Dead to them
I have to die I told myself as I lied in my bed. and as soon as it can be. That thought had been growing inside me like a sickness. Quiet at first, just a whisper between the prayers and the footsteps and the family meals served with too much silence. But it grew louder each time my father mentioned Abdallah’s name, each time my mother look ed away when I spoke, each time I was told that obedience was purity and resistance was shame. They were preparing for a wedding. I was preparing for a funeral. Mine. I didn’t want to die. Not truly. But what is life when every breath belongs to someone else? My name was Joana Karim. I was eighteen. Iranian. Muslim. Daughter of a man who loved his honor more than his children. Property of a family who used God’s name to carve me into something silent and soft. And I was promised to a man I had never touched. A man I had not chosen. A man who didn’t see me, only the shape of a wife. Abdallah Rezaei. Thirty-three. Wealthy. Respected. Empty...