The balcony door was open, and the cool Amsterdam air flowed into the room. Outside, seagulls cawed in the trees, their cries annoying Shimaya’s cats, who were curled up on the windowsill, flicking their tails in irritation.
Fabian stood in front of her, leaning over her body with a brush in one hand and an image of Kali open on the computer beside him. He had studied it carefully before he started painting, following the lines, the colors, the symbolism.
”I felt the underlying essence of Kali in Shimaya. She has this incredible strength within her that comes out in moments like this, and Kali felt like an extension of that power. It’s like seeing her inner force manifest outwardly,” Fabian said.
Shimaya had seen the image of Kali—the goddess who asks for no permission, who wears death around her neck and dances on those who try to tame her. A symbol of destruction, but also of the creation that follows. The world around her still wanted women to be soft, controlled, beautiful in the ”right” way. But she refused to be just a pretty picture. She would be a storm.
/
In the background, the news buzzed from a screen she no longer had the energy to listen to. Another woman missing. Another woman killed. The numbers kept rising.
”A woman is murdered every ten minutes in the world by someone she knows.”
She opened her eyes and saw her reflection. Her skin was still her own, but her body… her body belonged to someone else now. Kali. The destroyer. The protector. A third eye was carefully painted on her forehead, black and wide open—a gaze that saw everything, that could not be turned away.
”Kali Ma, the goddess of death, is terrifying and amazing. I feel strongly connected to her because of my own intensity and protective nature. When I love someone, I will do everything I can to protect them,” Shimaya said.
The news continued in the background. The voice was monotonous, almost bored, as if the words had lost their meaning from being repeated too many times.
”A woman is murdered every ten minutes in the world by someone she knows.”
The statistics were dry, cold. Nothing was said about the lives lost, the screams in the night, the bruises hidden under clothes, the fear that becomes part of the skin.
Shimaya closed her eyes again. Fabian made the last brushstroke on her forehead, then leaned back and looked at her in silence.
”It’s done,” he said softly.
She looked at him through the mirror, but it wasn’t his gaze she met. It was her own. A gaze that burned.
Outside, the seagulls were still cawing. The cats growled softly at them, but Shimaya barely heard it anymore.
She stood up. The balcony door was open.
The world would see her now.
