Last Sacrifice | #Wattys2018

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Five months of rehabilitation wasn't enough; it may have mended his body, but it had done little to heal the deep wounds within his mind and soul. Even his writing was something of the past.

He stared at the reflection in the mirror, seeing someone who was no longer the frail, insecure man of the past.

Months of grueling workouts had sculpted his body; lean, muscular, and powerful, his biceps now strained against the sleeves of his shirt. His hair, slicked back with gel, framed a face marked by determination, while a meticulously groomed beard completed the transformation. But as he began to button up his crisp white shirt, his fingers traced the deep scars etched across his chest and abdomen, each one a haunting reminder of the night that had nearly taken his life.

The memories were sharp, vivid, as if the brutal attack had happened only yesterday. He could still see the five men looming over him, feel the weight of their fists as they held him down, and the cold steel of a seven-inch blade carving into his skin. It was a miracle he was still alive; a miracle he thanked Allah for every day.

He could vaguely remember a menacing voice warning him to stay away from Hayat.

Rayhan's thoughts drifted to her, to the woman who had once been his world.

She had changed so much.

Her image now graced the covers of glossy magazines, always by her husband's side, boasting of their fortunes; her face void of the warmth he once knew. She wasn't smiling in any of them, her expression was cold, distant; a trophy wife to put it simply. And yet, despite it all, she was more beautiful than he had imagined. She no longer had the veil he adored so much clung to her face, neither were the loose baggy clothing cascaded around her beautiful body. Instead, a stunning dress clung to her form as if reluctant to let go, every curve exquisitely highlighted. The sight stirred a tumultuous mix of emotions within him; his heart fluttered with admiration while jealousy, sadness, and frustration twisted deep inside.

Who was she now?

The woman who had once stood so firmly by her beliefs had turned her back on everything she had once held dear. As he gazed at her in those pictures, he couldn't help but reminisce somehow the feeling of his lips pressed against hers...

Rayhan cleared his throat, shaking off the memories of their time in Istanbul and of her. He was proud of the life he and Abdullah had built, proud of the shop they had closed with dignity, even if his father hadn't lived to see his success come to fruition. He passed away whilst his poor son was in rehabilitation, it still haunted Rayhan that he wasn't able to speak to him again, that the last words he uttered were mean, hurtful words.

That regret would haunt him forever.

His eyes drifted to the stack of boxes in the corner of his bedroom, filled with his father's belongings that he hadn't yet been able to face. A tightness gripped his chest, a sensation his therapist had warned him about. He steadied himself on his wooden bed, focusing on his surroundings, grounding himself in the present to avoid spiraling into a pit of hopelessness, depression, and regret. Despite all his accomplishments, he couldn't shake the feeling of failure that gnawed at him every single day.

The modest cottage he shared with Abdullah was worlds away from the chaos of their business life in London. Despite their wealth, they refused to employ servants, disdaining such extravagance. The cottage was beautiful and serene, tucked away miles from the clamor and stress of the city.

They had grown weary of it all, their hearts aching to return to the home they once knew. But the streets of their past had changed, and the memory of when Rayhan finally recovered resurfaced; he was met with cold stares and harsh whispers. His neighbors, once close, now blamed him for his father's death, despite everything he had done for them.