The Broken Tale

Cut

Song: Run to you By Leah Michele

Her mother threw a magazine at her. Layla looked at them with confused eyes that almost matched their anger. She looked down at the cover and everything became crystal clear. Now she understood why her family were here, now she understood why they were so enraged. Photos of her and Brian was took over the entire cover, of them walking down the streets hand in hand, of her in his arms in the beach, of them on a date in a resturant. She gulped, all her rage and confidence collapsed into a heap of shivering fear. Suddenly, all the stories of women and girls being subjected to horrible honor killings for the most minor things that she had heard throughout her entire childhood. She had never believed that she was safe from honor killings as no woman in cultures like hers were but she had not felt so helplessly in danger at the hands of the people who were supposed to protect her, her family, ever since she had to 'choose' to marry Ali in Greece.
"Is he the 'friend' you've been staying with?" Her father yelled, "Answer me!"
"He's a f-friend of Ali's. N-Nothing h-happened between us, f-father." She mumbled with trembling lips, "I promise you that."
She kept her eyes on her shoes, away from her father's for fear that her eyes may give her away. Memories of all the intimate nights she and Brian had spent together, thinking of how many times they made love, she feared that if she looked at anyone, her eyes would tell the truth. But even though she couldn't see it coming, the crushing punch across her face was hard to miss. She fell to the floor, her hands beneath her but she still kept silent and away from everyone's eyes.
"I know that!" He bellowed, "But that doesn't matter!"
Layla felt footsteps around her. Tariq knelt down by her side, he smelled of cigarettes, reminding Layla of the horrible odor that she associated with all the men she had encountered in her childhood. The odor middle easterns associated with manliness but the odor that Layla associated with monsters who were all one more obstacle in her already troubled life.
"It seems that we were mistaken when we thought you grew into a woman and realized what your duties are as a wife." Tariq said calmly, lifting her head, "What is on your finger, Layla? A wedding ring. Do you know what that means? That means you already have an owner, you already have a man. And that man is your husband. Do you know what that means, Layla? It means that you cannot talk to other men the way you are getting so close to that man in the photos."
"I always knew that sending you here was a bad idea. This cursed, corrupt western society has ruined your morals!" Her mother said dramatically, "I raised you better than this."
"Layla's always been like this." Jamila added silently without looking up.
"Yes. You've always been too spoiled! Thinking you can do what men can." Her mother agreed, "You have brought shame and disgrace not only on our family but your poor husband's as well!"
"What hasn't this man done for you? He accepted you for everything you are, brought you here and set you up a beautiful home. Isn't that what you always wanted? To live in the west? Not only that, but he even sent you to university and showers you with luxury. What more do you think you deserve?" Her father scolded, "He's more than just a perfect husband but what do you do? Bring shame to his image!"
"Where did I go so wrong with you?" Her mother asked, shaking her head in tears, "Why couldn't you be more like your sister? Why couldn't you be a good, dutiful and obedient wife? Why can't your damn eyes see her?"
"No, Ma'am. This is Ali's fault as much as it is hers." Tariq said.
"I agree." Her father replied, "He's too soft on her. If he ever set his foot down, she wouldn't get so out of hand."
"Exactly. It is a man's job to correct his wife." Her mother added as well.
"If he had given her a few good slaps in the first place, she wouldn't have gotten this far." Her father continued.
Layla sighed. She was not surprised at all. She had heard this for her entire life.
"But we can hardly blame Ali for being fooled by her beauty." Tariq said, he sighed and got to his feet, "But not anymore."
He walked over to Ali and pulled him to his feet, "My father always said that a woman is her husband's biggest property. You have all right to do whatever you want with her."
Layla's eyes widened with enraged and horrified tears as she watched her father hand Ali a black handgun.
"She has brought shame to you. She maybe my daughter but for sake of the prophet and what is right, I do not have the right to say anything. She's my daughter but she's your wife, you have more right to her than I do. She has dirtied your honor, whichever way you choose to cleanse it, we support you."
