Eid mubarak 💐

Chapter 23.

"I only trust my husband." Barekhna scoffed.

"So you're willing to ruin your career after him? A man?" Meeha rolled her eyes.

"That man as you state has taught me the meaning of love and what it feels like to breathe. I owe my life to him."

"Barekhna it's the love speaking, take some time and I suggest fighting it from the Sukhera's side."

"Leave my office Meeha. I have to go somewhere to get evidence for my husband's innocence." Barekhna tutted, throwing the door to her office open.

The clasp that wrapped around her ankles in a grip that would rival the strength of her spirit, tipped on the back of her ankle. Her fingers gently pulled it into place — watching wide eyed as the woman she had befriended a handful of years ago arranged to make way out. Parting her lips nothing but disdained breaths of air escaped. The choking pain in her jaw created an ache she was beginning to loathe. Barekhna's fingers trembled over the copper knob as Meeha gently passed her, under the guise of a friendship she had nursed a fiend. A betrayal that ripped her heart into two. Just the thought of it stabbed her chest into two pieces — one jagged and the other left in smithereens.

"If you take this case Barekhna, my father will fire you."

Resting her hand over Barekhna's bony shoulder. Squeezing the warm flesh underneath, she pinched the skin. The hiss from the woman's lips offered her a comfort. Something that had for a long time been forgotten.

"I'll actually resign myself. He will have my resignation tomorrow morning," Barekhna swallowed.

"I still can't believe you're the same Barekhna who'd never have compromised for a man."

"Oh I'm the same woman," she leaned in, dragging her nail alongside Meeha's chin, "however he is not just a man, he is my husband!"

Barekhna's fingers moved with defiance and undid the pearl studded clasp in her hair. The silken strands curled instantly around her face, shielding the length of her long neck with their thickness. Her curled lashes kept the pain from sight, swiping away the reminders of disappointment as they brushed the air around them. Dusting her pale cheeks with the lightest of mascara. Pressing her lips — the claret of them like a fiery phoenix reaching out to burn any that stood too close, her mouth dropped. A few inches to the south. The dimple on her chin hid under the shadows of her plump lips. Where had fate brought her?

At least something good has come our of this — her mind came to a rapid rescue. It always did. Years of training made it sharp — suffering strengthened it still. The throbbing that dwelled in the back of her brain buffered like a broken signal. Noise from the surroundings was streamlined — tweaked to pinch the ends of her nose in a searing pain. One that without fail split her into two aching halves of a blossoming whole. Her tongue ran over the front of her mouth. Moistening out the dryness. Ebbing away at the formal crumbles of her confidence. A funeral was ringing nearby — of her dreams and valor. She sensed it beneath her nail beds, that quivered as she walked through the illustrious corridors.

A far better place awaits — her words offered a moment of comfort. The law firm her father had spent years perfecting was at last arriving into her own land. Not her motherland — but still a piece of soil she was native to. Her first loyalties were bound to a ground that had nurtured her husband and a man who had been her father — even if there was no need. Her blood was traced to a lineage so powerful that it shook her body. Yet it was the same blood that had robbed her land, the one she grew in of all it's worth.
Not again.
This time the blood of a free spirited traveller would not hurt the land that was already suffering.

Barekhna's fingers tightened around the slinging bag, the leather of it's branches kept it in place over her shoulder, where it belonged. Her hair grazed it's stitched edges that were beginning to rip from the overuse, the logo that had at one time been pristine— defined with vigor. Her had spun as she walked underneath the grey skies, the cotton like clouds that littered like a dusting of sprinkled sugar. Rising to the top from underneath green tinted trees. It was tinted grey. The defiance of light. The copper azures that should have streamed in from a tiny opening in the choppy glass doors — did not. Spooning her ears, fixing the crooked edge of her dangling earrings she took a step at a time. Silence oozed in symphonies around her head. Middle parted her sleek hair, straightened to a t, glossed over the surface.

Joy had removed itself from the budding rose of her cheeks. The strokes of cheeky love that were beginning to meander in the graveyard of her memories, were suddenly forced out. In their wake remained an abyss. An enigma that was hard to read. Spinning in the centre of her trusting orbs that had only shortly been devoured by the shades of a light brown — matching the ones inside his, was a hate. A hate that had been lingering. Now it took full force. Hitting the surface of her heart. Tucked behind her walls in a glass display, his face. The memories of kissing it that kept her asleep through the nightmares. For sixteen days she had to remain strong. For each of those nights reminiscing in his touch would have to do. By hook or by crook.

