lyselle was never wanting for food or the company of other female Shamra, who came by to comfort her. Others who lived nearby helped with the farmwork. And far from being shunned by Shamra males, Lyselle was courted by more than a few, after a few weeks passed and Lyselle was allowed to grieve. Lyselle was far more interesting as a tragic figure than she had been as just another face in the crowd that no one remembered.

Lyselle even turned her scars to her advantage. They were a badge of honor of sorts. Ever the good Shamra female, she had taken Brin’s abuse without complaint. Lyselle no longer crouched in the water when she bathed. She proudly displayed her scars to any of the females who wanted to see.

“Call me crazy,” Dara said, “but I get the feeling Lyselle played us.”

“What are you talking about?” Pilla asked.

“Lyselle found herself trapped in an abusive relationship,” Dara said. “Rather than suffer the scorn trying to sever her marriage might bring, she used us—mainly me—to achieve the same end and become a sympathetic, even heroic, figure.”

“Are you saying Lyselle planned to kill Brin from the beginning?” Pilla asked.

“I don’t think she’s that clever or devious to plan that far in advance, but as events unfolded, it may have eventually dawned on her she could rid herself of her abusive husband permanently. First she manipulated the two of us.”

“How?”

“Was Lyselle humming the same song the first time you encountered her bathing alone as she was when we saw her together?”

Pilla nodded.

“It was sung at her wedding. A song of enduring love and joy. If she was so miserable, why would she hum such a tune?” Dara asked.

“You’re saying she wanted to get my attention? That she may have been waiting for me?” Pilla asked.

“You often walk up the riverbank after you bathe—sometimes with me, but more often alone when I venture of into the swamps.”

“Is that all you have? Pretty flimsy, if you ask me.”

“At first Lyselle was reluctant to tell us what Brin did to her, but once she started, you could hardly get a word in edgewise,” Dara said.

“Because she had been holding it in for so long,” Pilla said. “Imagine hiding her abuse for so long and finally having someone to confide in.”

“I don’t disagree . . . But why confide in me?” Dara asked. “You were friendly with her, but no confidant. She and I were no great friends. I was almost always around you, so I became friendly with her due to my association with you.”

“And you were pivotal to her plan, how?” Pilla asked.

“I’m the loose cannon,” Dara said. “I competed with Brin. I can’t keep my mouth shut. That, everyone knows. That, you can’t dispute. Lyselle knew that, in some competition, my mouth and temper would get the better of me, which of course, is exactly what occurred.”

“So you’re saying Brin didn’t attack Lyselle the night she killed him?” Pilla asked.

“Think about it, Pilla,” Dara said. “Brin was far stronger than Lyselle. If he was going for his whip and she hit him with the pan, as she says, he would have fought back. Yet she didn’t have a scratch on her. He was completely taken by surprise. He may have been seething. He may have planned to beat her later, but my guess is she clobbered him when he was least expecting it. Then we come up with a clever plan to make it look like an accident. Later, with Brin in the barn, she goes off on us—never wanting to have anything to do with us again. He’s gone, and we’re out of her life.”

Pilla shrugged. “Even if you’re right, it was only a matter of time before Brin lost control of himself and beat Lyselle to death. You’re not denying she was abused, are you?”

Dara shook her head. “You’re right. She was abused. She didn’t marry Brin expecting to be beaten. She was telling the truth about being thrilled that someone of Brin’s stature would consider marrying her. And I agree that one can take just so much before striking back. It’s just that she used us—again, mainly me, because I was so predictable—to get rid of a thorn in her side. It bugs me a bit. I don’t like being predictable or exploited. And, you have to admit, she’s bounced back well . . . and quickly. She’s the center of attention now, and she never was before. She has her choice of several suitors. And she’s not shy about displaying her scars. They make her even more sympathetic.”

“So what do we do?” Pilla asked.

“Nothing. It’s like you said. Brin would have eventually killed her. Lyselle was acting in self-defense. I just don’t like being used.” She smiled at Pilla. “Or it could just be my overactive imagination—another of my many wonderful character traits. That, or my natural cynicism. You see Lyselle recovering from her ordeal. I see her basking in her triumph. Still, it’s better that she rid herself of Brin before he killed her. It’s the better of two evils.”

From the river, Lyselle saw Dara and Pilla and waved to them. They waved back.

“Seems like we’re forgiven,” Dara said, then sighed. “I’m not in the mood for a bath right now. Let’s come back later.”

“Afraid your mouth might get you in trouble again?” Pilla asked.

“You know me too well, Pilla,” Dara said. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s you who has the Gift of Sight.”
End of Alternate Ending
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