The Girl in The Green Scarf

E i g h t

CHAPTER EIGHT
HAMSA

I'm sitting on the stairs by the bulkhead door when the sun rises. The darkness slowly fades and the sky fills with blue and purple hues of color before it turns a light shade of yellow. I smile and pray that this is the first and last sunrise I watch as a prisoner.

The place outside is quite and I struggle to see more of it through the gaps, but I can only make out trees in the distance. At least we are still close to the woods, that's a relief.

Yasmeen doesn't pay me another visit and neither do the monstrous men.

The guy sleeps soundly after he took some of Madame's herbs. I take the opportunity to use the bucket to go while he sleeps. It's highly uncomfortable and awkward but I have no other choice.

By noon when he doesn't wake up I begin to worry so I go to his cot to check up on him. He's lying in a fetal position, his fever is almost gone and he isn't sweating anymore, though his breathing is still hitched and uneven. He needs water and his wound should be cleaned or his condition will deteriorate.

I kind of feel bad for making him drop the cup yesterday, even though I know it's not completely my fault he startles easy. I don't know why I am concerned for him to begin with. Sure it's Islamic to help a person in need. But I already helped him, so why am I still worrying?

Is it because a part of me feels as though I owe him for saving me from the discipline? But when I think about it, I realize it's actually his family's fault disciplines exist in the first place. It's their fault people lost their houses, and families. It's even their fault those men who are holding us captives found it necessary to use such cruel methods to get what they want; I'm not saying what they're doing is acceptable but they are desperate.

I find myself glaring at his sleeping figure with so much loathing before I storm to my cot thinking he can die for all I care.

Sometime later I have already prayed Zuhur and still can't bring myself to sleep or even lie down on my cot. I pace back and forth across the room trying to figure out a way to get out of here, even though I know I have no chance, but I can't lose hope.

Now that I know who this boy is, I understand what the men want with him. His father is David Russell, the general and unrightfully the ruler of this land. He will pay generously to have his son back. But I think it should be obvious to them I don't have anyone who will do that to get me. I am no daughter of a wealthy man; I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I shoot a look at the boy, and think he too was in the wrong place.

My train of thoughts is cut by someone clearing their throat. I look behind me to see it's the relatively less harmful man, Faris. I was so lost in thought that I didn't hear him come down the stairs.

He is carrying a tray that has another piece of bread, a carrot and a jug full of water. I realize I didn't really look at him yesterday; now that I do I see he has dark shoulder length hair and a small growing beard. I even notice a darkening bruise on his cheek and figure he got it during yesterday's struggle with the boy.

"Got you water and food." He says, extending the tray in my direction. I walk towards him cautiously, in case he decide to make a move or something, even though I know it's not likely since his hands are occupied. I mumble a half-hearted thank you taking it from him, and lay it on my cot. I keep my eyes on him the whole time, you can never be too careful.

"Do you want anything else?" He asks and I almost tell him I want my freedom, but figure that's out of question. They didn't go through all this trouble to catch-and-release me.  

"You have done enough, thanks." I snap. I don't mean to sound so hateful, but just then hearing my tone I realize how angry I am at all of them.

He looks down and leaves the room without saying anything else and I appreciate it, I would have punched him in the face if he opened his mouth. Once I hear the door lock behind him I slip down my scarf and run my fingers through my hair with frustration. It's tangled and course and I tie it in a messy bun before securing my scarf back again. I pick up the tin cup which is still lying on the floor by my cot, and fill it up with water from the jug Faris just brought it.

I bring the cup to my lips and just as I am about to take a gulp, a low moan comes from the boy's direction. I glance at him, trying to ignore the guilt that attacks my chest. I don't want to feel sorry for him; but he's still human. I let out a frustrated breath, and end the fight within me deciding I am going to be the better person. I carry the cup to his bed, and attempt to wake him up when I notice his face is covered with sweat; his fever is coming back.

I take the remaining part of his shirt and damp it with water, then bring it to his forehead, rubbing it slightly. He sighs and I can't fight the smile that invades my face. Yes I'm going to shove away my hate for now; it can wait for later.

I get up to refill the cup and when I'm back I see he is awake. He looks up at me through heavy-lidded eyes, and scowls. So welcoming, I think fighting the urge  to spill the water at his face.

"What are you doing?" He croaks out, his voice is slurry and I can barely make out what he is saying.

"Shhh, drink this." I bring the water to him and he takes it with shaky hands, struggling onto his elbows. Of course he examines it first but then he gulps it down quickly and asks for more. I check on his wound, the inflammation is going away, but there's dirt and dried blood on it. I take the damp shirt off his forehead and wet it some more before I use it to clean the wound and tie it up again.

"Rest." I say, taking the cup away from him, and letting him lie back. He doesn't thank me and I don't expect him to; I'm not doing this for his sake.

*

My eyes fly open and I gasp for air, I look around frantically chasing away the images of my nightmare. It is the same nightmare I had yesterday; my parent and brother, only this time it went longer and they all attacked me. I don't want to admit it to myself but that's the reason I can't seem to be able to go to sleep. I am scared of my own ghosts.

I sit up blotting some sweat off my face with my sleeve. I can see it's still dark outside, the sun didn't rise yet but it will soon. I realize I'm still lying on the blanket on the floor; I must have dozed off after praying Fajr. It seems like I can't sleep anywhere else.

I turn around to see the boy is sitting up on his cot, looking at me like I were crazy, and maybe I am going crazy.

"Don't tell me you're hallucinating too." He says in a sarcastic tone, I notice his voice sounds better and he looks more postured, considering. I don't bother to answer him, and get up heading up the stairs.

"Where are you going?" He calls after me. "In case you forgot, we're locked down here."

Ya Allah, when did he get this nosy? I liked him better when he couldn't muster the strength to open his eyes, he was less annoying.   

"To get some air," I say motonously without looking back at him. I sit on the step at the top like I did yesterday, and watch yet another sunrise. The cold air soothes me and by the time I go back down I am feeling better. The boy is lying with his back to me, and I think he is asleep but when I reach my cot he says almost in a whisper,

"You were talking in your sleep."

I sit down and hug my legs to my chest; this makes me feel more secure.

"And?" I ask not really picking up on where this conversation is headed.

"You called out a name, someone... aYahiya?" He says the name uncertainly and my breath hitches, how much exactly did I say! Knowing this guy heard me speak and mention my family in sleep makes me feel violated.

"Is he like your boyfriend or something?" He sits up crossing his legs and clasps his hands behind his head reclining. My shoulders tense and I take in a deep breath steadying myself.

"Let me get this straight, pretty boy," I say each word dripping with venom; he is obviously feeling better, I don't have to be nice to him anymore. "Just because I gave you some medicine and water because you couldn't get it yourself doesn't mean we can cuddle sharing bed time stories and secrets. We're cellmates not besties, got it?"

He raises his eyebrows and opens his mouth to say something, but whatever nasty comeback he has for me is cut by the sound of steps stomping down the stairs. Both our heads jerk in the direction of the entrance and we tense when we see it's Abu-Bakr, a ruthless smirk drawn on his face.

"You!" he says pointing the butt of his freakishly scary rifle at me. The fact that he's carrying a weapon means the boy gave them a hard time yesterday. I am taken back by the force of his tone and that he is even talking to me.

"It's time to make yourself useful."