Her Encounter | Islamic Story

Chapter 30

The world spun for me, my legs lost balance and if there wasn't the wall at my back, I certainly would have fallen down. No, no, just no! This couldn't have happened to her. Not to her, not to Aiza, not to my friend!

I, with difficulty, looked up to meet her eyes, which were shedding quiet tears.

"And that man down there," she continued, her voice breaking in points. "He was one of my buyers."

No! I wanted to look anywhere but in her eyes but couldn't. Her gaze was fixed; it was as if she had put some compulsion charm on me to look at her and nothing else. My hands were now trembling, as the words I had spoken to her made their way in my mind. Trembling...whimpering...heights people go to...oh-so-pretty makeup-get a life...

She sat down on the bed after some moments, her feet touching the marble floor. I had restored my balance by then and with careful paces made my way to her and sat on the floor beside her with a heavy and thumping heart. Sadness filled every inch of my existence.

Her tears were wetting her lap, I wanted to say something but nothing would come out. And what could I have said? Sorry? You just don't say sorry for such matters. Sorry is a commonplace. A formality. This is no time for one.

"Till the age I was sixteen, I was trafficked." She spoke in a low voice which was hard to hear.

After some quiet moments, she continued, "I never knew my parents, you know neither any of my relatives. I was born like this, like someone used and dirty!"

"Don't, please." I pleaded to her. I didn't want to know, it would hurt so much. The guilt would kill me.

"No. I will. I've kept everything in me for long, now it needs to get out. Maybe that's how I'll finally find peace, I'll finally stop getting the nightmares." She didn't look at me, just at her lap. She had nightmares every other night which I came to know about during our time in the cabin. I never thought they were about some specific thing. I felt guilty now for never asking her about them. I simply ignored her scream once I realized it was just a nightmare and went to sleep peacefully and God knows how she coped with her heart. I am so heartless. The fact didn't register nicely.

"What is your first memory of childhood?" She now looked at me. The anger had gone; there was only sadness and pain left in those eyes.

"I d-don't remember," I stuttered.

"What is your first memory?" Aiza asked with resolve and with such force as if she wouldn't say another word if I didn't answer her question.

"I-uh. I was playing hide and seek with Venessa," I said in a timid voice.

"And what were you wearing?" Her gaze was boring holes in mine.

"What?" Why was she asking these things?

"What were you wearing?" Her voice was increasing in pitch and it scared me. She almost felt like she was not even present in the present. As if she was speaking from somewhere else.

"I don't know, maybe jeans and a shirt." I replied quickly. Where was she going with this?

"Good," she said. "And guess what my first memory is? Cleaning the living room of the brothel I lived in, wearing a rag that fell with every movement, revealing my whole self, while everybody around me laughed at me, threw profanities at me. Let's not even talk about the physical torture they did to a three years old."

Three years old! My eyes widened at hearing this but Aiza was not looking at me now but staring ahead where the window was. But I knew she wasn't looking at it, she was reliving the experiences she had dug deep in herself, pulling a mask over her while hiding her past from not only the world, but her own self too.