Zeela. Bloody Zeela. A name that should’ve been stitched onto a protest banner but ended up smeared across the ruins of her own life instead. Born into a family where revolution wasn’t just a word - it was the air they breathed, the smoke they exhaled, and the reason they forgot to pack her lunch. Her parents were comrades first, zealots second, and somewhere down the list, occasional caretakers.

Her earliest memories aren’t of lullabies or bedtime stories - no, Zeela grew up on 

 read aloud between drags of cheap cigarettes and gulps of lukewarm coffee. She learned to count not with blocks or beads but with the number of people crammed into the Party Hall, reeking of sweat and idealism. And there she’d be, curled up in the corner with her teddy bear, trying to drown out the shouting matches about class struggle and the proletariat’s bright, shining future. 

Fast-forward a couple of decades, and Zeela’s still got that teddy bear - the only thing that didn’t abandon her. But now she’s got a sociology degree too, one she wields like a bat to smack anyone who looks at her funny. She’s bitter, of course. How could she not be? Her parents cared more about dismantling capitalism than making sure she had dinner. And she’s got the trauma to prove it, neatly packaged in her righteous fury and her constant need to prove she’s smarter than everyone in the room.

 The man with fire in his eyes - not the warm, comforting kind, but the kind that burns cities and leaves scars. He was a Party man, just like her parents, which should’ve been a red flag the size of the Soviet Union. But Zeela? Zeela thought he was her equal. 

 she called it. Because nothing says romance like debating macroeconomics in bed and fucking like you’re trying to win an argument with your bodies.

She was his third wife, mind you. The shiny new model, replacing the last one after some scandalous cheating fiasco including hers truly. Oh, how the tables have turned now. But back then, Zeela reveled in it. Their high-minded debates, their mutual disdain for the system, their shared love of filth - literal and metaphorical. Even their kinks matched. Who needs candlelight dinners when you’ve got toilet sex and revolutionary manifestos?

But life, much like their ideology, didn’t quite pan out. Ten years of yelling into the void, screaming at a government that couldn’t give a rat’s arse about their impassioned speeches or grand plans to save the country. The right wing was too entrenched, too smug, and too damn powerful. And Zeela started to see the cracks. In the Party, in the marriage, in herself.

The new wife. Younger, shinier, less baggage, more elasticity. Zeela didn’t stand a chance. He kicked her out just like he’d kicked out the one before her. Revolutionaries are nothing if not consistent.

Now she’s here. One-bedroom apartment, no husband, no movement, just her and that bloody teddy bear, the only thing her parents didn’t sacrifice to the Party. It still reeks of cigarette smoke, the kind that seeped into her lungs and her childhood, the kind that’ll never wash out. She holds it like it’s her lifeline, her last connection to a past that doesn’t deserve to be remembered but won’t let her forget.

She cries a lot these days. Not that big, cinematic crying - no, Zeela cries like a leaky tap. Drip, drip, drip. Silent, constant, annoying as hell. If she closes her eyes, she can almost hear the echoes of those Party Hall meetings, the shouts, the smoke, the dreams. Almost.

But dreams are for people with futures, and Zeela? She’s got a teddy bear and a sociology degree no one cares about. Revolution’s over, darling. Time to hug the bear and let the smoke settle.

Iris Diaries: Zeela's Story

The Manifesto and the Teddy Bear

Zeela. Bloody Zeela. A name that should’ve been stitched onto a protest banner but ended up smeared across the ruins of her own life instead. Born into a family where revolution wasn’t just a word - it was the air they breathed, the smoke they exhaled, and the reason they forgot to pack her lunch. Her parents were comrades first, zealots second, and somewhere down the list, occasional caretakers.



Iris Diaries: Zeela's Story

The Manifesto and the Teddy Bear

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Iris Diaries: Fix the Bloody Frame

Iris Diaries: Zeela's Story

The Manifesto and the Teddy Bear

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About the Creator

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Iris Diaries: Fix the Bloody Frame

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