If while alive you hurt or disappoint people you love, there's no use continuing such behavior when you're dead. - Anthony Swofford, Jarhead

Tehran, Iran

It had already gone sour.

Though she was nearing her twentieth year on this earth, her mother still insisted on packing her lunches. Anything from fruit stew, apricots, loaves of bread, or the occasional cashew, it would be in a battered tin lunch box, a souvenir from her uncle's wartime experiences. It looked so ruined compared to her rich silks and the diamond studded maghne'e she wore over her hair. It had paint that flecked and peeled with every touch, with the tang of tin left on her fingers. The insignia of the Iranian military was stamped beneath the lid, its lines and carvings crude with age.

Her mother made it a habit of convincing her every time she left with her food that she should put it in a proper container instead of a war veteran's memorial box. Despite the head-shaking, the eye-rolling, and the loose chastisements of her mother she kept the box, seeing it as a personal, lively anecdote of the vast and violent world she was born into.

Mehrnaz Farhadi was the only child of Delaram and Irman Farhadi, the former a fashion consultant and uncredited designer in a ritzy, upscale Tehran garment shop, and the latter a popular jeweller and real-estate investor. She was the only pregnancy that was successful; her mother had been pregnant twice before her, and lost her would-be siblings to miscarriages in the second trimester. Irman blessed God, and the departed Shahanshah for his blessing of a living child. Her mother's struggle to have children and the loss she suffered led to Mehrnaz being doted on and adored by her parents and extended family members.

She found herself looking at the ruined plum in her palm. It was crinkled, with the red-violet skin seeping ooze like a slow-moving river. She ruefully chucked the plum into the nearest trash bin, wishing that it hadn't gone sour. Plums were among her favourite fruit, and as a child she had begged her mother to buy baskets of them, eating so many that her mother lovingly joked that she would get sick of them. She did not and had not, nor did she have any inclination to stop eating them. She could eat as many sweets as she wished and never got an upset stomach or bad teeth from them. It was a feat her father teased about which would earn her disfavour with her future husband.

"You'll be so full of sugar that your husband's heart will stop before he even kisses you!" her father had said. It was always accompanied with a laugh, so Mehrnaz knew he was not being too serious. She'd give him a smile that would make the Shahanshah rise from his grave, and he would lightly pat her hair, careful not to tousle a single strand.

Mehrnaz's hair, as trivial as it would be to anyone else, posed a threat to her. She was blonde, and while that may have once represented divine beauty and royalty, today it was asking for trouble. Coupled with intense green eyes, a coquettish figure, and body free of ailments, that was equivalent to stitching her own wounds. Her skin was the colour of sand, and with the yellow of her hair she looked like she was plucked out of the desert. She knew was desirable, and desirability meant marriage proposals. Thankfully, her parents thought more of her status and independence, wanting her to have a solid career in a respectable profession so her future husband would not rely on a broodmare for his needs.

Mehrnaz was thankful for that – but the thanks ended there. She entered the Sharif University of Technology with the promise that she'd study agriculture to contribute to the country's continued needs of abundant food and arable farmland. While she studied biology, chemistry, and the other requisite courses, in truth she had her eyes set on a dangerous, yet thrilling profession: Explosive Ordnance Disposal.

Mehrnaz knew her parents would be neurotic at her choice, and her mother would be at the forefront, waving her hands, biting her lip, or a fist near her mouth as she'd fall to her knees and beg Mehrnaz to change her mind. Her father would turn his back to her, or ask her uncle to solve the problem if he was there.

So far, her parents were unaware, and misfortune did not yet storm into her house. She went to her classes in the mornings and afternoons, went home to eat lunch and study, and in the evenings helped her mother at the shop. Mehrnaz was studious, punctual, and did not miss a class even when she was ill with the flu or when her skin swelled from scorpion stings. The excitement of her future career was impetus enough; it made the skies part and the sun bless her spirit with health and fortune. It was good. It was all very, very good.

