18-10-2025, 12:46 PM
(This post was last modified: 18-10-2025, 12:46 PM by matiba2025213. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
Chapter 43: Sari (Act 4)
The cold alley air bit into Rahim’s skin as he finally moved, every muscle screaming in protest. He crawled toward the crumpled form on the ground, the gravel scbanging against his knees.
“Hey,” he whispered, his voice rough and raw. “Can you hear me?”
A shallow breath was her only reply. Her eyes, wide and unblinking, were fixed on the patch of night sky between the buildings.
“I’m going to help you up, okay?” he said, his tone low and careful, as if speaking to a frightened animal. He slid one arm under her shoulders, the other supporting her back. She flinched at the contact, a tiny, involuntary spasm that made his gut clench. “It’s just me. They’re gone.”
He lifted her slowly. She was lighter than he expected, a bundle of trembling limbs. She clutched the torn remnants of her top to her chest with one hand, the other hung limply at her side. Her shorts were askew, barely clinging to her hips.
“My… my things,” she mumbled, her voice a shattered whisper. “I can’t find…”
“Don’t worry about them,” Rahim said, shrugging out of his own battered jacket and wrapping it around her shoulders. It swallowed her small frame. “We need to get you out of here.”
He helped her stand, her legs buckling immediately. He caught her, her weight leaning heavily into him. She smelled of sweat, cheap beer, and something else, something metallic and fearful.
“The bar… my room is there,” she said, her words slurring with exhaustion.
“No,” Rahim said, the word coming out firmer than he intended. He softened his voice. “You can’t go back there. Your boss… he let this happen. He’s not going to protect you.”
She started to cry then, silent tears carving clean paths through the grime on her cheeks. “I have nowhere else to go.”
“We should call the security officer,” Rahim urged, pulling out his phone. The screen was cracked. “We have to report this.”
“No!” The word was a sharp, sudden burst of energy. She pushed against his chest weakly. “No security officer. Please. My family… I only left my village three weeks ago. The shame… it would destroy my mother. They can’t know. Please.”
The desperation in her voice was a physical thing. He looked at her, so young, so utterly broken and knew he’d lost the argument before it began. He nodded slowly, slipping the phone back into his pocket. “Okay. Okay, no security officer.”
He pulled her into a careful hug, letting her cry into his shirt. Her body shook against his, each sob a quiet tremor. He felt a confusing rush of protectiveness and a searing, ugly guilt for the part of him that had been aroused by the violence.
“Come on,” he said after a moment, his voice gentle. “I’ll take you to my place. It’s safe.”
Getting her onto his motorcycle was a clumsy, pain-filled ordeal. He settled her on the back, guiding her arms around his waist. “Just hold on,” he instructed. She rested her forehead between his shoulder blades, her grip thankfully strong enough to keep her upright.
The ride to his apartment was a silent blur of neon and shadow. He drove slowly, hyper-aware of the fragile person clinging to him. Inside his home, the sterile quiet was a stark contrast to the chaos they’d left behind.
He sat her on the closed lid of the toilet in his bathroom and fetched his first aid kit. He handed her a tube of antiseptic ointment.
“For the… for any cuts,” he said, his eyes avoiding the bruises already darkening on her arms. He then opened the medicine cabinet, his fingers hesitating before he picked out a small foil packet and a bottle of pills. “And these. It’s a morning-after pill. And painkillers. Just… just in case.”
She took them from him without a word, her eyes downcast.
“I’m Rahim, by the way.”
She looked up then, meeting his gaze for the first time. Her eyes were a deep, liquid brown. “Sari,” she whispered.
“The bedroom is through there,” he said, pointing. “You can shower. There are clean towels. I’ll find you something to wear.” He left her and went to Lina’s side of the closet, his heart aching with a fresh wave of guilt. He pulled out an old, soft cotton t-shirt and a pair of lounge shorts. He held them out to her in the bathroom doorway.
“These should… they might be big, but they’re clean.”
She took the clothes, her fingers brushing against his. “Thank you.”
He left her alone, closing the door behind him. He stood in the hallway for a moment, listening to the click of the lock. He then tended to his own wounds, wiping the blood from his face and stomach with a wet cloth. The gash on his abdomen was superficial but stung like hell.
