Young Love: A short story

harrythehat

Hey guys - I would love some feedback on this story I wrote a few months ago. I'm kind of happy with it but I still feel like it needs some tightening up.

Zainah pulled into the driveway, unloaded the groceries and put them away before removing her headscarf. She was sweating; the Dubai sun was punishing in July. Ali and Ahmed wouldn’t be home for hours, so she settled in front of the television and flicked through the channels.

She couldn’t concentrate on it, her own dilemma took precedence. She was approaching her nineteenth birthday and her brothers, into whose care she had been entrusted, were keen to find her an appropriate man to marry. Neither of them were overly concerned with finding a partner for themselves, for longer than a night at any rate.

She doubted either of them had considered the possibility that she would find someone for herself. That she had found someone for herself. The pace of her heart quickened, as it always did, when she thought of him. Her lips curved into a smile as she remembered the first time they met, it had been a disaster. She was on her way to meet her friends when a tall man with a strong jaw line spilt his barely touched cappuccino all over her dress. She was furious and wasted no time in telling him so, but he apologised so sweetly and was so embarrassed that she could not help but relent. He insisted on buying her a coffee to make it up, and there it all began.

They spoke for longer than either of them had intended to, and about nothing in particular. She missed meeting her friends. As they were leaving, he pressed a business card into her hand. “I’m Peter, by the way”.

***

“You. ****ing. Whore.” Ali shouted over and over, punctuating each word with a blow. She could taste blood where her lip had split and her ears where ringing. She stayed silent, praying it would end soon. He raved on about the family name, what their parents would say if they had lived to see this day, the shame she had brought upon herself, her family, her religion. Throughout his soliloquy, the beating never stopped. He might have killed her if Ahmed had not come home.
She had refused to let him see her tears, knowing it would only spur him on, but alone in her room now, she wept bitterly. She examined her bruises and realized she would not be able to go outside for weeks. If they ever let her outside again, that was. Ali had smashed her phone off the wall in his fury. She had no way of contacting him, though she knew the number by heart.

Late that night, Ahmed came to the room with a cup of green tea. “Why, Zainah?” he asked softly, visibly troubled by what he had seen earlier, but also by the events that preceded it. “Did we not raise you right?” He let out a long sigh “You were only fourteen when Mom and Dad died – I was only twenty-one – but we did our best.” Tears streamed down her face as she articulated to the younger of her brothers what she never would have to Ali.

“Is it really so shameful that I have fallen in love?” she asked. “You are Muslim” Ahmed reminded her gently “it is not your place to fall in love. And even if it was, it could never be with a Christian”. Anger swelled up inside her at his hypocrisy “And your Friday night girls” she asked defiantly, “Are they Muslim?” He looked her straight in the eye “What are you talking about?” he demanded. “I wash all your clothes Ahmed. Do you not think I have noticed the lipstick stains? The smell of sweat and cheap perfume? I’m not a fool.” His demeanor hardened. “Know your place, Zainah, you will never see this man again – or I won’t pull Ali off you next time.” With that he left the room, but Zainah remained sitting by the window for hours more, until the sunrise started to tinge the Dubai skyline with pink and orange.

***

A month passed. Though her bruises had long since healed, Zainah was scarred. She had not left the house alone since the beating; she had no desire to see her friends anyway. It was one of them who had betrayed her to her brothers in the first place, though she did not know which one. Her crime? The love of an Iraqi Christian. It had not occurred to her during their first meeting that the handsome Arab man across the table might not be Muslim, not until he told her his name.

It was too late by then; she was completely and inexplicably enthralled by him. She felt she had found something that had been missing for a long time. She simply could not understand how one could feel so familiar and at home with a person they had just met. Her heart felt light for the few hours after they had coffee that day, but even then she knew that the wise thing to do would be to throw the card away and forget she ever met him

Keeping her relationship with him from her brothers had not been difficult. Both were so involved in their own lives that they rarely noticed if she was an hour late coming back from the hair salon or lunch with ‘the girls’. She laughed more with him than she ever thought possible. The way his eyes shone when he looked at her made her feel like the most beautiful woman in the room, though that was rarely the case. They met frequently but almost always in public. She had yearned to spend time alone with him, and though she knew it was wrong, in the dark of night she had longed for him to hold her.

