Prologue

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"Bashar had a lot of enemies Rafiya, a lot more than you and I know of. Now that he is.. Dead.. They will seek revenge from his family, from you and from his only son. Humza is too young to take over. He is only seventeen. There is no other way. You have to get married again. You have to marry someone strong enough to take hold of the business, until Humza is ready." I stare at the four scars on my arms, contemplating whether I'd need an another one tonight too.

Tears pricked at the backs of my eyes as I listened to the clamour in the living room between my relatives and my mother. My pulse hammered in my neck, and I struggled to catch my breath, gasping for air. I waited for my mother to speak, to refute their absurd demands. I waited for her to tell them that my father was irreplaceable.

My expectations were met with a stern silence.

As Malika's delicate hand intertwines with mine, I grasp it with every fibre of my being. I avoid meeting her gaze, not wanting to see the pity reflected in her eyes. I lean back against the guest room wall, eyes tightly shut, acutely aware of her presence beside me. Despite everything, Malika doesn't despise me as she rightfully should, for I am responsible for the death of her father just as I am for my own father's demise. It is a deeper wound for her because I was the one who took her mother's life as well. I often ponder if she is biding her time, waiting for the perfect moment to exact her revenge, knowing that I have ruined her life. Yet, I also accept that if she ever sought retribution, I would not defend myself, for it is what I deserve. For now, she understands me, and that understanding only amplifies my guilt. The least I can do is be there for her when she needs me and ensure her well-being.

She knows what I've been doing for the past one month now. The cuts I hide under my feet, the scars on my arms and head, the punctures, and burns hidden on my thighs, beneath my boxers, until they eventually healed and then I do it all over again. I'd gotten creative in hiding the shit I did to release pain.

Malika, though a few months younger than me, possessed the allure and desires of a grown woman. Ordinarily, I tried to resist her seductive advances, but in moments like these, it was impossible. She would always be there, silently observing as I cut myself with the blade, never once attempting to stop me. It was for this reason that I had grown attached to her and never asked her to leave during my breakdowns. There was an unspoken rule between us to never mention the night of the accident. Ever.

She refrained from passing judgment on my actions. For countless days, I wept to Allah, imploring Him to intervene, to do anything that might erase the tormenting pain, guilt, and memories that were wrecking my sanity. Yet, gradually and inevitably, I began to distance myself from Islam instead, from prayer, from everything halal to everything haram.

The guilt was soon washed away and in no time I was knee deep in a pool of sin, my sins.

"I hold immense respect for my late brother and would do anything to safeguard his family...our family. If she consents, I'd like to marry her. I will manage the business only until Humza is prepared." I grit my teeth, attempting to stave off the waves of betrayal that coursed through me.

Motherfucker!

A profound silence enveloped the hall as my father's younger brother proposed marriage to my mother. Despite being a few years younger than her, he had never married, despite Baba's relentless insistence. Now, the reason for his hesitation was crystal clear to me!

"I think this would be best for everyone." Huzaifa's mother suggests.

Like hell it would be!

By the moment more people expressed their views, I was raging like a bull and all I wanted to do was forget the hurt.

I pulled back my hand from Malika's grip and walked towards the nightstand in my room where I'd placed the blade. My breathing was rugged and all I could think of was that this was all happening because of me.

I killed my father.

I was the one to be blamed for my misery. Malika knew better than to say something but I knew she saw how restless I became.

I stared at the blade a little longer, remembering what Malika had told me a month ago.

Your body can only feel one pain at a time.

It meant I could choose the kind of pain I could endure, It meant that I could distract myself with something more physically painful because honestly I could endure the physical pain but not the mental breakdown.

Trees rose above and all around me in the quiet, dark room, lit only by the moonlight pouring in through the windows overhead. I inhaled the sweet smell of the palms, orchids, lilies, violets, and hibiscus, reminding me of my father's closet and all the perfumes from his coats and shirts blending together in one space. His memories were everywhere, in everything.

The sharp edge of the blade called out to me but I opened the drawer instead, fetching a pack of cigarette.

I unwrapped the pack and stuck a cigarette in my mouth, lighting the end, offering the rest of the pack to Malika who took it happily.

I sucked on the cigarette, filling my lungs with the sweet sting and tipping my head back to blow it back out in a stream above my head.

I forced myself to feel better, usually it worked but not today.

My mother would say no.

She had to.

But she hadn't said a word, which meant she was willing to marry that sick man.

No one could ever replace my father, and this decision felt like a painful blow to his memory.

My mother and his brother—the two people my father had loved most and lived for—couldn't even wait a month after his death to remarry.

A flood of memories surged within me.

The image of my father's lifeless body cradled in my arms tormented me, vivid and unrelenting. If he were still here, none of this would be happening. If only I had the power to trade my life for his.

