Mine to take (18+) - Fanfiction

Matriarchal Home

Warning (18+!!!) The chapter is dark and creepy don't start your day by reading this, and if you are, please don't blame me if you are traumatized towards the end.

Feel free to vote and comment. If the chapter reaches 100 votes, then I will update earlier.

Because of some offended anons in the ngls I have decided not to mention any political figures further in the book.

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My mother Zeenat Ahmed belonged to the Hayat family, grown up to be a prim proper lady, she expected the same from us. There was a certain way a woman was supposed to carry herself, walk a certain way, talk a certain way. According to her a person should be able to detect that you are a woman from miles way, that's how you should behave. She had a melodious voice so often she would sing us her favourite songs, while combing our hairs.

This was the only moment she showered us with love. When I was thirteen, something changed, she wasn't the same. She started talking to herself, getting obsessed with her own reflection and snapping for no reason. My father had tried to calm her down, told her many times that it was all in her head. But mother wasn't the type to listen, she had the power over him. Soon we started acting like we were the ones who couldn't hear the voices, she was normal we weren't.

When I was seven years old, I had suffered from chicken pox, my mother was convinced I was going to die. She dug my grave in the middle of the night, and convinced my father to bury me before they came for me. Who were 'they'? We could never figure that out.

Her illness only got worse as days passed, she would creep up on us sometimes, cry in the middle of the night and scream at some unknown person. My grandmother was convinced it was 'jinn', day and night she gave her holy water, took her to babas and muftis, but nothing gave her the peace.

It was the year 1967, I was fifteen years old, my father had started a business with my uncle Imran. Uncle Imran had his head deep within politics, all the black money that he had he skilfully transferred it all to my father's account. When the investigation was held, he used my father to get a promotion and blamed him. The money was found and he was thrown into jail.

I remember often crying at night for my father. Daytime was solemn and tense, therewas no question of laughter or fun, we had 'fallen' from grace.I knew it would be difficult for my parents to restart a life without official power, andthat they would have to live as ordinary people.Only my mother and my father's brothers visited him in prison. We children were not taken, perhaps because we could not contribute to the serious matters that were being discussed.

A news came one day, he had shot himself inside the cell. I didn't believe any of it, neither did mother. Before he had left, he had promised us that he will be back charge free, he had gotten some evidence against uncle Imraan, all of this was overwhelming for us. Mama passed a few days after due to a heart attack, I was crushed all alone when I was brought into the home of the man who had murdered my family.

It was more about survival than living, I learnt where to speak up and where not to. Arguing with my phupho was of no use, she had loved adding fire to every issue. All of my relatives hated my father's guts, they went on discussing how he had wronged them, or failed to help them. They didn't care that was my dead father, as years passed some of their opinions stuck on me, I started disliking my father too. For trusting these leeches, for never paying attention to any of his kids... he was too invested in my mother to care about us.

I craved his attention, his love growing up, his approval but got none. Still I couldn't help but miss him, he was a loyal man, a great husband. But not a good father..

My phupho hated germs, she was hypochondriac in a way, sometimes she would occupy the bathroom for more than seven hours, bathing, rinsing off the dead skin. We had to check in on her sometimes, if she was still alive in there.