This chapter contains description of abuse towards the end.

Qehpik-Whore.


Chapter Two

"Do you think I will ever meet my prince charming, Iza?" the innocent question of her youngest sister was a blow to her heart. She too had seen these naïve dreams in her childhood.

She gave a slight smile before remembering her prince of dreams.

A man as hardworking as her. A man as simple in his tastes as her. A man with love in his eyes, a man with secret teasing smiles. A man who looked at her as if she were his world. A man who gave tender kisses and avowals of love.

A paragon who didn't exist outside Izabella's dreams-she craved that man, dreamt about him in her nights.

"Iza, hurry up, please. Sanaya must be waiting for me," her sister whined and Izabella twisted the hair in a braid as fast as she could. Her sister was out of the door even before she'd put the comb down.

Only two weeks from now on was the day that would mark the beginning of her new life as someone's wife.

How desperately she wished that that day never came…

"Up. Get up." A pair of boots kicked her in the ribs before she could even open her eyes. She knew the daily routine by heart now. After roughly half-hours that they were allotted to freshen up, they were dragged to the courtyard where they were lectured on the benefits of conversion which wasn't much, just being the wife of one of the infidels and serving only him and not others.

In Iza's opinion, it wasn't much of a change whether it was one man forcing you to do something or numerous others in his place. She was usually punished for her insolence with twelve lashes of the whip and then she'd to spend the whole day on her back being a qehpik…

They came in large group-the brutish looking men carrying guns.

She remembered the day clearly. After all, a girl didn't forget her marriage day, did she?

The swirling pattern of henna was drying on her palm, Fayad's name hidden in the curls. Everyone was happy except her. Her father laughed with abandon with his friends. She'd never seen her mother smile so much. Her siblings were happy and so were her friends who thought she was lucky that she was marrying Fayad.

Her mouth hurt from being stretched, as did her nipples courtesy to the time Fayad had twisted them roughly from over her clothes.

How was she to lie silently on her marriage bed and let Fayad do these despicable things with her body?

She was about to excuse herself from her group of female relatives when the sudden shout forced her to turn towards the door.

The mass of black and gray blocked the only entrance, as one of the men stepped forward and gestured her Father to come closer. She'd never seen her father scared before that day.

Even before her father had taken two steps, the man pulled a handgun out from the holster at his waist and shot her father between the eyes…

People were running.

The militant who'd been dragging her by her hair to the small shack in the corner abandoned her to take cover.

What was happening?

The answer to her question flew overhead as another blast sounded in the distance.

Her god had listened to her prayers. He was going to reward her for her faith.

When people were running like a headless chicken to save their hides, Izabella Yazmin stood up on her shaking legs. She lifted her head towards the sky as bombs after bombs dropped on the militant camp. The men who'd bragged about their manhood screamed like little girls as the woman they'd tried to break stood facing the sky that rained death over their heads.

It was an almost peaceful way to bid the world farewell.

She had nothing to lose, and hence death was welcome…

She was a mass of nerves when the man pushed her inside the room and then locked the door afterward. This man had purchased her earlier today.

She couldn't stop herself from thinking about her younger sisters and the brothers these militants had executed. They'd never harmed anyone in their lives, then why had god punished them with such brutal ends?

"Have you ever slept with anyone before?" the man asked and for a moment she was transported back to the colorful market where her mother had advised her to serve her husband while haggling over the price of meat. The sudden sheen of tears didn't go unnoticed.

The man laughed before proceeding to open the liquor bottle kept on the small table at the side of the bed.

Izabella avoided looking at the bed for she knew if she even stole a glance, all the horrible thoughts would come together to plague her with a vengeance.

He poured a glass and deposited himself on the bed. He was a heavy man in his middle fifties with abundant dark hair and beard. His glasses lent him an approachable look which Izabella knew was completely false.

He beckoned her to sit near his feet.

Her trembling steps were glaring signs of her terror and yet the man did nothing to alleviate her fears. If nothing else, he seemed much more imposing.

He must have grown impatient for he stood up and dragged her back to the bed, pushing her in the mattress that smelt faintly of coconuts.

His sudden wandering hands tore apart the material of her skirt and forced her legs to fall open.

"I'm like your daughter," she cried.

The slap on her cheek stung and yet it wasn't surprising. "You're just a slave," he spat before lowering his trousers to fist his 'thing'.

It was dark with a bulbous head that leaked.

He was going to put the 'thing' inside her. This is what husbands did on wedding nights.

He came on the bed, his legs clamping her thrashing ones in their hold. He held off her arms in one tight grip while used the other hand to hold his 'thing'. He brought it up at the entrance of her privates…and pushed.

Hard.

Izabella screamed.

He let her cry and sob, let her beg and plead as he pushed inside her again and again.

She was splintering from inside. It burned as if someone had poured acid inside her.

He was tearing her apart with each thrust.

She struggled and struggled, one of her hands escaped his hold and still she was powerless. Her existence centered on the point between her legs, a place that was forever tainted by this man's touch.

She was forever ruined for anyone and anything else.

Her palms still had the dark color of henna, and if she squinted she could still see the half of Fayad's name…

Hands touched her, stroked her face, and ran gently in her filthy unwashed hair.

She had forgotten what an ordinary touch felt like. Violence had been predominant enough to erase everything else.

Arms lifted her, cradled her gently against a strong chest where she could hear the thud of a heart beating in a regular rhythm.

She burrowed her nose in the fabric. It smelt like the fresh water of her stream and freedom that she'd once dreamed about.

Was this hell?

Was she going to see the same cruel faces when she opened her eyes?

She heard them talking, but this wasn't the language of the militants. She couldn't understand a single word.

All she heard being repeated frequently was a name.

Something Ward?

Maybe Edward…