Ali glanced down at the handgun and looked back at Layla. A small smirk cornered his mouth, he slowly knelt down by Layla's side, staring at her with his piercing and cruel eyes. Seeing her in pain, in fear and desperation had been a great passion of his ever since the first few months of their marriage. He slowly held the gun up to her head, his eyes fed off of the desperation and fear in her eyes.
"What do you think I should do, love?" He whispered in English.
His smirk mocked her, as if to say 'you thought you could disrespect me?'
"Please... Brian is your friend...y-you know we wouldn't do anyth-"
"No man is allowed near one's wife." He interrupted.
"Oh but Tony was?"
Ali's smirk disappeared in an instant. As if he had forgotten all about what he and Tony had done to her but she had somehow recapped his lost memories of that drunken incident. He stared at her blankly for what seemed like a lifetime, prolonging Layla's agonizing confusion and uncertainty for she could not get one hint of what he was thinking at all. The cold muzzle of the gun felt like a burning hot stone pressed up against her temple. Everyone looked on, all awaiting the bang of the gun and the splatter of blood, some even imagining it.
But it never came.
Slowly, never looking away from Layla's eyes, Ali stood up, tossing the unfired gun on the sofa.
"I can't do it " he said to everyone else, his eyes still locked in hers, "I can't kill someone I love."
All that Layla saw was disappointment, anger and panic wash over the faces of her family. Not one drop of relief that they wouldn't have to watch their daughter be killed, not a little relief that they wouldn't be murderers.
"What are you going to do? Let her walk away with this?" Her father asked angrily.
"No."
"Then?"
"In my family, we've had a tradition for when our women misbehave." Ali explained, "I think it's only fitting for her."
Everyone glanced at each other. Knowing this was going to put her through torture and that they would not win an argument against Ali, they all nodded in agreement.
"Get up, Layla." Ali commanded calmly.
Fear had taken over all of Layla's body. She would have done anything to survive. With trembling legs shaking like they were made of jelly, she slowly forced herself to her feet.
"Omar, there's something upstairs in our bedroom." Ali said, "In the closet, can you get it for me?"
Omar glanced over at Layla, his lips shaking. He was the one who did not want her to be hurt, the one who was on her side but also the one who would lose his life if he stood up to his family. Layla could see apologetic eyes begging her for forgiveness as he slowly left the room.
"Ali, you really can do whatever you want with her." Her mother said again, "Afterall-"
"I'm sure with my choice, Mrs.Roni." Ali cut in, "I don't want to kill her. This isn't Iraq, we can't get away with murder so easily for long."
Omar returned. Layla's eyes flashed to him, fear choked her throat as she saw the silver, metal pipe in his hand.
"Ali..." she whispered pleadingly.
He ignored her, taking the pipe from Omar. She saw a smirk or smile of relief curve the faces of all her family, all except Jamila. She looked traumatized, she knew what this abuse felt like. Jamila had been broken by her family and her husband long ago, she did not have the strength to hold up for as long as Layla had. But she was too scared to do anything. But she could not look either. She sat like a still statue, clutching little Amal in her arms, pressing her face up against her chest so she would not see what was going to happen, she kept her own eyes on the floor, forcing herself to stay strong.
"Take off your dress." Ali commanded.
"Oh, what about Tariq, that'll be-" her mother started to protest.
"He can leave the room." Ali answered sternly, "Take off your dress, Layla."
Tariq knew all too well about middle eastern standards of what was appropriate. He quickly left the room.
"Did you not hear your husband, Layla?" Her father asked, "Take off your dress."
Layla looked into Ali's eyes for pity. But he had already pitied her enough by not putting a bullet in her head, she knew was being foolish by expecting more. With trembling hands, she slowly removed her dress, watching her hopes fall to the floor and crumble in a heap with the dress. She was shivering, she tried to cover herself up as much as she could with her arms since she was left in nothing but her black lacy undergarments.
"Turn around and kneel." Ali demanded.
Still shivering, she turned around but her legs were too stiff. Layla could not bring herself to kneel, she was already sobbing, her tears of fear ran down her face. Ali sighed and shoved her down, forcing her to kneel. She wished Brian would somehow magically appear.