***

Despite his words the night of the beating, Zainah quickly forgave Ahmed and she was careful to give the impression that she also forgave Ali. Though she often cried bitter tears at her loneliness and the unfairness of it all, she quickly resumed the role of dutiful sister when her brothers were present. Every day that passed was like a knife-wound, half-afraid she would never see him again, half-afraid that when she did he would have moved on. The thought that he might have forgotten her tortured her. A plan formulated in her mind.

On the following Friday night, Zainah ironed shirts for her brothers as they showered and prepared to go to one or other of Dubai’s famous nightclubs. She mused once again over the fact that getting drunk and soliciting easy women were sins her brothers could forgive themselves of, while the love she felt for Peter, so pure and true, was a source of such deep shame. The curse of being born a woman.
She did not waste a moment once they had left. She dressed carefully, applied a thick layer of eye-liner and some lip gloss and snuck out of the house as fast as possible. She knew where he lived though she had never been there before. When he opened the door she burst into tears immediately and fell into his arms; it was the most intimate moment she had had with him to date.

She had almost forgotten what he looked like, and all that had happened since they last met seemed to fade away as they sat there, for a long moment, in silence. Three hours later it was decided; they would flee. Peter had an uncle in Egypt who would help them, they would go there for the time being. She had, thankfully, had the foresight to steal her passport from the drawer in Ali’s bedroom. She thought her heart would burst with joy when Peter proclaimed “The first thing I will do when I get to Egypt is marry you. I love you with all my heart, Zainah; I didn’t know what to do with myself when you were gone.”

“I love you too” she said, elated at his proposal. “Close your eyes” she commanded playfully. He could hear her shuffling around and wondered fleetingly if she would be naked when he opened them. “Open them” she said. She had removed her headscarf, revealing her long, dark curls for the first time to a man other than her brothers. He stood still for a moment, taking in the way they framed her face and seemed to soften her high cheek bones. She was more beautiful, even, than he had thought and he told her so. In a moment of ecstacy, they shared their first kiss. Neither of them had known until that moment how good it could feel to be alive.

In his surprise and delight at seeing Zainah, Peter had forgotten to lock the front door. They sprang apart as the sound of heavy footsteps filled the corridor outside. “My brothers” she whispered, her eyes widening with fear, before the door swung open. Peter tried to speak but before he could Ahmed had hit him over the head with an iron bar and began beating him mercilessly. If Ali had been cruel to his younger sister before, it was nothing to the fury he unleashed on her now, this time wasting neither time nor energy on words. He stopped kicking her only when she began vomiting blood.

When the corpses were found the next day, the neighbours saw that in their dying moments the couple had found each other’s hands.

Livvie

harrythehat wrote: »

Hey guys - I would love some feedback on this story I wrote a few months ago. I'm kind of happy with it but I still feel like it needs some tightening up.

Zainah pulled into the driveway, unloaded the groceries and put them away before removing her headscarf. She was sweating; the Dubai sun was punishing in July. Ali and Ahmed wouldn’t be home for hours, so she settled in front of the television and flicked through the channels.

She couldn’t concentrate on it, her own dilemma takingtook precedence. She was approaching her nineteenth birthday and her brothers, into whose care she had been entrusted, were keen to find her an appropriate man to marry. Neither of them were overly concerned with finding a partner for themselves. Not for longer than a night at any rate.

She doubted either of them had considered the possibility that she would find someone for herself. That she had found someone for herself. The pace of her heart quickened, as it always did, when she thought of him. Her lips curved into a smile as she remembered the first time they met. It had been a disaster. She was on her way to meet her friends when a tall man with a strong jaw line spilt his barely touched cappuccino all over her dress. She was furious and wasted no time in telling him so, but he apologised so sweetly and was so embarrassed that she could not help but relent. He insisted on buying her a coffee to make it up, and so there it all began.