I squeezed my eyes shut tighter, as though doing so could erase the haunting recollections. I pinched the cigarette butt between my fingers, feeling my phone vibrate for the second time in my back pocket. Raising my hand to my mouth, I took another drag.

The vibrations continued relentlessly. Pulling my phone out, I saw Asad's name flashing on the screen. A dark, sadistic smile curled on my lips.

I knew exactly why he was calling.

Asad had been my father's loyal bodyguard. He wasn't with us the night of the accident, but he had sworn to find the drunk driver responsible for my father's death.

I'd made Asad promise me that he'd call me only when he found that bastard.

The happiness that I finally felt after days of self loathing and frustration was splendid. I could finally take it out on someone who was as responsible as me for the cursed day.

"Hello" I greet.

"Come to the old warehouse. I have a present for you kid." His gravelly voice was like a melody to my ears in that moment.

That was enough to make me race towards the door of my house. The moment I was in the hall, all conversations ceased. "Huzaifa!", I call out to my cousin brother who had been standing beside his mother and had also been hearing the entire conversation amongst the elders.

I avoided meeting my mother's gaze because then I wouldn't be able to hide the hatred that I had felt for her then.

"Humza! We need to talk." I hear my mother say. Huzaifa doesn't move, so I shout again, ignoring my mother completely. "Huzaifa! Are you coming or not?" I see him exchange a puzzled look with his mother and mine but I don't wait to see her response and immediately storm out of the door instead. My mother's voice fades behind me as I rush towards the car. I needed Huzaifa to drive for me because I wasn't ready yet. I couldn't live that day again, at least not so soon and Huzaifa even had a license.

Thankfully I hear his footsteps behind me, "Where are we going?"

"To the warehouse." I inform him.

He didn't ask me any questions, he just obliged.

An hour later, I found myself glaring at the man cowering in the corner of a cell in my father's old warehouse. This place was strictly used for illicit activities. My father, a civil engineer by profession, built luxurious buildings and hotels for the wealthiest people in town. However, that was merely a facade for the mafia operations he predominantly focused on.

Asad was a man of few words, but I knew he was a patient observer who noticed details that others overlooked. Most importantly, Asad was unfailingly loyal. Despite being ten years older than me, we shared an indescribable bond.

A friend, an elder brother, a father figure, I could call him anything. I knew he'd happily give away his life for my family. He'd seen me break day after day, ever since my father died. He hadn't shed a tear when Baba died, at least not in-front of me. He barely expressed how he felt.

But I knew as much as I anticipated this moment, he did too.

The man that coward in-front of me kept on repeating the same thing again and again, "Please don't kill me. I have a family. Please. Their life will be destroyed."

This should have made me sympathise with him but I couldn't bring myself to feel even a tinge of empathy for him. The fucker had run for his life, soon after causing the chaos. He didn't stop to help anyone. Even the faintest memory of that dreadful night makes my hand shiver from a sudden cold.

A sarcastic laugh escaped my lips.

I stare at him and let all the emotions rip through me.

Anger.

Shame.

Fear.

Violence.

Pain.

Sadness.

Helplessness.

They float through, jumbling together until I can't identify one from the other, and it's not even me in the reflection anymore. Everything in my brain leaves, my mind turns off, and my hands stop shaking. I'm just a body.

The other four people in the cell don't say a word. All of them knew that he was the first person I wanted to hurt. I wanted to hurt him so much that I wanted him to die. He was mine to punish, to torture.

"You should have thought about my family too. The day you ran for your life, leaving behind my father to die. You should have thought." His face shuddered as realisation dawned on him.

"I am sorry."

"Please. Forgive me."

"Please. Please don't kill me." His begging only increased ten folds as I neared him. My heart was racing. I was hurt. I was in pain and I needed a distraction.

I take a hand full of his hair and pull him up so he can stand. "You destroyed my world." I shout at him as he shrieks under my grip.

I glare at him, tightening my hold on his hair and neck. He gasps, terror etched across his face.

And I let him anticipate, then I shove his head into the wall as hard as I can, and he screams.

"No! Please!" he cries out, panting but I couldn't stop.

A wave of euphoria washes over me, and I don't know why my cheeks are wet, but my muscles are charged, and I just want him to fucking die. I don't care about what the other people in the cell think. Nobody stops me anyway.

I growled, repeatedly slamming his head against the wall until blood splattered across the surface. Then I hauled him up, his body limp and blood pouring down his face, before striking him hard enough to send him crashing to the floor. He coughed and sputtered as tears streamed down my face, but at that moment, I realised that our bodies indeed felt only one pain at a time.

Instead of inflicting pain on myself to mask my suffering, tonight I learned something new.

Inflicting pain on others is just as effective.

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E D I T E D on 8.02.2025