One Night

Chapter Ten

Alara

I couldn't drag my eyes away.

I wanted to—I swear, I wanted to. As they shoved the woman onto a empty metal table, her mouth muzzled like an animal unable to do anything but glare with ferocious eyes. Her dark hair pools around her as they tie her down and rip open her clothes.

One of the guards that I have never seen before sorts through an assortment of items made to cut and deform human skin. He lifts one up to assess it. It's a pair of scissors, the tips razor sharp and easily able to cut into human skin.

He places it back down on the tray beside the table. The woman watching, sighs in relief and learns her head back, until he picks up a strange object that seems to be shaped like a spice pestle, but the surface of it is covered in dull spikes. As if someone had hammered old needles into the surface. The guard seems to be satisfied with that one, and hands it over to another guard.

That is when the Hakeem speaks, as the woman eyes the weapon of choice. "We have given you more than enough time to make your choice. What shall it be?"

She stays silent, her chin tilting up to defy him. If she could open her mouth, I'm sure she would spit at the floor where he stands.

"Very well." He nods, and the guards take action.

Not even the muzzle could stop the screams that left her.

And still, my feet don't move. But my hands shake, uncontrollably. Why? There is not a thing that this woman could have done to deserve something like this.

The Hakeem is right there, watching like a curious student searching for answers. "Anything you have to add, now?" His voice is cold, matching the expression on his face. So different to the smile that he carried earlier.

She can barely catch her breath. Pained sobs rattle her body. The blood drips down her body, soaking her torn clothes and the table beneath her.

A hand weaves around my mouth and pulls me back, silently shutting the door. No. No. No. I know I should fight, but my brain refuses to co-operate, probably because it is stuck on the image of that poor woman.

The feeling of bone deep fear makes it impossible to scream. The same feeling as jumping from a high building—a fear so paralysing that I forgot to scream, I forget to blink, I forget to breathe.

The cold fingers holding my lips shut finally let go. I turn, pushing against a hard chest, to find the prince. He is assessing me warily. His golden brown hair falls is ruffled as if he had just woken up. He slowly grips onto my wrists, stopping me from pushing him away.

Each breath feels too slow, taking an eternity to fill my lungs. Finally, I regain the ability to speak. "Look, I know I wasn't that nice to you but please don't do this. I—please. Please don't do that to me. I won't say anything. My m—" My mom. If I die, what happens to her? At some point our neighbour will get tired of babysitting and leave her. "Please."

He tilts his head to the side, not saying a word. His eyes are darkened in the empty hallways. There are no guards around. I may not be able to fight a prince, but I could run from one.

So I do.

I turn on my heels and go as far as I can, avoiding the wooden tables that sit at spaced intervals holding candles or vases. The carpet makes it easier to run through the halls.