The Captured

Season 2 Eisode 10

Its quarter past midnight and my eyes are heavy yet bringing you the very needed Thursday episode. <3

Enjoy

Fifteen agonizing minutes ticked by, yet my phone remained elusive. I scoured every nook and cranny of my room, even double-checking the pockets of my trousers in a desperate attempt to locate my phone.

Damn it.

Nancy Maa patiently lingered by the wall-length mirror, awaiting my conclusion of the search so she could lend her assistance with my hair.

Determined as I was to find my phone first, I marched over to the closet and rifled through my suitcase, still left unpacked. Sighing in frustration, I realized my efforts were fruitless.

Then, just as despair threatened to overwhelm me, my fingers brushed against the familiar shape of my phone.

With a rush of relief, I made my way back to Nancy Maa and offered my apologies. She was understanding and guided me to a seat, delicately combing the edges of my hair.

“Honey let's wait for the nurse to arrive tomorrow for the final dressing. For now, let me style your hair like this.”

She suggested, her voice soothing.

I winced slightly as the comb neared the tender wound on my scalp, then inquired about the severity of the injury. Nancy Maa hesitated for a moment before offering reassurance.

“Not too severe. You'll be back to yourself in a day or two.” She said, though my concerns lay deeper than mere physical wounds.

With her gentle touch, she concluded her task. “You're all set to venture out and seize the day.” She announced with a warm smile.

Expressing my gratitude, I stole a quick glance in the mirror before departing. However, a second appraisal halted me in my tracks.

My reflection revealed a face marred by bruises and swelling, a stark contrast to the person I once knew. My heart clenched at the sight—was this the new image I projected onto the world?

Clad in somber attire, I braced myself for the funeral service of my dearest friend, a wave of melancholy washing over me. Just then, my phone buzzed, drawing my attention to the screen, where I noticed the date. June 13, 2015.

What!?

I had overlooked my own birthday amidst the chaos. The memory of Mary mentioning it only a week prior flooded back to me, and a sense of disbelief settled in.

Tucking my phone away, I made my way towards the main doors, my thoughts interrupted by the sound of my mother speaking in Urdu—a language reserved for clandestine conversations.

Intrigued, I inched closer, straining to hear her words.

“Nahin nahin, bhir jane ka tou sawal hi ni hai, woh ghar hi rahegi bas…”

Her soft voice murmured, sending a shiver down my spine.

The murmurs of a man's voice reached my ears, spoken in Urdu— Intrigued, I cautiously peered through the gap in the door, revealing my mother's eldest brother, Declan, engaged in conversation with his younger brother.

They were seated on a couch, discussing something urgent. My mother was present as well, although obscured from my view. Nearby, kids played with toys innocently on an Afghan carpet, oblivious to the weight of the discussion.

Declan's words resonated through the room, emphasizing the need for caution and secrecy. My heart quickened as I listened, piecing together their intentions. They were talking about me—deciding to confine me to the house and warn others against taking me out.

But why? What were they so afraid of? The mention of paparazzi only deepened the mystery. Why the fear of media attention?

Recollections flooded my mind, like puzzle pieces falling into place. Memories of our arrival in Pakistan surfaced, my mother's insistence on avoiding paparazzi by taking a taxi.

Who was she trying to shield me from? What secrets lay hidden beneath their guarded conversations?