Barekhna chewed on her bottom lip until the skin tore off, the rippling pain flushed her cheeks and melted against the tip of her tongue. Tough luck. A phrase that when collided with her frame, had left her broken into pieces. Little glassy ones that were coated in silver shade. Prickles on her fingers burned anytime she neared the crooked books. The memoirs. Only Aliyaar. Only he had been able to walk past that façade— even in all it's perfection. It was the power in his untouched affection that saved her. Yet here she was, breaking but without her savior. In dire need of fresh air.
Blessings all she had been robbed off.

"Barekhna!" The voice was sharp, as it fell on her ears.

"Za—Zayed?"

"I just saw your message," he explained, walking towards her, "you want to talk?"

"The time to 'talk' is gone, it's about action now."

"You still need a plan." Zayed reminded.

"I know, let's go home," she replied, eyeing the whispering figures that stood afar, snapping pictures of her.

Gales struck the side of the dusty red car, it's lights not bright enough to battle through the ever thickening darkness in it's owners life. Covered in a haze the newly rising fog in the middle of the winter afternoon — it's chilly snips on their frames, was a sweet reminder that the ruler of a bitter kingdom had descended on them. December was a power ; a few could defeat. Choppy cuts layered through the dresses and trousers of the naive that dared to walk through. A meadow of grey lined with a silken white, the clouds above matched the dwindling criticism of the land beneath.

Vision was a far cry from what the eyes could see. The thick viscosity made everything opaque. Forced to light up, and drive at a turtle's pace, the distance seemed to be never ending. The tires that were heavier than a young child crushed the loose gravel and broken bricks at the edge of the curb, moving through with ease. Destruction was the month of December. Trees on either side of the road danced with the vicious battle of of the winds, their branches straying from the sturdy root. Collapsing alone in their selfishness.

Heated — the steering wheel buzzed against her palms, her nails tapping away at the dashboard. The heater blew warm winds against her frozen face, melting the chipped icicles that had robbed her of a smile. With her head tipped against the thick glass of her window, the yellow indicators blinking in wayward directions, she hoped that home was near. Softly cruising — battling the seemingly innocent fog, Barekhna felt the twitches deep beneath her skin. Skimming her gaze over the cup holder, dragging her nail softly over the lid of her tumbler, her eyes narrowed. To match the sharpness of a Falcon. The ferocity of an Eagle.

Cramps brushed her lower leg, the clasp against her ankles snapping at last from the constant tapping of her shoes against the breaks. The engine roared — it's might putting to shame the roar of lions. Dragging her eyes to the speedometer, Barekhna's brows rose, her lips brushed with the tip of her tongue. Tasting the bitterness of her expensive lipstick. Mournfully, she ran a hand through her hair that had lost their luster. The illustrious attires were beginning to loose their meanings even as they covered her body the same way. Innocent happiness was lost on her.

Was it ever yours?
A question that rang through her mind. As she stepped through the doors of her home. Of their home. As she saw the hopeful eyes of a mother, the pride of a father and the longing of a brother.
She felt like the culprit.
All blame was hers.
Her stubbornness — the price of which was her husband.

Willfully she parked her car next to the obsidian Audi. Dust collected over it's exterior, the droplets of precipitation accumulated across the windshield, a few leaving behind their marks even as they evaporated. It remained untouched—not an ounce of it maimed even as it's owner suffered behind bars. Sniffing, allowing herself a moment of weakness, Barekhna ran her fingers over the door handle, breathing painfully. She could feel still Aliyaar's presence behind her. His warm arms tugging the door open in sheer stubbornness.

'Mama raised a gentleman', he would always blush uttering those words. The peach on his soft cheeks, underneath the scruff of his beard. What had the world done to him?

A stumbling presence behind her, laced with the warmth that brushed her chin reminded her of the guest that had followed. The rumbling clouds woke her from the drunken stupor, reminding her sharply of the loss. Slipping her hands over her cheek, Barekhna wiped the frigid droplets of sweat. Arctic temperatures around her head bunched underneath her scalp, slicing through — creating an ache that muted the splinters which continued to hit her hard. Marching with her back uttering it's defiance to the situation, she walked into the foyer, the doorknob feeling painfully heavy against her skin.

