Chapter 13: Ritual Scarring
The silence in the new apartment didn’t last. It curdled.
For a few hours, Amartya managed the mundane logistics of escape. He hung his three shirts in the barren wardrobe, lined up his shoes by the door, wiped the dust from the kitchen counter. Each small action was a prayer for normalcy. His phone, now on Do Not Disturb, still lit up with notifications. He saw them glowing against the laminated desk—previews of long, rambling texts he refused to open. He focused on the click of his keyboard as he emailed a client, the shaky normalcy of work.
Then, at 11:47 PM, a different sound: his phone ringing, loud and insistent, cutting through the Do Not Disturb. Zahira 🌸. His stomach flipped. He declined the call.
Immediately, a text.
I can’t do this. I’m looking at the pills.
Ice water flooded his veins. He stared at the words. Another text, a photo this time. A hand, her hand, the opal ring he’d bought her at a flea market, lying palm-up on the marble kitchen counter he knew so well. In the cup of the palm were a dozen white tablets.
I just need to see you. One last time. To say sorry. Then you can go. I promise.
Reason shouted at him that it was a performance, a ploy, the oldest trick in the book. But another voice, younger and terrified, whispered: What if it’s not? What if you’re wrong and you wake up to a call from the police? The guilt wasn’t theoretical anymore; it was a sharp, physical hook in his gut, yanking him backward.
He called her. She picked up on the first ring, no sound.
“Zahira. Don’t.”
A ragged breath. “I’m so tired, Amartya.”
“I’m coming over.” The words were out before he could stop them. “Just… put them away. Flush them. I’m coming. Okay?”
A soft, muffled sob. “Okay.”
He grabbed his keys, his heart hammering against his ribs. The taxi ride was a blur of streaking city lights and his own nauseous reflection in the window. This was a mistake. He knew it. But the alternative, the possible consequence of being wrong, was a shadow he couldn’t outrun.
The familiar lobby of her building felt like stepping back in time. The security guard gave him a nod. The elevator smelled of lemony polish. His finger hovered over the doorbell of 1402, then he just used his key—the one she hadn’t asked for back. The lock clicked open with a sound of terrible finality.
The apartment was dim, lit only by a single lamp in the living area. It was immaculate, as always. The floor gleamed. The air held the faint, warm scent of za’atar and olive oil from a dinner cooked for one. She was sitting on the large, low sofa, wearing a simple, long grey skirt and a white tank top. She looked small. Her eyes were huge and dark-rimmed, red from crying, but dry now. She wasn’t hysterical. She looked hollowed out.
“You came,” she whispered.
“The pills, Zahira. Where are they?”
She gestured vaguely toward the kitchen. “Gone.”
He didn’t believe her, but the immediate crisis seemed to have passed. He took a step inside, the door sighing shut behind him, sealing him in. He felt the familiar weight of the space, the beautiful cage. “You can’t do that. You can’t say things like that.”
“I know.” She stood up slowly, unfolding herself. She walked toward him, not with her usual confident sway, but with a fragile, unsteady grace. She stopped a foot away, close enough for him to smell her shampoo, the lavender and something uniquely her. Her eyes searched his face. “I just felt so dark. So empty. The thought of you hating me…”
“I don’t hate you,” he said, the automatic comfort as much a trap as the apartment.
A tear finally escaped, tracing a clean path down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away. She lifted her hands, her cool fingertips brushing his jaw. “Thank you for coming.”
He stiffened, but didn’t pull back. The relief of seeing her alive, standing, was overwhelming. It short-circuited his anger.
“I was so scared,” he admitted, his voice breaking.
“Shhh,” she murmured, and then she kissed him.
It wasn’t aggressive or passionate. It was soft, a question, a reunion. Her lips were familiar, a homecoming his body recognized before his mind could protest. He felt himself responding, a deep, helpless pull. His hands came up to her waist, the thin cotton of her top warm under his palms. She made a small, wounded sound in the back of her throat and leaned into him, deepening the kiss, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.
When they broke apart, she rested her forehead against his. “Stay tonight. Just tonight. Please. No talking. No fighting. Just… let me hold you. Let me feel you’re real.”
He was lost. The fight, the resolve, it had bled out of him during the panic-stricken taxi ride. He was just tired. So tired. He nodded.
She took his hand and led him to the bedroom. The king-sized bed was made with military precision, the silk duvet smooth and cool. She didn’t turn on the light. Moonlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting everything in shades of blue and silver. She undressed him with a quiet, ritualistic care, then slipped out of her own clothes. In the dim light, her skin was like polished marble.
She drew back the duvet and guided him down, arranging him as she used to. She lay on her back and pulled his head onto her stomach, her hands stroking his hair, his shoulders. Her skin was warm, soft. The scent of her filled his senses.
“See?” she whispered into the dark. “Just this. Nothing else. I will be better. I will be the old Zahira. The one who just loved you, without all the… madness.” Her voice was a lullaby, a promise. “Go to sleep, hayati. You’re home.”
He wanted to believe her. He wanted the peace she was offering. His body, starved of comfort, sank into the mattress, into her. Her fingers traced slow circles on his scalp.
But as he drifted on the edge of exhaustion, he felt her other hand. It wasn’t stroking or soothing. It was possessive. It rested on his upper arm, her fingers not gentle, but firm, almost tightening. A claim. And as his breathing slowed, he realized she wasn’t relaxing into sleep. She was awake, utterly still, holding onto him in the moonlight as if he were a prize she’d just wrestled back from the edge of the world. She wasn’t letting go. She would never, ever let go.