Three days earlier.
"Evil woman! Die!"
A young boy, of about 12 or 13, runs in my path, hurling a stone that hits me square on the forehead. I barely get to register the pain, the words coming out of his mouth freezing me to stone.
"You stole my dad! Destroyed our happy family! Mom's always crying now because of you! She's in pain because of you! I hate you! I wish you would drop dead and rot in hell!"
He spits on my heel and runs off, leaving me stunned in place.
What just happened?
Who is that boy and why did he…
I stop short, recalling something. My eyes go wide as realization dawns, and with it, comes the crushing weight of his words.
I stole his dad, he said. Destroyed their happy family.
Is that why he came to see me? To spit on me and call me names, because he believes I destroyed his family?
I wipe the blood dripping down my face, my steps labored as I make my way to my apartment in a daze, hurt, confused, shaken.
"Is she the one? The mistress shaking up the Cross family?"
"You can't judge a person by their looks these days. She looks decent enough. Who would've guessed she's that kind of person in private?"
"How much do you think she gets paid for spreading her legs for a married man?"
Whispers follow me as I climb the stone steps, each demeaning, judging, becoming more harsh the bigger the crowd grows.
I want to disappear. To find a hole to hide in and never come out again.
Facing the condemnation of people I once conversed and interacted with is more than I can bear.
And the person because of who I'm facing this…where is he? Why isn't he answering my calls?
Rage, and something dark, vicious, twists my insides. I reach the last step of the stairs, only a few inches away from my apartment door.
Just three more steps, and I can shut out their comments, their disdainful expressions, the ridicule and disgust in their gazes.
Clutching my purse tighter, I keep my head down, reaching out for the door handle, when something crushes on my cheek, trailing slimy fingers down my chin, over my chest to drip at my feet. The stench wafting off of it almost makes me hurl.
I glance down, and find…a yolk.
A rotten egg yolk. They're throwing rotten eggs at me.
My eyes burn. I pull out my key and insert it in the keyhole, hands shaking, throat tight with terror and humiliation, as more eggs smack me on the head, one coming close to hitting me in the eye. When the lock clicks, I swing the door open and run inside, not caring about my purse slipping, falling behind me as I slam the door and lean against the wall, trembling.
Muffled thuds, and what sounds like a kick pound my door, vulgar words and curses passing through the wall, ringing in my ears.
I slide to the floor, knees drawn to my chest, arms wrapped around my head, rocking back and forth, waiting for the nightmare to end.
When it does, it's long past sunset.
I crawl off the ground, and stumble into the bedroom, stripping off my clothes as I enter the bathroom. The hot water scalds me, turning my skin red, as I stand under the shower, washing away the dregs of my humiliation from my hair in a trance.
I got cursed, stone and rotten eggs thrown at me like a dirty thing.
The words of the ladies in the apartment ring in my ears as I get out of the shower and slip into the nightgown Damien bought me last month.
Before, just seeing it would've filled me with longing, the desire to see him and hear his voice. Now I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, the hate-filled eyes of his child with another woman replaying in my mind.
I don't know why. Something about the way he looked at me shook me to my core. I can't stop thinking about him, about the words he said, about the way the ladies in the apartment have been talking about me, the way their husbands looked at me as if I'm standing naked before their eyes.
My stomach twists, and I shift on the bed, afraid to fall asleep. The thought of one of those men breaking into my room in the middle of the night has me vigilantly staring at the door, praying for the darkness to pass and daylight to descend.
I can endure the ladies curses, but the men...I won't be able to fight against them if they decide to try something.
And Damien. He's still not answering my calls.
Where the hell is he?
The anger returns, and with it, the dark emotion I felt earlier in the day. I can feel something changing inside me, growing cold, hard, and with every second I fail to reach him, it twists with resentment.
I shift again, rubbing my eyes to push back the drowsiness, when my phone rings at 12:37 AM.
The familiar ringtone makes me freeze. I know before I even look at the screen that something is terribly wrong. Hana never calls this late unless there's an emergency.
"Hana?" I answer on the third ring, sitting up, reaching for the lamp. "What's wrong? Is everything okay?"
Silence.
The silence on the other end stretches for so long, that for a second, I wonder if the call dropped. I lower the phone, about to check, when I hear her breathing, shaky and uneven like she's been crying for hours.
"He's leaving me," she whispers. Her voice sounding like it's coming from another dimension, distant, hollow, and broken in a way I've never heard before.
"Who's leaving you? What are you talking about?"
"My husband, Zahra. Omar is leaving me for another woman."
The words hit me in the gut, and I sit up so fast my head spins. Hana and Omar have been married for eight years. Eight happy years. They fight about the stupidest things like whose turn it is to take out the trash or clean the dishes.
But never raise their voice on each other.
They've always seemed so happy together, so perfect, like they were made for each other in a way that made me jealous sometimes. So when I met Damien, I imagined our daily interactions being like there's.
But now, they, the perfect couple, are getting a divorce? And that too, because of another woman?
"That can't be right," I shake my head. It's easier to believe Damien is going bankrupt. That man spends more money in a day on useless things, than I do in three years. "Omar loves you. He would never—"
"But he did, and he has been for six months now!" She cuts me off, and her voice breaks completely.
I hear her crying over the phone, soft sobs that sound like they're being torn out of her chest, and I wish I could reach through the phone and hold her the way she used to hold me when we were children and I had nightmares.
"Six months, Zahra, six months. While I was making his favorite dinner, buying him surprise gifts, being the perfect wife, he was screwing someone else for six months."
"I'm so sorry," I whisper, because I don't know what else to say. "I'm so sorry this is happening to you."
"Are you?" she asks, and something in her tone makes me freeze. "Are you really sorry, Zahra?"
"Of course I am. You're my sister."
She chuckles. I don't know what I said that has her chuckling, but the sound is off, so wrong, it fills me with a weird sensation I can't name.
"Sister, huh? If you hadn't said it, I would've almost forgotten." I feel something building in the space between us, a void, a divide that I don't understand as her voice gets stronger, harder. Because I need to ask you something, and I need the truth this time."
My mouth goes dry. "What?"
"Is this what you wanted? When you found out Damien was married and you decided to stay anyway, is this the pain you wanted to cause?"