Draped in Shadow

Hilal

Hilal was panicking.

It was half an hour before the event would begin, and she was still not ready. The doors to the Varana Hotel would close 2 hours after sunset, and she'd be left on the black marble steps, looking up at the great golden doors, missing out on the opportunity of a lifetime.

For all her life, she'd wanted to feel and touch and taste the wine on which the wealthy and privileged got drunk on – power. Something that had no look nor shape, but still forged its own path, flowed its way to the goblets of the lucky ones in the world. Back home in the Southern Isles, her Parjuri parents had told stories of a myth, a woman who's cupped hands poured for those who desired the drink, looked for it, spent their whole lives obsessing over it. For those who wanted power dearly would find it, but not before it stole their senses and left them unfeeling. The cost of a strong poison.

But Hilal didn't want that kind of power. She just wanted to see how it played its part in the world, being twisted for politics and spiced for intrigue. The cold war between Parjur and Aviserey had gone on for years, leading to reprecussions for the newly – born government in the Southern Isles, a land where all people - Parjuri, Avisi, Qizou , anyone wanting a fresh start and a new life, could go to. But of course Aviserey and Parjur would begin to fight over who had right over the land, only contributing to the tensions between them. This summit would mean that, for once, the two countries would stop bickering and form some kind of treaty so the world could finally, after years of squabbling, breathe a sigh of relief. And she wanted to be there to witness the build up to it, the gaining momentum as the rivers of power rushed to together to bring about change that she could rejoice in for once.

She was over – thinking it. But what could she do? She was a Law and Politics student, after all.

Hilal looked at the clothes she'd hastily dumped on her bed. She hadn't had time to decide what she would wear – her term finals would start next week, and she'd spent all her time studying, and trying to organise her books and papers that were currently forming a line of toppling towers against the far wall.

She was so tired. She was excited that Waleed's father had given in to her continuous pestering to attend the golden carpet even, but she didn't look the part.

She walked over to the mirror that was standing on her massive desk which was covered with papers, pens, and a flood of ink from a bottle in the corner that she had been too exhausted to clean up.

She liked her face; its roundness, her long, straight nose, the soft arch of her eyebrows. And yet, her milky – tea skin was marred by dozens of pimples that left scar after blemish on her face.

Today it was the worst. Her whole forehead was packed with pus – filled with spots, big, red, painful ones dotting her cheeks.

Why of all the dang days in the year did her body decide to go berserk today? At this point, she wasn't even upset. She was angry. Angry at the wreckage her own body had done to her face, angry that she was helpless, couldn't do anything about her appearance no matter how many medicines she lathered on her face with or poured down her throat. Nothing happened.

On days like this she didn't leave her room, even if she had lectures in Haleen College. She waited for the breakout to subside.

She tried not to think about it, but, no matter how many motivational letters her mother sent, it still hurt. 

Look at those below you. You are so lucky to have a roof over your head, a place to study and food to eat. Be grateful.

But even repeating her mother's words had no effect. She was grateful. She just wanted one more thing, and she'd be happy. She didn't want to be insanely beautiful. She just wanted her skin to return to normal so she could look at her face in the mirror again. Was that too much to ask?