The Whipping Turn

Saudi - Life and death

For the most part, Anya's pregnancy didn't change much of day-to-day life. She suffered no morning sickness, just the odd tired episode and aside from her slowly changing, slowly swelling body, she had no physical troubles. In fact, without even trying that hard, for most of the last four months she could almost pretend nothing was happening, nothing had changed.

She sighed at her reflection the in the long mirror of her wardrobe, turning this way and that, and ran her fingers over the small but scary swell at her abdomen. Her breasts were swollen but she didn't mind that. This was more real though. This. This bump, she was not able to pretend much now.

And soon others would know. The last couple of times she had been called to Ibrahim, since his little harem had disbanded, it had been over quickly, perfunctory more than anything and she'd been dismissed without a second glance. She certainly hadn't said anything, and Jida had implied not to, that this was "women's business." Anya wasn't sure if this approach was more about her, Ibrahim or the general culture but she did as she was advised. On the flipside, Mo hadn't said anything but she had felt the watchful eyes of Aban on her recently, though he hadn't voiced any thoughts. Did Mo just not want to know, similar to her avoidance technique? Or did he really not see it? She was unsure but the unsaid or the unknown, whatever it was, had created a flurry of anxiety each time she met with Mo and Aban, and had left her with a mix of relief and slight bewilderment each time they parted. And then for the rest, the robes hid everything, as they were designed to do.

Which was how it was going to stay for next week, she thought, determinedly. Edward and Rick's visit, the few days they had been here, had been an oasis in the desert for her. Actual real laughing and talking and English and books and movies and well, this would keep.

She eyed herself and pulled her baggy t-shirt over her body. For the next seven days I will just be one person, not two.

But life, and death, never really goes according to any plan.

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At lunch, Jida took Anya aside; Ibrahim required her presence from mid-afternoon. She felt that familiar stomach drop of creeping digust and dread at these words but there was a resignation in her now, alongside a numbness, which almost created a complete dissociation. Anya wouldn't have been able to describe it like that, for her it was simply survival, an ability to shut down herself in protection.

While out in the real world she nodded to Jida in acknowledgement, inside her head churned with planning, the numb resignation allowing her  objective, practical thinking.

The timing means the Englishmen could mid-afternoon nap, away from the blazing heat and I could meet up with them, maybe even for dinner? That could be fun...

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She'd arranged a dinner for them all later and was still thinking about what sweet options might be on offer and questioning internally if the Englishmen would like them, the Arabic tastes far sweeter than what she knew they were used too, when she pushed open Ibrahim's heavy wooden door, and, not used to him waiting for her, was consequently caught completely unawares by his presence until a large hand grabbed the cloth of her head covering, pulling her roughly into the room.

Oh, blyad. Oh, shit.
Anya still panicked in Russian.

She felt the burn of fabric on her skin, as Ibrahim ripped the material down from around her head and face, until it hung loosely around her shoulders, then slapped her hard. Ears ringing, mind blank and heart racing, Anya spun slightly at the force before catching herself on the edge of the bed, bracing her hands and trying to get her bearings.