A chance to see into one of these reporters lives, by looking deep into their creative side, which I believe is essential to be true to the person.

For this article I am uploading as short story which I have written previously for a school assignment. It is a diary entry following the perspective of a young girl who has been married to an old and abusive farmer. This is a sequel to the poem “The Farmer’s Bride”. I called it “Hell on Earth”.


Last night.

The worst.


And the best part? I don’t even remember why. But I know it has to do with him. He did this to me. He won’t leave me be. He broke me.

I got up from the floor and immediately groaned. I should’ve remembered to take it slow. At least 2, if not more of my ribs were broken. I gasped out, the dying fish in me fighting to take in oxygen. Then I remembered. The time. “Oh dear!” I cursed my bad luck out loud. It was 4:30, even my friends the birds weren’t up yet and yet here I was, late. I don’t talk to people; animals are more inviting. If I’m not up by 3 o’clock and out on the milking the cows, collecting eggs, shearing sheep and plucking fresh flowers then there is no doubt that he’ll have my meat on his plate as his morning snack.

Then, as smoothly as a river mouth flows into the sea, the nightmarish reality of last night hit me.


It was hell on earth.

I clutched my ribs as searing hot pain shot down my legs from being unconscious in the foetal position last night. I didn’t even change, simply because I had no clothes and I didn’t even wash, simply because I was not “worthy” of water. That was his reason for everything: food, clothes, sanitary… So, when my so-called father turns up once every month to do business, he has the audacity to ask me ‘Why?’

As if he cares. What kind of ‘dad’ sells his own daughter; his own flesh and blood to cover his debts? Is that even legal? Apparently so, because my husband still breaks me over and over again, day after day.

My life consists of slaving away in the morning and being beaten and raped in the night. I don’t even call it life anyway, because all the life has been sucked from my eyes. He can proudly say he achieved his goal. That sadistic old man, old enough to be my grandfather.

I used to be pretty. But now I have cuts and bruises and scars all over my walking human corpse. I wonder if she still remembers me, I faintly can outline her face, but I stopped remembering happy things years ago. Oh, who am I kidding, my family might be throwing parties about how they finally got rid of the black sheep, the ugly duckling, the runt of the prized litter.

Who needs them anyway? I don’t.

He’s calling me.

Eddie the farmer, my nightmare, the man I call husband…

What did I do wrong this time? Holy gods up above, anyone, if you can hear me, save me from my hell, hell on earth. Dear diary, why, oh why can’t u become real and help me? I need help…


I can’t go through another last night.

It was the worst;


Hope I live to see tomorrow,



By Sanchana Hiththatiyage, from Farringtons School