A Court's Maim

گواہ | Witness

Morning had sweltered into a foggy absconding. It rushed past with it's slivers of oranges and greys. The cars had moved in far too soon for her to piece together a cracking heart and a wounded fire. Shaky, Barekhna had put herself together. Painting her face — a stroke at a time, sipping on her first of many mugs of coffee. They tasted too bitter, no amount of creamer or sugar could remove it's watery aftertaste. Instead it tasted too much of bleach. It was perhaps still resting over the ledge in their bedroom, the half emptied coffee cup. A replenished one sat before her. Steaming, swirling.

"We start any moment you're ready Mrs.Aliyaar." The interviewer cleared her throat, straightening the pinned suit she wore.

Gazing for a moment at her brother — who like a breeze of air had arrived moments ago to support her, all the way from London, she nodded. Barekhna's eyes, of deep soil shades met the sky blue of her brother's. They were their mother's world — a joke that lingered for the shades of their eyes. One was her sky that she sought and the other her soil that kept her grounded. Watching like hawk, she licked her lips, tapping her fingers over the herringbone chair, murmuring a few words to Malika. Who shuffled out of the lounge, the door closing with a thud.

"Do you want a moment?" The woman questioned, gazing from behind the make up artist that dabbed a brush over her sweaty brow.

It was not everyday that Barekhna Saleem-Aliyaar invited you over for a interview.

"I'm as ready as I can be miss Fakhar."

"Sana is fine." She spoke.

"To you perhaps," Barekhna tutted with a senile understanding, "but I'd rather not mix business and personal life." She added, her eyes lingering over her rather uncomfortable brother.

"Of course. I will no signal my staff to roll the cameras."

Sana's thin arms waved through the stifled air, acting unbothered about the harsh words that had been dealt to her. At the expense of her twin sister. Taking a gulp from her long forgotten tea — the aroma soothing her bulging nerves, she ticked her square jaw. With her back straight and pressed against the latticed chair, her hands dropping to the centre of her crossed lap. Confidence ebbed away at the exterior of their harsh smiles. Putting hers up for debate.

"Mrs.Aliyaar why turn to the media of all things right now?" She stared with a pointed stare, her brows sharp — risen to a harsh arch.

"It's all timing you know, if you're constantly crying about a lion, no one will believe you when there is an actual one." Barekhna shrugged.

"You usually ignore the media but now—" she trailed off, waving her pen around.

"I find no shame in admitting to you and to everyone that watches this," she sighed, gripping back the temper that had almost slid from her fingers, "that I hate the media. Your blogs, news channels, news papers the whole lot — you're good for selling an image and making a mockery out of an honest person. Which is not my cup of tea."

Murmuring a few profanities under her breath, Barekhna rolled her eyes. Licking her lips, bunching the fabric of her veil in between her fingers discreetly, she stared back at Sana with detachment. They were empty—the wells of her eyes like a carnage almost. A deafening silence tumbled across and she noticed the woman in front of her, younger and still with spirit, clench her hands.
Go easy — the words of her conscience made no sense. Easy and forgiveness had long since been made impossible to her. It was never going to be that, not even with her entire future at stake.
For Aliyaar — she reminded herself. To not loose sight of the end goal. Which was now and forever about saving him. Bringing him home.