She finished taking her notes for the day, and gathered her things for the walk to the West Terminal. There she would get on Line 4 of the Tehran Metro, travel past Mehrabad Airport, make the transfer to Line 1, and ride to Tajrish, her home city. Delaram and Irman moved to Tajrish from Shamiranat County to escape the pollution and to take advantage of the growing business prospects and tourism there. When Delaram had to attend fashion meetings and major sales, she would make the 4-hour commute from Tajrish to Isfahan, and not return until the next afternoon.

Mehrnaz rode the metro without incident. No men eyed her inappropriately, and no women criticized her rather sensational dress choices; she prepared her maghne'e by wrapping it tighter around her head, and if women from the more conservative regions were on the metro that day, she loosened it and let it fall over her blonde hair. She kept her eyes to herself, spoke to no one unless she was spoken to, and walked the streets like any Tehrani: eyes forward, silent yet respectable, and always with a destination in mind.

She returned home earlier than expected, and walked through the arched doorway of her modern, yet forever Zoroastrian, house. It was almost unfair to call it a house: it had been listed as an apartment with its three stories and glass facades that were designed to give it a quasi-shopping mall appearance. Delaram hated the look; she ordered the glass to be taken out and the walls replaced with the traditional Persian arches and motifs. She ordered a small pool and garden to be built in the back, and used the leftover concrete and sand to make spiral columns in the main rooms. The French carpets were thrown out and replaced with Persian rugs, and the glass that remained was changed into stained glass with flowers and birds etched into them. A short wall was constructed around the property to give it privacy and security, with two driveways and small garages placed on the eastern side of the house. Mehrnaz and her parents lived in the first two floors, with the third rented to Mehrnaz's childhood friend Farrah Alizadeh and her family.

Mehrnaz prepared the master suite for her bath, removing her maghne'e and her collection of jewellery: scorpion-styled bracelets, small topaz stud earrings, a simple anklet she wore beneath her blooming trousers. She set up her cleansers, hair brush and radio on the counter top, so she could listen to music or news reports while bathing. She had gone to retrieve her favourite plush towels when she heard persistent knocking from the downstairs suite.

Knock. Knock knock knock. Knock knock KNOCK.

It occurred to Mehrnaz that the sound was not from a bird colliding with the window, for that brought a loud thump coupled with the panicked fluttering of wings. It could not be an electrician or a visitor; they knocked once or twice, called out for the owner of the home or whistled when they were in pleasant moods. It was not Farrah, for she was gone visiting her aunts in Qom, and would not return until the weekend.

So who was the owner of those demanding fists which rat-a-tatted on her front door? Mehrnaz frowned. The owner did not pound on her door, nor shout at her to come down and let him in. It was not the patter of Delaram, for her rings would clink on the doorknob and she'd always vocalize her complaints.

Mehrnaz grabbed a towel to substitute for a chador, because while in her own home she could go without any head covering and wear as she pleased, she would still have to answer the door like an Iranian citizen, and be respectful of public law around the showing of her hair.

She twisted the lock, her de-ringed hands making no sound as she gripped the handle and pulled open the door. Had she been wearing them, the owner of the desperate fists might have been aware of her presence; had some time to prepare. As she was not, the owner of said fists, looking behind him at the streets, jumped like a mouse swatted with a broom when he noticed her.

Had Mehrnaz not been holding the door, she would have jumped as high as he did. The visitor was disfigured with violent bruises and held his elbow in one hand, blood dripping from a shabby tourniquet into the rug at his feet. The skin on his cheeks had peeled, there was a bald patch under one ear and blood coming out of another, and his wild eyes could seldom focus on her.

Mehrnaz's fist rose to her mouth from the sight. The humid May air combined with Tehrani pollution was pulled out of her lungs.

"By God! Oh, Kazem, what has happened to you?"

Notes

- There is a saying, 'In Tehran, you do as the Tehranis do'. The laws around hair covering and clothing in general have gone stricter and less strict over the years, you can get away with wearing jewellery and jeans so long as they are not skinny jeans and your behind is covered by long shirts.

- The maghne'e is not as large as a chador, and many Iranian women prefer to wear them over the alternatives.

- Real estate investment in Iran is largely done by Chinese firms, with other nations engaging in business, like the Gulf States.

- In more conservative areas like Qom, the clothing requirements are stricter.

- If there are any Persian readers, you have my apologies for screwing up your language/customs/etc if it happens.