The shower ran for a long time. Rahim busied himself in the small kitchen, making two simple plates of rice and leftover curry, his body aching with a deep, bone-tired exhaustion.
When Sari finally emerged, the steam from the bathroom followed her like a ghost. Lina’s t-shirt swam on her, the neckline slipping off one shoulder, the shorts felt loose and clung below her waist. Her dark hair was damp and clung to her neck. She looked small and impossibly young, but clean. The sight of her in his wife’s clothes sent a strange, uncomfortable pang through him.
“I made some food,” he said, gesturing to the small dining table. “You should eat.”
She nodded, sitting down gingerly. She picked up a fork but just pushed the food around the plate. A single tear splashed onto the wood next to her plate, then another.
Rahim sat across from her, not touching his own food. “I am so sorry, Sari. I should have… I don’t know what I should have done, but I’m sorry I couldn’t stop it.”
She shook her head, still looking down. “You tried. You got hurt because of me. Those men… they would have killed you.”
“They didn’t,” he said, offering a weak smile that felt more like a grimace. “I’m tougher than I look.”
She finally looked up, her eyes red-rimmed but clear. “Why did you help me? You didn’t have to. You could have just walked away.”
The question hung in the air between them. Rahim searched for an answer, but all he found was a jumble of guilt, a twisted sense of responsibility, and the memory of his own unwanted excitement. “Because it was the right thing to do,” he finally said, the words sounding inadequate even to him.
They sat in silence for a while longer, the weight of the unspoken horrors pressing down on them. The hour was late, the apartment cloaked in a heavy quiet.
Rahim finally stood. “You should get some sleep. Take the bed. I’ll be out here on the sofa.”
“I can’t take your bed,” she protested softly.
“Please...you will,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He grabbed a pillow and a spare blanket from a cupboard. “Get some rest, Sari.”
He turned off the main light, plunging the living room into darkness, and settled onto the couch. He could hear the soft creak of the bed as she lay down in the other room.
He stared at the ceiling, the images from the alley playing on a relentless loop behind his eyes. The sound of her crying, soft and hopeless, started up again from the bedroom, a quiet counterpoint to the frantic beating of his own heart.
The cold alley air bit into Rahim’s skin as he finally moved, every muscle screaming in protest. He crawled toward the crumpled form on the ground, the gravel scbanging against his knees.
“Hey,” he whispered, his voice rough and raw. “Can you hear me?”
A shallow breath was her only reply. Her eyes, wide and unblinking, were fixed on the patch of night sky between the buildings.
“I’m going to help you up, okay?” he said, his tone low and careful, as if speaking to a frightened animal. He slid one arm under her shoulders, the other supporting her back. She flinched at the contact, a tiny, involuntary spasm that made his gut clench. “It’s just me. They’re gone.”
He lifted her slowly. She was lighter than he expected, a bundle of trembling limbs. She clutched the torn remnants of her top to her chest with one hand, the other hung limply at her side. Her shorts were askew, barely clinging to her hips.
“My… my things,” she mumbled, her voice a shattered whisper. “I can’t find…”
“Don’t worry about them,” Rahim said, shrugging out of his own battered jacket and wrapping it around her shoulders. It swallowed her small frame. “We need to get you out of here.”
He helped her stand, her legs buckling immediately. He caught her, her weight leaning heavily into him. She smelled of sweat, cheap beer, and something else, something metallic and fearful.
“The bar… my room is there,” she said, her words slurring with exhaustion.
“No,” Rahim said, the word coming out firmer than he intended. He softened his voice. “You can’t go back there. Your boss… he let this happen. He’s not going to protect you.”
She started to cry then, silent tears carving clean paths through the grime on her cheeks. “I have nowhere else to go.”
“We should call the security officer,” Rahim urged, pulling out his phone. The screen was cracked. “We have to report this.”
“No!” The word was a sharp, sudden burst of energy. She pushed against his chest weakly. “No security officer. Please. My family… I only left my village three weeks ago. The shame… it would destroy my mother. They can’t know. Please.”
The desperation in her voice was a physical thing. He looked at her, so young, so utterly broken and knew he’d lost the argument before it began. He nodded slowly, slipping the phone back into his pocket. “Okay. Okay, no security officer.”
