UNENDING

4- 11:14

-ASIYA-

The air in my parents' house felt suffocating, and the walls seemed to close in with every hateful word they hurled at me. My mother's voice echoed in my mind, telling me how worthless I was and how everything was my fault. My sister, spoiled and indulged and wearing one of the necklaces, watched with a smug expression, untouched by the chaos she often caused.

 When my father's hand struck my face, I felt a sharp sting, but the emotional pain cut deeper. Their gaslighting had twisted my reality, making me doubt myself at every turn. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think. My body moved on autopilot as I grabbed my bag and stumbled out the door.

I didn't need to ask why they had requested to see me at 8 pm. I knew Jamila had told them about the jewellery. My parents had always been terrible, their criticism cutting me to the core. I felt like a child again, helpless and vulnerable, dreading every moment I spent in their presence. 

The road stretched ahead of me, but all I could see was the fear gnawing at my insides. My hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles turned white, and my heart pounded in my chest like a wild animal. I was heading toward the pharmacy because I didn't want Al-Qasim to suspect anything. 

He'd know something was wrong the moment he saw me. The thought of lying to him twisted my stomach in knots. I didn't want to worry him, but I couldn't bear the shame of him knowing the whole truth. The guilt of deceiving him added another layer to my already fraught emotions. How would I explain the tear-streaked face, trembling hands, and bruised cheek? 

Ever since I got married, my parent's abuse lessened. They, too, didn't want Al-Qasim to know because that could potentially endanger the money he funnelled into their accounts. But today, with my sisters urging and whining, they let all hell break loose, and I felt like I had been transported back in time. 

As I drove silently, paralysed by fear, I wondered how much longer I could endure this cycle of torment and deception. The glowing sign of a pharmacy caught my eye. It was a small beacon of hope in the growing darkness. I parked my car and did my best to conceal my face before getting out. 

I pushed the door open, and the cool, sterile air hit my face. I walked up to the counter, feeling exposed and vulnerable. The pharmacist looked up, concern etching his face as he saw my bruises. I tried to speak, but the words caught in my throat. Tears welled up in my eyes, and he sighed knowingly. He nodded understandingly and guided me to a private area.

The familiar scent of antiseptic filled the air as the elderly pharmacist, Mr. Ahmed, gently dabbed at my wounds. He had known me since childhood, always a kind presence behind the counter. As he worked, his eyes, softened by age and experience, met mine with a mixture of concern and sadness. "Asiya," he began, his voice gentle but firm, "you can't keep coming here like this. It's not right, and it's not safe." I felt a lump form in my throat as I tried to look away, but his gaze held me steady. "You need to tell your husband. He needs to know what you're going through."

Tears blurred my vision as I shook my head, the reality of my situation crashing over me like a tidal wave. "I can't, Mr. Ahmed," I whispered, my voice breaking. "I can't tell him. He... he'll ask questions I can't answer." The words tumbled out, a mixture of fear and confusion. My parents' constant berating, the physical abuse, the manipulation—they all left me questioning my worth. My sister's privileged life only added to my torment, making me feel like an outsider in my own family.

Mr. Ahmed sighed, his expression one of profound empathy. "Asiya, none of this is your fault. You need to believe that. Your parents and sister—they're the ones who are wrong, not you." He paused, letting the words sink in. I wanted to believe him, to take solace in his kindness, but the scars ran deep. "Your husband cares for you, does he not? He deserves to know the truth so he can help you and protect you."