My life is defined by sensation.
Coolness between the shawl and my shaved head.
Bruising between my legs, and a deeper, intimate soreness.
Cold beads of jewelry around my neck and wrists.
Slippery silk and colored clothing wrapping my body.
Heat rising in my face as his wife saunters past, glaring at me.

The hatred I feel threatens to explode out of me. I do not what strength allows me to contain it. He stands, overseeing the transport of his newly acquired wealth, of which I am the crown. Even so, his decision to take me harbors consequences so far-reaching that neither of us can fully understand what he has done.

For one year I am his. More than a concubine, less than a wife. Forced to follow him and be endured by his household. His one act of selfishness robbed me of all I know, and in return he is obligated to care for me and adorn me in finery. So I am taken, without any hope, isolated, kept by that promise which I had no decision making.

And for that year, he is forbidden to touch me again.