Chapter 82

                                    

                                          
*
Carpets and curtains. 
                          
She dreamt of them both, not as separate entities, but as one. Throughout her existence, Afrah had been surrounded by carpets and curtains, each lending its own unique addition to the story of her life. They were always silent, never considered but ever present. 
                          
She recalled the carpets in her bedroom, how soft and flat it was. Twice a year, the carpets would be taken out so they could be washed and returned. The curtains were washed every month, and Afrah remembered sitting in the middle of her room one time when both carpets and curtains were removed, and she simply stared at the barrenness of her room. Strange how something as insignificant as carpets and curtains could change the entire appearance of her bedroom. 
                          
She recalled the carpets in her father's room, the plush cream color stretching from wall to wall. His curtains were white, which she remembered complaining to her mother about once. 
                          
"Why can't I have white curtains as well?" she'd asked. 
                          
"Because you're not as neat as your father," her mother had replied. "Yours would probably turn brown within a week or two."
                          
She'd promised herself that she would buy white curtains in her own home when she grew up. Of course that memory had long since faded into nonexistence. But she remembered it now. 
                          
She even recalled the carpets in his bedroom, and how they'd felt that day when he tricked her into going in. She remembered the drawn curtains, and that brief moment of her wondering why he had them drawn. The memory was faded, like an old photograph left in the open so the image started to disappear. 
                          
And then she recalled the carpet in her bedroom. The one where she'd eaten dinner with Adnan on their first night together. She remembered the memory vividly this time, how his eyes had never left her face while they ate and talked. She remembered the curve of his lips when he smiled, and the way his fingers continuously twitched by his side while he watched her. She remembered how quickly he'd reached out and taken her hand in his, and how fiercely he'd vowed to protect her. 
                          
The thought of Adnan was what kept her sane in the endless darkness. The memory of his voice was what kept her from falling. And in those brief moments when she would feel his touch on her, it was to remind her that he was still there. 
                          
The first day she saw him, he was sitting by her side, talking on the phone to someone. She couldn't make sense of what exactly was going on, but it was soothing to hear his voice. 
                          
"Of course," he said, clearly oblivious to the fact that he had an audience watching him. "We just don't know when she'll wake up. She's on life support for the main time. The doctor says she should be waking up soon, hopefully this week or the next."
                          
He turned to look at her then, his eyes moist. He saw her eyelids fluttering, but it was common knowledge that she did that often. 
                          
"Amina, I don't want to talk about it," he said, looking away. "It's all just messed up. But the judge might pass a sentence today."
                          
He paused for a few seconds before he continued. 
                          
"Why would I want to go?" he said. "He's a murderer and a cruel human being. He deserves everything that's coming his way."
                          
Somewhere in the hazy recess of her mind, Afrah could discern who they were talking about. But as quickly as the knowledge came to her, she slipped back into unconsciousness. 
                          
That night, she dreamt of the number 3. 
                          
*
                          
Halima's hands were always cold. Afrah had no concept of time, but she was beginning to partially understand that her mother came twice a day. Whenever she did, she would sit beside Afrah and wrap her hands around her forearm. Her touch was always cold, and although Afrah didn't move, she would internally recoil at the touch.