Aida sat on the floor with her head leaned back. Creak, creak, creak. The walnut door groaned each time her body pressed against it. Creak, creak, creak. Like an endless melody of bleakness.

Her frustration rose with the waxing moon outside. Aida had waited for the usual rain to return, but it had not for hours. Persistent humidity and low temperature of this land kept the moisture trapped in the bathroom long after the man had left. Aida hated it. His lingering presence. Like a python wrapping its muscles and scales around her neck. Even when Aida closed her eyes and mouth. Even when she held her breath, there was no use.

The man was the embodiment of this place.

His miserable soul—Aida generously assumed that he had one— manifested and encased everything, herself included. Aida was certain: The man suffered. Maybe, not exactly the way she did, but he suffered, nonetheless. Beneath his beautiful façade of many shiny worldly things, the man was empty. He had no one. He loved to sit at his desk for hours, staring at nothing after his attempts to converse with her often failed.

He must be doing it right at this moment.

Aida pulled her long, dirty nest of rust-colored hair with no mercy. Why had she done that? Why had she stopped instead of keeping to her room as she was supposed to? Why must she be so curious?

Why must she step in, then stare?

At him.

At that.

What had done that to him? It must have hurt. It must have hurt a lot...

Why did it matter? They had done the same things to her. Worse, even.

No, his looked worse.

Why did it matter? He was one of them. He looked like them. He thinks like them.

But she didn't know that, did she? She assumed. The man had not whipped her, chained her up, or starved her. He, in fact, had fed her, given her shelter and many unnecessary things. He had tended to her wounds, nursing her back to health. He had kept her from seriously hurting herself. From dying. More than once.

Because she was a piece of property. His. The nice gestures were only tricks to gain her trust.

Why would he need "tricks" on a slave he had already owned? Why did he need her trust? It didn't make any sense. And how many days and nights had it been? He didn't need to prove anything. He could have forced her to do whatever he wanted or simply get rid of her. He could have punished her for all the bites, scratches, punches, and kicks she had thrown his way almost every day, or for nothing at all.

What if it was all a game? The rich were often bored. Boredom and cruelty went hand in hand.

You are disgusting.

Aida bit the back of her hand hard enough to stifle a scream. The insult had come easily. A little too easy. It was aligned with what Aida had trained herself to do when it came to the man. He didn't deserve an ounce of her consideration. Right? He should be punished for the sins of his people. Right?

But was it? The right thing?

Aida looked down at the teeth marks on her wrinkled skin. They resembled tiny crescent moons, mocking Aida and her predicament. She yanked her hair one last time and pushed on her knees to stand up. In the mirror, her reflection stared back. Aida walked toward the object and wiped it with her hand.

The mirror behaved like a small solidified body of water, only much clearer. Behind Aida's perfectly captured weary face and sunken eyes, a pair of intricate wall lamps diligently cast their soft tangerine hue down to the polished checkered floor. The bathroom looked about the same as the last time Aida had been here. It was big. Her whole family's tent could fit in this room. Compared to the rest of the house, it was clean and tidy. Perfectly warm water flew out as Aida turned the golden brass fixtures above the white ceramic tub. She had mastered it after a few times the man had forced her to learn.

Aida could wash up anytime, even right now, in the dead of a frigid night if she wished to. No trips to the well, no wood chopping, no waiting by the fire until her eyes melted with smoke. Back home, only the lords and sultans lived this way.

Big houses with big tubs. What a fantasy. Clean water was a gift that the gods had not freely granted people like her and her family. They had to work hard for it. Even in big cities such as Techel, not everyone could afford clean water. Aida's family lived miles away from the nearest well. Every day was two trips back and forth under the scorching sun with the only donkey Baba left home. Rabia was small, so she couldn't help much. Aida wouldn't let her work too hard either. Getting water was Aida's sole responsibility when Baba and Elouafi left home with their livestock, sometimes, for days on end.

Every night, as she wiped the sand and sweat off her body, Aida would thank Arasil for the little water she had.

This very room was a dream Aida had dreamed about all her life without knowing its existence, but beautiful and convenient things always came at a price. Aida had fought the temptations. At first, she had not wanted to eat or drink. She had not even wanted to breathe or open her eyes. Aida had hoped for an eternal night. She had felt the heavy veil between the realms lifted a little, beckoning her to take a peek at the other side, but the men didn't let her.

Carrying on was the most tiring thing. How dare they?

Aida still couldn't touch the clean clothes and soft bed without feeling uneasy. As if by not allowing herself to be comfortable, she would protect a little bit of her dignity. But dignity meant absolutely nothing when one was not free.

Aida suppressed the familiar resentment. People of this cold land were so blessed that they didn't seem to be aware. Ease had become their way of life.