Decorated in the depth full silence with the copper tones of furniture, the crème walls were all that remained. A portrait hung over the fireplace in the parlor, above the lush Persian carpets — made by skillful hands and draped in peaches and nudes, was an image larger than life. The couple was radiant. Their smiles matched the glamor behind them, with arms around each other and in dresses that reeked of opulence. It was a time of blooming dreams. Over the fireplace marked with the remaining ashes of tar and smoke, streaks of which flittered through, the glossy perfection was an awkward contrast. Yet also, a bitter reality.

Rustling sounds broke the lack of words, that were bitter on the tongue. Tough to utter, tougher still to listen. Sinking in the lap of the recently imported chair, wooden frames that curled with a luxurious patters, held her arms as she watched Zayed take a seat on to the coffee colored sofa. Inching towards the bag beneath her chair she pulled out a sleeve — a charcoal box that held her cigars. Craving stopped all motions, defeated all senses that would have otherwise been sensitive to the gentle shuffling of Zain's shoes. Offering him one, she shrugged, nonchalant. Placing it against her lips, blowing the embers of failure into the air. The man before her too stunned to speak.

"Do you know what adomania means Zayed?"

Clearing her throat, she ran a hand through her roughly arranged hair. The ends of them were dry against her fingers, that curled around them and tugged. Sinking her teeth, biting the flesh of her lower lip, Barekhna kept the nervous twitches hidden beneath her skin.

The reflections of a forbidden luxury surrounded her brown eyes — the very ones that had gotten used to seeing a displeased Aliyaar anytime she pulled out a cigar. Gripping her heart in a force, she rubbed her fingers over the thin chain that rested on her neck.
Searching for something.
Feeling something.
Anything.

"What has this got to do with you saving Aliyaar?" Zayed huffed.

"Well," she hummed, stubbing the barley used cigar into the ash tray, "it is a feeling of the future coming too quickly."

"And?"

"That's exactly how it happened. I was living carefree for once and then what I had imagined happened." She shrugged.

"Which is?"

"The universe being jealous of my joy."

Barekhna's tongue ran over the perfectly arranged teeth, rounding up the canine on her left side before she slithered back into place. The rings on her fingers dangled across the space, perfectly painted still, like ribbons of passion her nails drummed her upper thighs. Behind her the succulent curved up the wall, the branches of it running over the top of her head as she made movement. Rising from her seat, she pushed a leg underneath herself before sitting again, sighing in comfort as a worker brought in a trolley laden with tea. The still grains of air were transformed as the aromas of pepper and spices took over. Rumbling sounds affirmed the need, as she thanked the woman for her cup of coffee.

Ceramic — the rough edged mug had been had made for her by her talented sister-in-law. The streaks of gold painted on had been an addition done later on. Filled to the brim she could see in it's light woody shade the heavy amounts of cream, the scent of her favorite sweetener calming the rage underneath her skull. Taking a soft sip, licking her lips to wipe any remnants, Barekhna sunk the edge of her gold fork into the stuffed pastry mercilessly. The perfectly crisp, gold edges tore with ease and left behind broken remnants. Pepper filled her mouth as soon as the stuffing touched her tongue, followed by the taste of powerful spices that melted in her mouth. Leaving behind a sharp aftertaste, and a burn on her tastebuds that the coffee did well to soothe.

In all it was perfect, with only her husband missing — which would have made the evening perfect-er still.

"You've been offered to fight the case from Sukhera's family but you refused," Zayed spoke, "the hospital's tapes have been wiped clean from my knowledge, what exactly do you want to do?"

"Do you have not an ounce of faith in me?" Barekhna replied, mournfully.

"Quite frankly no. You're taking this way too easy! Your husband is the one in jail Barekhna. What games are you playing?"

"You're a good friend Zayed," she smiled, "don't worry I have a few men on it."

"What can they do that I as an intelligence guy can't ?"

"The intel couldn't collect ever ; what a suspicious man could."

➖➖➖➖➖

The lodgings offered to him were quaint. It was a box — generous enough to be a bit more than the cardboard boxes his mother neatly stored in their storage. Through the morbidly tiny window — barred with thick iron rods, sunlight, or what little of it appeared on the horizon, washed in. Grey, a mixture of ash toned the small room smelt of a musky dampness. Seeping between the tiles — crooked from more than one spot, cold water brushed his trousers and shoes. The stoniness of it bit at his fingers, that curled around the thin straw mat, offered to him after a serious fight between the officers and his wife. Through the barely lit up corridors, shadows washed over, painting the space darker. Hiding him in it's rich folds.