I'm not sure about the relevance of the man's jaw in that particular sentence.

They spoke for longer than either of them had intended to, and about nothing in particular. She missed meeting her friends. As they were leaving, he pressed a business card into her hand. “I’m Peter, by the way”.

***

“You. ****ing. Whore.” Ali shouted over and over, punctuating each word with a blow. She could taste blood where her lip had split and her ears where ringing. She stayed silent, praying it would end soon. He raved on about the family name, what their parents would say if they had lived to see this day, the shame she had brought upon herself, her family, her religion. Throughout his soliloquy, the beating never stopped. He might have killed her if Ahmed had not come home.

She had refused to let Ali him see her tears, knowing it would only spur him on, but alone in her room now, she wept bitterly. She examined her bruises and realized she would not be able to go outside for weeks. If they ever let her outside again, that was. Ali had smashed her phone off the wall in his fury. She had no way of contacting Peterhim, though she knew his the number by heart.

Late that night, Ahmed came to the room with a cup of green tea. “Why, Zainah?” he asked softly, visibly troubled by what he had seen earlier, but also by the events that preceded it. “Did we not raise you right?” He let out a long sigh “You were only fourteen when Mom and Dad died – I was only twenty-one – but we did our best.” Tears streamed down her face as she articulated to the younger of her brothers what she never would have to Ali.

“Is it really so shameful that I have fallen in love?” she asked.

“You are Muslim” Ahmed reminded her gently “it is not your place to fall in love. And even if it was, it could never be with a Christian”.

Anger swelled up inside her at his hypocrisy “And your Friday night girls” she asked defiantly, “Are they Muslim?”

He looked her straight in the eye “What are you talking about?” he demanded.

“I wash all your clothes Ahmed. Do you not think I have noticed the lipstick stains? The smell of sweat and cheap perfume? I’m not a fool.”

His demeanor hardened. “Know your place, Zainah, you will never see this man again – or I won’t pull Ali off you next time.” With that he left the room, but Zainah remained sitting by the window for hours more, until the sunrise started to tinge the Dubai skyline with pink and orange.

***

A month passed. Though her bruises had long since healed, Zainah was scarred. She had not left the house alone since the beating; she had no desire to see her friends anyway. It was one of them who had betrayed her to her brothers in the first place, though she did not know which one. Her crime? The love of an Iraqi Christian. It had not occurred to her during their first meeting that the handsome Arab man across the table might not be Muslim, not until he told her his name.

It was too late by then; she was completely and inexplicably enthralled by him. She felt she had found something that had been missing for a long time. She simply could not understand how one could feel so familiar and at home with a person they had just met. Her heart felt light for the few hours after they had coffee that day, but even then she knew that the wise thing to do would be to throw the card away and forget she ever met him

Keeping her relationship with him from her brothers had not been difficult. Both were so involved in their own lives that they rarely noticed if she was an hour late coming back from the hair salon or lunch with ‘the girls’. She laughed more with him than she ever thought possible. The way his eyes shone when he looked at her made her feel like the most beautiful woman in the room, though that was rarely the case. They met frequently but almost always in public. She had yearned to spend time alone with him, and though she knew it was wrong, in the dark of night she had longed for him to hold her.

***

Despite his words the night of the beating, Zainah quickly forgave Ahmed and she was careful to give the impression that she also forgave Ali. Though she often cried bitter tears at her loneliness and the unfairness of it all, she quickly resumed the role of dutiful sister when her brothers were present. Every day that passed was like a knife-wound, half-afraid she would never see him again, half-afraid that when she did he would have moved on. The thought that he might have forgotten her tortured her. A plan formulated in her mind.

On the following Friday night, Zainah ironed shirts for her brothers as they showered and prepared to go to one or other of Dubai’s famous nightclubs. She mused once again over the fact that getting drunk and soliciting easy women were sins her brothers could forgive themselves for of, while the love she felt for Peter, so pure and true, was a source of such deep shame. The curse of being born a woman.

