UNENDING

Prologue

Trigger warning for mentions of physical abuse. 


-ASIYA-

As I stand amidst the opulent grandeur of my home adorned with the trappings of wealth and privilege, I cannot shake the gnawing sensation of inadequacy that consumes me. My husband moves effortlessly through these lavish halls, his confidence a testament to his status and success. Meanwhile, I linger in the shadows, feeling as though I am but a mere accessory in this world of extravagance.

No matter how I strive to measure up, I am always acutely aware of the gaping chasm separating us, not just in wealth but also in power and influence. It is a constant reminder of my own perceived shortcomings, a weight that presses down upon me with each passing day, leaving me feeling small and insignificant in comparison to my husband's towering figure.

In the shadowed corridors of my mind, where whispers of desire once danced freely, now lingered the echoes of an empty promise. My marriage was a façade crafted from necessity rather than passion, a delicate tapestry woven from threads of obligation and duty.

From the moment our union was sealed in the cold embrace of convenience, I knew that love would forever be a stranger to us. There were no tender caresses or whispered confessions beneath the moonlit sky.

Al-Qasim was not the type of man I imagined ending up with, nor was I the woman he hoped for. He was the only son of affluent parents who had been meticulously trained to take over his father's empire from a young age. 

When we first met, I was a mere intern at his company. I had won a school contest, which gave me the opportunity. His presence was intimidating, and compared to his privileged position, I was nothing more than a tiny grain of sand, lost and unnoticed in the vast expanse of this world.

He asked me to marry him a month into my internship. The proposal took me aback, and I politely declined. But all hell broke loose once I confided in my sister, and my parents got a whiff of the news. They pressured me into giving up my spot at the company to my sister. They said she was better suited for the job and would fit Al-Qasim better. 

After weeks of coercion using violence and harsh words, they forced my hand to submit my resignation to my supervisor. Somehow, Al-Qasim heard the news and called me into his office. Before that day, I never thought I'd see the top floor of the 18-story building. He asked me to state my reasons for resigning, and once I couldn't respond, he proposed marriage to me again. 

His reasons and conditions were straightforward. "You're beautiful and well-mannered. That is why I chose you. But I will be honest: if you agree, there will be no love between us, but you will be well taken care of and never lack anything. All I require is a modest wife to appease my parents. This is the last time I will ask. I will accept your resignation and move forward with marriage plans if you answer yes. If you refuse, I will accept your resignation and never bother you again."

At that moment, all I could think of were my parents and sister. Memories flood my mind like a relentless tide, each wave crashing against the shore of my consciousness. I remember the days of my youth when the walls of our home echoed with the cacophony of harsh words and bitter arguments. It wasn't just the sting of their words but the weight of their expectations pressing down upon me, suffocating my spirit. I recall the moments when I felt invisible. My needs brushed aside like insignificant debris. Their indifference etched scars upon my soul, scars that time cannot erase.

Unlike my family, Al-Qasim had chosen me. He saw me as I was and chose me. He thought I was good enough for the role. Even if I wasn't the most spectacular person, he had chosen me, and a part of me liked that. 

The feeling gave me a tinge of hope for my future, and in that headspace, I gave him a tiny nod. I agreed to his offer. I didn't think of the repercussions or what would come with it because I felt wanted. I felt desired. A feeling I had longed for all my life.

The process did not go smoothly. When I returned home with the news, I received an even worse reception than anticipated. My sister's face contorted with disdain, her words dripping with venom. At that moment, I saw not just disagreement but pure hatred. It pierced through me, a painful reminder of the chasm between us. Despite my efforts to bridge the gap, her resentment remained an insurmountable barrier. 

My mother threw all sorts of insults my way. "You just hate to see your sister happy. Why do you hate her so much? What kind of monster did I bring into this world?" she had yelled right before my father delivered the worst slap he had ever given me to this day. 

"Hit her harder, Daddy! A bride with a black eye will be a wonderful sight," My sister had egged on. And he did just that. I limped for days. And without proper medical care or nourishment to my body, I healed awfully slowly. I avoided seeing Al-Qasim in person for weeks. By the time I arrived at his house, I still hid for weeks until I was sure I only needed a little make-up to cover up the bruises on my face.

Our marriage was a partnership forged in the flames of circumstance, where the flames of passion flickered and died before they could ever truly ignite. Yet, in the depths of my soul, a solitary ember of longing refused to be extinguished. It whispered tales of what could have been, teasing me with visions of a love unbound by duty and obligation. But such dreams were forbidden, relegated to the dark recesses of my heart where they lay buried beneath the weight of reality.

And so, I resigned myself to a life of quiet desperation, where the hollow echoes of a loveless marriage reverberated through the chambers of my soul. For in this world of shadows and secrets, there was no room for love, only the cold comfort of familiarity and the unspoken understanding that we were bound together by something far stronger than passion alone.