Alara
Kicking up, out of the water is impossible. It is like a vacuum of water, sucking me down no matter how much I try to go up.
Water fills my nose, my lungs, every part of me. I try to hold on to my life, but with each second that passes it becomes harder.
The salt in the water burns my eyes. I twist, my hair tangling around me as I go deeper and deeper into the darkness.
Each time I move, the water seems to light up with small sparks of blue. The more I struggle, the more it envelopes me.
My lungs burn like they have been dipped in acid. Bubbles leave my lips—each one a signifier of the air that I no longer have. Until there are none left.
For a moment, I feel weightless, my head feeling so dizzy and lightheaded that the darkness I am submerged in seems to come alive with colours and light.
The colours dance and move, like gentle lights in different shades of blue. It is magical, like how I'd imagine it would be to fly out into space to watch the stars dance.
There is no way this is real. Is this what happens after death?
My body keeps being sucked down. I cough out the water in my lungs, and my body automatically inhales more in. It burns all over again, the pain making me cry on air I don't have.
My hands fly to my throat, tears filling my eyes only to be washed away by the stinging salt water.
I cough out more, the water tasting like acid. It hurts so much. From every direction, the pressure of the water seems to squeeze me. Please, please, please. I want this to be over.
The force of the water seems to lift for a moment, before I am plunged into it again—this time, it is not salty.
I'm barely able to kick up, but some sort of survival instinct gets my head above the water. I hold onto the strange silver outer lining of what seems to be a pool, hurling all of the water out of my body and onto pure black stone floors.
I can hear sounds but they're muffled by the deep ringing in my ears. A deep pain throbs at the back of my head. Somehow, I'm alive.
Each breath I take, even without salt water in my lungs, burns like I am breathing fire. A woman steps in front of me, holding out a glass of water. I am going to kill her. Why would I possibly want water right now?
Her tinted pink lips move, and I can hear the gentle muffle of her voice, but I can't hear anything.
She helps me over the edge of the giant tub of water and I sink onto the cool black stone, my body feeling completely drained and empty.
"Where am I?" I try to ask, but I can't even hear my own voice.
From the expression on her face, she heard me—but for some reason, she is staring at me as if I swore her mother.
She turns, her white robe swishing, and speed walks out of the room too fast for me to stop her.
I try to lift myself from the smooth floor, but my arms feel weak, as if I did pushups non-stop for three days. Shifting onto my back, I splay my arms out at my sides and take deep breaths.
Okay, I'm alive. Possibly.
Another deep breath.
I need to figure out where I am, and then figure out how to get back to Diyar.
A frustrated groan leaves my lips. I just want to kick something; to squeeze something; to throw something so hard that it smashes into tiny little irreparable pieces.
Every time I think I'm taking a step forward, some nonsense happens that puts me one thousand steps back. Now the idea of getting back to my mom seems like a distant dream.
All I hope is that she doesn't think I abandoned her. Surely she knows that I never would.
Strong hands grip onto my arms, and suddenly I am being dragged across the slippery stone floor. That same woman who ran out before is now dragging me with the strength of two horses.
There is nothing to grab onto, and with the way she is pulling me I can't do anything. This must be the hundredth time I'd wished someone taught me to fight.
Then again, Zayen was trained his entire life on how to fight and yet there were many situations that even he could not escape.
I shout, even though I can't hear myself fully. She ignores me, continuing to drag me. I have a feeling she is going to lock me up somewhere.
All of the floors and ceilings here are the same black stone. Almost like we are in a cave, only it is perfectly polished.
I stop fighting when I realise the light that brightens the passages that she pulls me through isn't fire or sunlight—it is that same, strange blue light that Zayen saw in the souk; the same blue light that seemed to dance while I was drowning.
"What is that?" I try to ask, but I don't hear the muffled sound of her response. She has resorted to ignoring me now.
We stop in a dimly lit, hot room. Steam rises from a basin in the center of the room. Wooden panels line the walls like benches.
I stand, against my bodies wishes, when the heat of the floor starts to burn. The woman starts tugging off the robe I was given back in Diyar. Stepping away, I shake my head. My ears unblock and the sound of hissing steam is all I can hear.
She knocks my hands away and pulls off the robe, so that I have nothing covering me. My arms cross over my private parts, and she rolls her eyes, muttering something under her breath that I don't catch.
Finally, she turns her focus towards a bucket lying in a tub of water. She fills it to the brim and—My eyes squeeze shut as I am drenched, yet again, in water. Seriously?
At least the clean water takes away the burn of salt in my eyes. I rub the water off my face, as the woman rubs some strange, gooey brown substance between her hands and starts rubbing it all over me.
I jump back, nearly slipping. It's soap. She's washing me. "What are you doing?"
She continues, but I push her hands away. She gestures to my body and speaks with a frustrated tone, but . . . But I don't understand a word. I didn't think that was possible.
She continues to wash me, and I stand frozen in the hottest possible room. She gestures with her hands for me to sit on the bench that lines the walls. I stare at her, doing as she says.
She seems normal. Her facial features are soft and delicate, with pale skin and plush red cheeks—most likely from the heat.
But she couldn't possibly be from Qadura, Wadi, Ardifa or Diyar if she can't speak the language.
Once she's done, she throws a bucket of warm water over my body and starts rubbing a strange light creamy-white substance on my skin. It's slightly watery and smells earthy. Clay.
She says something in her language, and then gestures that I must wait. Then she turns and leaves, locking the door to the room.
Now I'm alone and naked in a dark, hot room with no way to escape and no way to understand what she wants.
If I'm being completely honest, I wouldn't be surprised if I had died in the ocean and now I'm in . . . whatever this place is.
I don't think they'd clean me and coat me in clay if they're going to send me to hell, right?
Finding a towel laying underneath the benches, I cover myself. "Astaghfirullah. Astaghfirullah. Astaghfirullah." I begin to pray, asking God for forgiveness. I wish I had never had to steal.
I stand and try the doors to see if they will budge open. It's so hot. I need water.
I search around, but find nothing. There is writing on the walls. It's the same writing from inside the cave in the mountain that I used before, to pass to get from Wadi to Qadura.
The woman comes back in and I quickly hide the towel back and sit. She watches me warily, looking around the room for changes as if, what? I'd place a hidden bomb somewhere?
She has very high hopes of my skills. Unfortunately, I have none, except stealing.
She takes a glove and slips it over one hand, then starts roughly scrubbing at my body like she is trying to remove five layers of skin. I clench my jaw, glad that she is working fast.
Once she's done, I'm hit in the face with another bucket of warm steamy water. I wipe my face with my hand, my body dropping.
Ah. My skin feels amazing. I can't stop rubbing my hands over my body. It feels smooth and glossy, as if I have been soaked in the most incredible oils every day since birth and now I have skin equal to those of royalty—those with the pleasure of time to care for themselves.
She hands me a fluffy robe which I wrap myself with and then holds out a white plain piece of cloth, which she uses to wrap around my eyes.
She tries to explain something to me, but I only understand one or two words—one being 'bad' and the other being 'meet'.
Am I going to meet someone bad?
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