Aida had not forgotten the first moment at the harbor. In the grey haze, enormous ships and buildings lurked. Some were as big as small mountains. Their menacing, rigid forms reminded her of barely awake beasts in their barely awake brick and metal jungle. Nothing natural, yet nothing could be destroyed easily by the fickle weather. The roads bustled with people and vehicles of all shapes, colors, and sizes, some Aida had never seen before in her nineteen years, at the crack of dawn.

As the men left each morning, Aida would come out of her little corner and look through many windows of the house. Sometimes, it was the one in her room. Other times, it was the twin windows opposite the man's desk, or those downstairs, in the living room or the kitchen. Each gave Aida a unique view of the world outside. Each enticed her to break free. Most days, it was quiet, but Aida could always catch sight of people who strolled down the pavement or in the park behind the house.

Men, women, and children dressed in their colorful strange attire. Some walked alone. Some with their human or animal companions, but they all looked so free. "Envied" was putting it lightly. The feelings gnawing inside Aida couldn't be described with words. They were aggressive and ugly. Aida didn't know how long she could keep her heart pure at this rate.

She always wondered. Where did these people live? What did they do for a living? Where were they heading? Did they have a home with a father, mother, brother, or sister? A husband or a wife? Were they by themselves? Like the man. Did the children gather by the fire, listening to their parents' stories at night as Aida and her siblings did?

Aida wanted to know. She had seen Baba, Elouafi, and Rabia a million times in these strangers' faces. She had wished to grow wings and fly across the ocean. It was never enough. At the same time, it was too much. Why did the gods bless these pale people with safety and prosperity, when they had committed atrocities against nature and their fellow beings?

They didn't care about anything. They didn't treasure anything, but they didn't get punished. They were blessed still. While her people bled.

How was it fair? Did the gods not see this? Or did they not care? Maybe the pale people worshipped different gods? More powerful than hers?

Aida had chastised herself for having these questions. She was angry and perplexed. Mostly, heartbroken, but who was she to question Arasil's will?

Aida turned off the water and pulled the garment over her head. It smelled bad. She eyed the stack of towels on the shelves, and then the clean white gown hanging by the door. Aida decided she would wash her current one after she was done cleaning herself.

Her flaky skin looked as if it belonged to a snake. Aida frowned. The scented ointments on the small table would help. They felt and smelled wonderful last time, but did she want to use them?

Aida must think about it. She touched her hair, now reaching below her hips. The strands had the texture of alfalfa hay, but their fiery color persisted.

"If you could see me now, Mama." Aida squinted her eyes and tilted her head.

From this angle, she was the split image of the woman in her memory, one she was pretending to talk to. The sickness had come and gone, but it never completely left her alone. Aida's half-empty stomach buzzed, and her vision went black for a moment.

She leaned on the bathtub to catch a breath. No more eating for the night, Aida thought, even if Al-bert had left her something. He always did. The big man with a kind face, who had given her the puppets earlier reminded Aida of her Baba. They might look different, but their hearts were the same. At least, that was what Aida hoped. She couldn't talk to Al-bert. They didn't understand each other, but she bet his stories were so much better than the Upside-down-burning-creature one.

Aida chuckled and swallowed the sour taste in her mouth. She had no appetite. The thought of food made her nauseous. A soft clatter on the other side of the wall got her attention.

He never slept.

The man must be at his desk, busy with things she didn't understand at this hour. Aida imagined a child with sand-colored hair poking at a lizard. Relentless. Naïve with a level of cruelty. That was him.

Aida was exhausted, both physically and mentally. Her young heart yearned for rest. She was not made of stone and admitting that alone scared Aida to death. The man was a strong tide, corroding her armor little by little. If Aida was careless, she would be left with nothing.

You're disgusting.

Aida grimaced. The man's back was covered in scars. Old and unsettling ones, but that was not the reason for her insult. In fact, the words had slipped off her tongue before Aida realized it. All she had wanted to do was come closer, which she did, and touch those scars. She had wanted to ask the man what had happened, but all that came out was that.

An unpremeditated insult.

Baba had raised her better. To be kind. Even to the unkind. Everyone fights an invisible battle. Judgments belonged to the gods. That sort of thing. But it was hard. Forgiveness didn't come naturally to Aida. Especially, when there was nothing to forgive.

He wasn't the cause of her suffering.

Aida was irate, more so when she knew exactly what was creeping up inside.

Guilt.

A bit of sympathy.

What she shouldn't feel toward the man.

But what had caused them?

No man of wealth and privileges should have those marks. What haunted Aida the most was two gigantic, identical deep cuts running diagonally from the man's shoulders down to his waist. Aida could only imagine when they were fresh.

What had caused them?