To a corner was a broken wooden bench, the boards of which were jagged and more than once in a week of being locked up, had he hit his shin against the sharp nails. Watching in silence as warmth ran down his legs. Maroon — reminding him of her, painting his pale skin. Turning paler still. During the lonesome evenings, he would sit and hear the winds scuffle through the opening that was called a window. Imagining himself back in the warm bedroom, under a thick duvet cuddling into her. The raps of a stick, and crude calls would break his dream harder each time. Resting on his nose bridge the glasses were smudged by his fingers that turned sweaty after holding on to nothing but air. The coat on his shoulders — that was starting to smell a lot more like the forgetfulness of the prison, and not her sweet perfume, offered him warmth. Though momentary.

Rubbing his hands over his body, his long fingers, the skin breaking and his nail bed filled with dirt, he would offer himself a faux warmth. That was lost as soon as air swished in. It was chilly — arctic almost. Longer shadows and hours, dropped to a level of newness he had never seen before. His eyes ached, dried of their tears and filled with a fatigue of longing, they no longer craved to see. Always his ears twitched as the sounds of shoes and shaky keys neared, crossing his fingers with the newness of hope that Barekhna was here. A disappointment caving into his chest anytime it was not her. Joy splitting him in half anytime it was her.

Watery lentils and bread far too cold had turned his appetite nil. A box of metal clung behind him, his fingers felt along the edges, hoping that the warm grains of rice his mother had brought him would somehow find their way into the box again. Only once a week was his family allowed to visit. The tumultuous rumbling inside the wells of his stomach, crushed his limbs with passions. Running softly over the brick hard roti, tears washed his face, the saltiness seeping in from his upset lips. He searched for the luxury of something—even a minuscule sized grain that would warm his soul. Sipping the water laced with dirt, through the mud baked container, Aliyaar felt life bloom. As the time ticked further, his vision became blurry. Only she was his saving grace with her visits and the small box of food she brought him.

Although, today she had not visited.
Has she forgotten me already?
Aliyaar's limbs ached as he thought over what was a deeply abandoned corner. The voice whispered, nearing him, filling his vision with it's vivid realness. A shadow — taller than the ceilings of the withering prison cell, arms that yanked at his collar and pushed through, toying with his mind. A weak cry inched through his torn oesophagus, blood curled underneath his tongue as his teeth bit on it hard. Sweat dribbled down the side of his face, in soft waves, drenching the collar of the shirt he wore. Aliyaar wheezed into the thin air. Oxygen almost disappearing. Gripping on to the floors he rested the aching head against the tiles, feeling the cold slice through his bones, and the visions of blood and gore still.

She has forgotten you.
Your family no longer loves you.
Do you not think they could use their influence to meet you more often?
Poor Aliyaar — lonely once, lonely always.
A sad excuse of a man.
And a son so easily kicked out.
Don't you see? Their family is perfect without you.
No one loves the pitiful nerd.
Not even your wife.

Balling his hands into fists he slammed them against the side of his head. The churning of his brain not stopping for a second. Aliyaar's eyes squeezed shut in pain and fear, droplets of anguish slipping out. They covered his face as they left behind a trail of there presence. Knocking the edge of his hair against the wall he pushed himself into a ball that could be ignored. He shivered — the dusty fog settled over his figure and the soiled coat bunched up with water drenching it. His skin turned slick as water struck it, in all it's iciness, they burned him like coals. Aliyaar's breath turned harsher as the revolting thoughts cruised around his mind — an image painted of everyone rejoicing his absence.

"I — I do no know who I am. I have no idea of who I am. I am but a mere collection of the pieces no one around me wanted. I picked up that which is left over and tucked it under my wing deeming it to be who i am. There is still a question mark where I stand. Who am I? What am I? What are my desires or goals? I do not know. They've been handed to me always. The left overs of my siblings. The aspirations of my parents. I am but nothing. Take this away from me and I do not know who I am. Just a name, just a vessel."

The deepest of his feelings — the forbidden emotions that were kept taped beneath the soft palette of his mouth, escaped as fatigue threatened to over power. Inching nearer to darkness with every passing moment. The words murmured, an anecdoche. Gently the whimpers washed over his skin, simpering through as a reminder of the suffering he was to go through. Of the turmoil that had landed him in the arms of the enemy.

"It is cold mama," he murmured unknowingly, "so cold."

