His Prisoner 21+

47

A thirteen-year-old Arzal stood trembling with rage, his hand steady as it gripped a gun pointed directly at Sultan. His bloodshot eyes burned with such intensity that the room seemed to constrict under the weight of his rage. His heart pounded erratically, a mixture of rage and desperation coursing through his veins. Even at this young age, he had already grown tall, his fearlessness cultivated by years of brutal lessons from his father. Now, he was a boy who killed without hesitation, instilling fear in anyone who dared defy him. Sultan had honed him into this, a weapon of intimidation.

"Baap pe bandook thaane ga? Jisne tujhe bandhook chalana sikhaya hai, tu ussi pe goli chalayega? Itni pyaari hai tujhe woh rand!" Sultan spat, his voice thick with fury and derision. (Are you going to point a gun at your father? The one who taught you how to shoot? You'd shoot at him? Is that whore so much dear to you?)

"Woh rand nahi hain!" Arzal snapped back furiously. He cocked the gun with a sharp click, the sound echoing in the tense silence. His knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip. (She's not a whore!)

Sultan sneered, a cruel smile tugging at his lips. Without breaking eye contact, he reached into his coat and flung a stack of photographs onto the table. The glossy images scattered across the surface like pieces of a shattered truth.

"Tujhe mujh pe nahi yakeen toh yeh tasveeren dekh!" Sultan's voice dripped with venom, the taunting challenge in his tone unmistakable. (If you don't believe me, then look at these pictures!)

Arzal's heart lurched as his free hand reluctantly picked up one of the photographs. His blood ran cold at the sight. His mother, Amal, was in the arms of the house driver, their bodies entwined in a way that suggested betrayal. They stood too close, their posture too intimate.

"Dekh, kaise us gaandu ki baahon mein lipti huwi hai," Sultan's words sliced through the air, laden with disgust. "Rand hai saali, aur yeh tasveeren saboot hain!" (See how she's wrapped up in that asshole's arms? That bitch is a whore, and these pictures are proof!)

Arzal's chest tightened, his world tilting beneath him. He shook his head, rejecting the image before him. "Nahi... maa aisa nahi kar sakti..." His voice faltered, barely above a whisper. His grip on the gun loosened, but only slightly. (No... Mom can't do this...)

Inside, Arzal was crumbling. The fierce loyalty he felt for his mother was warring with the horror of the images in front of him. How could she? His mind clawed at the thought, and an insidious fear crept in. If his mother could abandon him like this, who else would stay? Who would love him?

Sultan, sensing his inner turmoil, pressed on, his eyes gleaming with malicious satisfaction. "Aurat ki agar wafadaari chahiye toh usse kabhi na mohabbat dikhana, na uski izzat karna, aur na hi uske saath wafadaari se chalna!" His voice rang out, filled with the poison that had shaped his entire worldview. He approached Arzal slowly, like a predator cornering its prey. (If you want a woman to be loyal, never show her love, never respect her, and certainly never walk with her in loyalty!)

Arzal's eyes darted between the damning photos and the grim future his father painted, his heart a cacophony of fear and confusion. His mother's love had anchored his world, and now it was fracturing.

"Mard ko barbaad kar deti hai mohabbat, khud aag mein jalne se behtar hai ke us na cheez ko hi apne joote ki nok par rakho!" Sultan's words were seared into Arzal's young mind, infecting his thoughts like a virus. (Love destroys a man; it's better to crush that worthless thing beneath your shoes!)

Arzal's grip tightened again on the gun. His mind was a maelstrom of confusion and betrayal. He didn't want to believe his mother was capable of such treachery, but his father's voice, his authority, was impossible to ignore.