"Have mercy on her." Jamila said in a whisper.
That was the last thing Layla heard before a skin breaking bang filled the room. Layla screamed at the top of her lungs, it felt like a million tiny knives had pierced her spine. Amal started to scream as well, Layla could hear drops of tears fall on the floor but she couldn't tell whose they were.
"Jamila, hold her hands down." Her mother said, "Go to your father, Amal."
She heard Amal's tiny footsteps quickly leave the room eagerly. Jamila slowly kneeled by Layla's side. There were tears staining down her face.
"Stay strong." She whispered to Layla as she pinned down her hands in her lap, "It's better if you let them do it."
"Help m-"
Before Layla could even finish her sentence, another blow striked her back. It felt as if all her organs shook with the force of the impacts, her desperate wails of pain rang through the room but failed to get her any sympathy.
Blow after blow.
Her screams seemed got louder but no one seemed to hear it.
With each blow, Layla felt her body get number and number.
"It'll be okay." Jamila reassured her tearfully, "Stay strong, sis."
"Make it stop!"
But no one made it stop.
Her pain was prolonged, each blow felt harder than the last as the metal pipe pierced her delicate skin.
But finally, Ali stopped. No one even heard the metal pipe drop to the floor since Layla's cries rang too loudly. Jamila rubbed her hands comfortingly. Layla could not see much through the hazy tears covering her eyes but she could see the grey metal pipe was bent, bent like a hook.
"It's okay, it's over."
"I doubt that taught you anything." Her mother said all too calmly, "But it's better than nothing, I suppose."
"Get dressed." Ali commanded indifferently, "Omar, can you get me a pair of scissors from the kitchen?"
Layla's eyes bolted to Jamila fearfully. What would he need scissors for? Was he going to stab her? If he was going to kill her anyway, why didn't he just shoot her in the first place? Her thoughts consumed her that she did not even notice Omar had returned with the scissors.
"I said get dressed." Ali repeated more firmly this time.
"Get dressed, sis, you don't want to anger him more." Jamila whispered.
Layla's hands were frozen, she could not feel any part of her body as if they were all numb. Jamila helped her put the dress back on, her eyes widened as she saw the blue dress get stained with her blood. She ignored it and helped her sit down on the sofa. Ali placed the scissors in her stiff, frozen hands and untied her bun, sending her brown locks falling on her shoulders. He knelt by her slowly, holding her cold hands and the scissors in his.
"Your hair has always been one of your greatest prides, Layla, and you have been one of my greatest prides." He said, "Just like how you took away my pride, now you must let go of yours."
"Sir, I think she learned her lesson, there's no need t-" Jamila protested.
"Jamila!" Her mother shrieked, "How dare you interfere with what a man wants to do with his property?"
"But, mother-"
"That's enough, Jamila." Her father cut in, "Go to your husband and daughter."
Jamila glanced down at Layla, biting her lips to hold back her tears. She knew there was little she could do. So she finally gave in and left after giving Layla one last hesitant glance at the door.
"Come on, Layla." Her father said with crossed arms, "You took away his honor yet he loves you enough to spare you. How could you hesitate one moment no matter what he asks of you?"
Layla ignored him and looked up at Ali, her eyes pleading him to leave her alone. But he never even flinched, only gestured for her to go on.
Layla knew that she was lucky to be spared. No middle eastern would hesitate before subjecting their daughter, wives or sisters to cruel honor killings for the most minor things. For whatever reason it was that Ali didn't, she knew she was lucky to be given another chance to live long enough to escape someday. And her hair was the smallest sacrifice she would have to make. So with shaking hands, she held her hair at her chin with one hand and held the scissors up to it. She took in a deepbreath and invisioned Brian's face, she remembered how happy she had been that week with him and imagined how it would be if she could be like that forever. It gave her the strength she had lost.
Snip, snip, snip.
Locks of her gorgeous chocolate hair fell on the floor, her tears topping them like the icing on a cake.