When Prisana was a little girl, she used to believe that nightmares were a fiction of one's imagination. She was wrong. Nightmares were real, waking, and have been confronting her for the past twenty four hours.
Perhaps even from the moment she breathed life but not noticeable until this very moment.
Father.
His unloving eyes watched her every move. A politician's gaze that seized the size and weight of their opponent. Yet Prisana was not his opponent, but his daughter. He didn't see that. He saw his future as the next possible candidate of presidency.
Appearances were always important to him.
'Dress well'.
'Act proper and well educated'.
'Smile'.
'Don't bring shame and embarrassment to me'.
Those were his usual words to Prisana when they appeared in the media's lens.
He tapped his finger against a piece of paper. Prisana looked away because she knew what that was.
The dreadful marriage certificate.