She did not waste a moment once they had left. She dressed carefully, applied a thick layer of eye-liner and some lip gloss and snuck out of the house as fast as possible. She knew where he lived though she had never been there before. When he opened the door she burst into tears immediately and fell into his arms; it was the most intimate moment she had had with him to date.

She had almost forgotten what he looked like, and all that had happened since they last met seemed to fade away as they sat there, for a long moment, in silence. Three hours later it was decided; they would flee. Peter had an uncle in Egypt who would help them, they would go there for the time being. She had, thankfully, had the foresight to steal her passport from the drawer in Ali’s bedroom. She thought her heart would burst with joy when Peter proclaimed “The first thing I will do when I get to Egypt is marry you. I love you with all my heart, Zainah; I didn’t know what to do with myself when you were gone.”

“I love you too” she said, elated at his proposal. “Close your eyes” she commanded playfully. He could hear her shuffling around and wondered fleetingly if she would be naked when he opened them.

This is an abrupt change of viewpoint from Zainah's to Peter's

“Open them” she said. She had removed her headscarf, revealing her long, dark curls for the first time to a man other than her brothers. He stood still for a moment, taking in the way they framed her face and seemed to soften her high cheek bones. She was more beautiful, even, than he had thought and he told her so. In a moment of ecstasy, they shared their first kiss. Neither of them had known until that moment how good it could feel to be alive.

In his surprise and delight at seeing Zainah, Peter had forgotten to lock the front door. They sprang apart as the sound of heavy footsteps filled the corridor outside. “My brothers” she whispered, her eyes widening with fear, before the door swung open. Peter tried to speak but before he could Ahmed had hit him over the head with an iron bar and began beating him mercilessly. If Ali had been cruel to his younger sister before, it was nothing to the fury he unleashed on her now, this time wasting neither time nor energy on words. He stopped kicking her only when she began vomiting blood.

When the corpses were found the next day, the neighbours saw that in their dying moments the couple had found each other’s hands.

Oh, I do love a happy end.

If that were me, I'd have had a twist so that it was the two brothers who were dead.

Anyway, I don't know if my suggestions are useful, or even if they're correct. Just a few things that seem 'tighter' to me.

I kind of colour coded it - if I inserted a new word it's in red, otherwise I used a strikethrough. I spread it out a little too.

Hope it's of some help.

Are there nightclubs where Muslims can get drunk in Dubai? Forgive my ignorance. I thought alcohol was banned, and only available illegally.

I can't work out why the whole thing is in italics as the tags aren't around the whole text.

It's very sad and evocative btw.

harrythehat

Thanks Livvie, really appreciate the feedback!

You're thinking of Saudi, there are many nightclubs in Dubai, this is my third year living in UAE. Alcohol flows pretty freely [you're supposed to have a licence but no one does and it is rarely asked for] and Muslim men are in and out of the pubs and clubs constantly. They're hypocrisy is something I deliberately intended to highlight.

I'm thinking about doing a collection of stories from different perspectives to illustrate what I have learned about Middle Eastern culture, both good and bad, while I have been living here.

Anyone else got feedback? I would love to hear it.

pickarooney

I'd be interested in a reading a story about the Middle East where the men aren't all evil caricatures, if I'm honest.

harrythehat

pickarooney wrote: »

I'd be interested in a reading a story about the Middle East where the men aren't all evil caricatures, if I'm honest.

I have every intention of writing stories that challenge people's perceptions along those lines, it's just a coincidence in this case that they are the bad guys.

ThePinkCage

Fascinating insight into Middle Eastern culture. A strong story with a lot of potential. The last sentence was haunting.

Really good writing shows rather than tells. Love can be shown by actions, holding hands, talking, rather than by saying she's in love. And if you want to reveal details about the characters' background, you slip it in subtly and only use what's relevant to the story.

You know it, but really, the reader wants to guess it. But even though you don't include it all, by knowing it, you make your characters real people that speak to readers.