It was loud. Unfittingly so — his was the only occupied quarter in the lengthy corridor. He knew because the officer's had shown open disdain towards visiting him in the narrow space. It was a neglected corner — reminding him of himself almost the way it sat abandoned from the larger crowded spaces. The sky outside had merged into murky waters, the stars were lost and the constellations he had counted one too many times were all hidden. Whimpering, the cold clenching the muscles of his face, his clothes damp from the outpour of rain that seeped in from the cracks everywhere. Aliyaar was mortified, his legs shook, crushing aches toiled with his gut and back, leaving him at the mercy of the weather that knew only to kill.

Rubbing the edge of the soggy sleeves against his cracking frames, he tried to clear the residue — to see with vividness what was going on. His temples throbbed and a noise spun around behind him, leaving Aliyaar defenseless. Sharply his shoulders struck the side of the barred prison cell, the iron bars rubbing against his bruised body — creating home for more suffering. Licking his cracked lips, stumbling over the weight his shoulders were forced to carry, he walked up to the window. Pushing his hands through the narrow slits between the bars — successfully slipping only a finger past. A sight of relief grazed his mouth. The freshness of the free air against his skin calmed the fury. It eased the abandonment in his chest.

"Aliyaar?"

Aliyaar froze his finger. Shocks jolted through his arm, all the way to the skin behind his ear as the voice crooned nearer. The hair on the nape of his neck curled — stood upright with anticipation. A tear slid through his swollen umber eyes, the light in which had slid away hours ago. His jaw shook, a burning sensation laced the bottom of his lashes. With strength—defying the pitiful emotions that forced him to be the destruction, Aliyaar wrapped his hands around the rods. Wishing they would slice his heart into two.

"Aliyaar?"

It cracked. The voice cracked at the end, breaking his strengthening resolve. A sniffle escaped his own lips, his tongue darted around to taste the rich saltiness. Rubbing his callous fingers over his skin, he hissed — a few cuts lined his mouth, aching as he touched them even gently. Coughing, his lungs contracting with force enough to deafen him for a moment, he turned. His eyes melting of all their rage as they came to strike with his mother's frame. There were deep bags underneath her eyes, the softness of her hair was hidden beneath the mourning. Dressed in ebony with a thick shawl around her shoulders, his mother looked smaller than she was. He was the reason.

What an odd moment, he worried his mother for the first time in thirty one years. His first mistake? Being in jail — much harsher than his brother breaking the rules at school. Aliyaar chuckled at his own thoughts, stumbling over to the wooden mess he had come to calm his bed. The frame of his mother following suit, her father right behind, staring with a muddled expression at him.

"Kia haal bana liya hai apna ap nai!" His mother sniffled, trying to be stern as she rested her hands against his chilly face.
[What a mess have you made of yourself.]

"Yahan par koi dantnay wala jo nahi hai," he grinned, laying a kiss in the centre of her hands.
[There is no one here to scold me.]

"Meri jaan kash mein ap ko yahan sai le ja sakti," Lyana whimpered, "mujhe maaf kar dena, I have — I have failed you."
[My life I wish I could have done something for you, please forgive me.]

"Don't mama, it's not your fault," he replied, kissing her brows, his hand reaching out to touch his father's, "neither is it yours abu."

"How can you not hold me accountable Aliyaar? I have so much influence and yet my hands are tied. I can not even help my son. What a failed father I am!" His father scoffed.

"No! You are wrong!" Aliyaar spoke, "it is the fault of the man framing me wrongly."

"Why are you selfless Aliyaar? Does it not hurt you?" His mother whispered.

"I'm okay. Enjoying my time away from you all."

"Oh Aliyaar!" Lyana spoke, hugging his frame.

"How's Barekhna?"

"Busy. She hasn't slept in days. Both her and Zayed have turned the city upside down searching for proof," Alamgeer explained, "in fact she sent us, pulling a few strings. We brought you a letter and food."

"Could I — could I see the letter?"

Nodding, his father brought out a piece of beige paper, his name written on top in smooth cursive. A little heart above his name. Unwilling, he grinned, the muscles in his cheeks caved in and screamed with pain — no longer used to grinning so harsh. His fingers traced over the words, each letter written with a powerful stroke, her perfume lingering on the edges of the page. Happiness brushed his eyes as he read further, warmth boiled in his bones. Even in the razor sharp cell — where the temperatures rivaled the Arctic, Aliyaar felt sated. At home — finally.

Alright besties
6 more chapters to go!
That means this book will be over somewhere in June/July