He pulled her into a careful hug, letting her cry into his shirt. Her body shook against his, each sob a quiet tremor. He felt a confusing rush of protectiveness and a searing, ugly guilt for the part of him that had been aroused by the violence.
“Come on,” he said after a moment, his voice gentle. “I’ll take you to my place. It’s safe.”
Getting her onto his motorcycle was a clumsy, pain-filled ordeal. He settled her on the back, guiding her arms around his waist. “Just hold on,” he instructed. She rested her forehead between his shoulder blades, her grip thankfully strong enough to keep her upright.
The ride to his apartment was a silent blur of neon and shadow. He drove slowly, hyper-aware of the fragile person clinging to him. Inside his home, the sterile quiet was a stark contrast to the chaos they’d left behind.
He sat her on the closed lid of the toilet in his bathroom and fetched his first aid kit. He handed her a tube of antiseptic ointment.
“For the… for any cuts,” he said, his eyes avoiding the bruises already darkening on her arms. He then opened the medicine cabinet, his fingers hesitating before he picked out a small foil packet and a bottle of pills. “And these. It’s a morning-after pill. And painkillers. Just… just in case.”
She took them from him without a word, her eyes downcast.
“I’m Rahim, by the way.”
She looked up then, meeting his gaze for the first time. Her eyes were a deep, liquid brown. “Sari,” she whispered.
“The bedroom is through there,” he said, pointing. “You can shower. There are clean towels. I’ll find you something to wear.” He left her and went to Lina’s side of the closet, his heart aching with a fresh wave of guilt. He pulled out an old, soft cotton t-shirt and a pair of lounge shorts. He held them out to her in the bathroom doorway.
“These should… they might be big, but they’re clean.”
She took the clothes, her fingers brushing against his. “Thank you.”
He left her alone, closing the door behind him. He stood in the hallway for a moment, listening to the click of the lock. He then tended to his own wounds, wiping the blood from his face and stomach with a wet cloth. The gash on his abdomen was superficial but stung like hell.
The shower ran for a long time. Rahim busied himself in the small kitchen, making two simple plates of rice and leftover curry, his body aching with a deep, bone-tired exhaustion.
When Sari finally emerged, the steam from the bathroom followed her like a ghost. Lina’s t-shirt swam on her, the neckline slipping off one shoulder, the shorts felt loose and clung below her waist. Her dark hair was damp and clung to her neck. She looked small and impossibly young, but clean. The sight of her in his wife’s clothes sent a strange, uncomfortable pang through him.
“I made some food,” he said, gesturing to the small dining table. “You should eat.”
She nodded, sitting down gingerly. She picked up a fork but just pushed the food around the plate. A single tear splashed onto the wood next to her plate, then another.
Rahim sat across from her, not touching his own food. “I am so sorry, Sari. I should have… I don’t know what I should have done, but I’m sorry I couldn’t stop it.”
She shook her head, still looking down. “You tried. You got hurt because of me. Those men… they would have killed you.”
“They didn’t,” he said, offering a weak smile that felt more like a grimace. “I’m tougher than I look.”
She finally looked up, her eyes red-rimmed but clear. “Why did you help me? You didn’t have to. You could have just walked away.”
The question hung in the air between them. Rahim searched for an answer, but all he found was a jumble of guilt, a twisted sense of responsibility, and the memory of his own unwanted excitement. “Because it was the right thing to do,” he finally said, the words sounding inadequate even to him.
They sat in silence for a while longer, the weight of the unspoken horrors pressing down on them. The hour was late, the apartment cloaked in a heavy quiet.
Rahim finally stood. “You should get some sleep. Take the bed. I’ll be out here on the sofa.”
“I can’t take your bed,” she protested softly.
“Please...you will,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He grabbed a pillow and a spare blanket from a cupboard. “Get some rest, Sari.”
He turned off the main light, plunging the living room into darkness, and settled onto the couch. He could hear the soft creak of the bed as she lay down in the other room.
He stared at the ceiling, the images from the alley playing on a relentless loop behind his eyes. The sound of her crying, soft and hopeless, started up again from the bedroom, a quiet counterpoint to the frantic beating of his own heart.
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