𝕭𝖆𝖚𝖉𝖔𝖚𝖎𝖓: 𝕿𝖍𝖊 6𝖙𝖍 𝕬𝖗𝖙𝖍𝖚𝖗𝖎𝖆𝖓 𝕽𝖔𝖒𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊𝖘

I

"For sorrow to which one gives voice is worth nothing if it does not touch the heart." - Chrétien de Troyes

She had not returned home that night.

It was the way she was losing hair from dehydration and stress and the heavy dips under her eyes that finally brought her to her senses.

She had to leave.

It isn't like someone will miss her, only her bashful presence and usefulness. Even the tempting thought of Asma never really caring about her and only putting up with her because of pity was enough to make her go.

Later that same night her first priority was to return only to take some stale bread and the remaining ounces of water whilst manoeuvring like the rats she watched run around did. She could have nicked her father's money, but it was filthy. Her journey was first to go to Asma's home to drop off the small note she had written to ease her heart knowing she would not take it with a grain of salt. And after slipping it into the keyhole she hoped that she would not mistake that wrinkled note for trash.

It was nerve-wracking to say the least. Glad to be free but missing being in the familiar space although unfitting for any person's lifestyle. The miles of walking that seemed like a century took her anywhere as long as it was away from everything. She dared not to look back and meet the pleading eyes of her distasteful past, murmuring to make her reconsider what she nearly had.

Her limbs were giving up trying and her steps went from footprints to long drags in the scratching sand. She was certain her sandals had melted, having been poorly made and old. At some point she had found a small area accompanied by a palm tree and a couple of wispy bushes where she bunked for some bread and water along with a moment out of the dreadful sun. She had tied her sight away with her folded scarf, a difference in her vision barely clear since she couldn't see much through the rough dunes.

And then, what. She does not remember. But, the taste of sand in her mouth confirms the theory that she must have passed out.

But where is she?

Voices. Even the voice in her head is raspy and parched.

The numbing of her legs protest against her attempt to contract her muscles. Only her toe just about wiggles. Why..so weak? Was that her voice or another torment from her past?

"Her toe mummy!" A youthful voice rings in her head as though it is a dream. She winces now regaining sense as a shot of migraine rips through her cranium. She had probably been baking in the sticky, hot sun having been out for however long. And any longer she would have been an unwrapped mummy.

"Are you feeling better?" She is unsure of how close the voice is because she can even hear the saliva as it moves with every syllable.

"T-oo..lo-ud." It comes out throaty, probably a result of eating hot sand. Another wave of angry migraine, this time stabbing her temple and she falls limb.

Moments later she regains consciousness from the feeling of something chilling coating her lips. She flinches slightly and then here's a hush voice coaxing her to drink.

Water. Her eyelids remain clamped shut like a stubborn oyster, her only ability to slowly swallow. She was no longer wearing her scarf around her eyes.

Like magic, the fresh taste of ice cold water helps her peel it open, her iris twitching at the painfully bright light of the day. Daytime?

Earthy clay coats the ceiling, she assumed from the hue visible through blurr. Right at her nose is the window inviting the harsh daylight. It is daytime. She makes out the shape of a corner desk with a wooden stool. A bedroom. Her eyes finally snap to the woman standing to her left.