The last time she saw blood was a month ago. It had scared her and made her feel disgusting about herself. Years of experience in this place had taught her to keep it quiet, even at just 12 years old. She didn’t come from a very open community. The oppression was a sword always dangling over her head. When girls first bled, they would be immediately considered mature enough to be married and to start popping out kids. The village men “preferred them young”.
She still played house with her dolls; she was nowhere near ready to take the responsibility of an actual house. So she hid it from everyone, pretended she was still a girl and not a woman in the eyes of the community elders.
But the next date was fast approaching, she might not be so good at hiding it this time. Her mother was already suspicious the last time. Now she would be as vicious as a bloodhound.
The last time she saw blood had been a month ago; a month ago when a prospective groom was supposed to come to meet her but he never showed. Her family was devastated, they had just lost a good match but she was relieved.
She knew her family would not feel the same. The stabbed, decaying corpse of said groom definitely didn’t feel the same. But the arrival of the next groom was fast approaching and she had to be creative to hide the blood. After all, she was only a girl of 12, trying to survive.