A Game That Destroys

↬ Black Benevolence

↬Chapter Two

Myeesha watched the tall man saunter away as if he had never been wounded by a bullet only a while ago. She was never one to be afraid of people who dusted off their superiority on others. This particular man was different though. He was a Dragos, for one, and had almost complete control of their country. Uzmer had its President and Prime Minister but the Clan of Dragos controlled the armed forces, the secret forces and all the goings-on in the country. They were the supreme power. They called all the brakes. Now, only one of them did . . . the last surviving member.

Long ago, when her parents had been alive and she had first heard of the Heir, she had felt sorry for him. Only a child and already being told of the heavy duties that would fall upon him. It was rumored that his mother had been pregnant during the time she was killed. A child all three members of the family greatly anticipated but never got. Perhaps that was what had fueled the Heir's guilt and frustration. As his life had taken an almost heavenly turn, it had all crumbled down and he had lost everything. All except his wealth, his status, his men and the deadly power he possessed.

Now, she wanted to murder him.

Yes, she was sympathetic that he had lost his parents. Well, so had she. And she certainly didn't go around spreading death threats and striking mortal fear in the hearts of innocent people who tried to help her. She didn't try to tear families apart. Ruhayl was just a baby. A blind baby. He would have to be absolutely heartless to take him away from her and her brother.

And he had wanted to.

'Thank Allah Musa wasn't here,' she thought to herself while shifting Ruhayl to her other arm. Ruhayl stayed snuggled into her side as she began to walk back home. She had left early in the morning to try and find work. Apart from a sweeping job, she had found absolutely nothing. The coins she'd earned jingled in her pocket. They would get them some bread and cheese probably. A banana for Ruhayl, her sweet little monkey. If she was really lucky, she'd be able to buy a few butterscotch toffees for her twin too. But that was stretching it and she didn't want to get her hopes up.

"Meemee? Go?"

She smiled tenderly, pressing a kiss to his messy dark hair. "Yes, sweetheart, the evil man is gone. You don't have to hide anymore."

He pulled back and gave her a large grin. His brown eyes weren't focused on hers though. She pecked his cheek and hugged him to herself. They walked in silence until she reached a small cottage. The cottage was near a gentle stream and the only possession their parents had left them. They had fish from the stream to eat and she grew fruits and vegetables in her small garden. Their lives were simple. Musa worked to pay for the bills and other necessities while Myeesha took care of her toddler and the house. Early in the mornings, Musa left to do his odd jobs; two shifts at the supermarket and one shift at a gas station. He would return in the evenings and Myeesha would have dinner ready by then. She spent the day with Ruhayl and sometimes went out if they really needed something. They had to struggle but they were together. And that was all that truly mattered.

She entered the one-room cottage with its pocket kitchen and bathroom. Setting Ruhayl down, she moved to search the cupboards for something to eat. She grinned when she found a lightly bruised banana.

"Ruhayl," she called and he waddled towards her voice. She peeled the yellow fruit and took his hand, wrapping his cute little fingers around it. His face lit up when he realized what it was. She ruffled his hair adoringly. "Yep, you get a banana."

She took his tiny hand and led him outside. They sat by the stream, Myeesha pulling her veil away and kicking off her shoes to dip her feet in the chilly water. Ruhayl found her lap and gobbled down the banana while she told him random stories their mother had once narrated to her. When Zuhr time rolled by, she left to pray and read Quran, Ruhayl following her like a baby duckling. His hand never left the edge of her gown.