Read Online 53 Letters For My Lover by Leylah Attar - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Leylah Attar
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grabbing my hips, the metallic taste of blood in my mouth.
I kicked. I tore. I hit. I bit. I could feel the thick, wiry hair on Pasha Moradi’s arms as they tightened around my ribcage. He yanked me off my feet and slammed me, face down, against the sink. My feet slipped as they beat against the floor, sliding on a slick layer of spilled lotion. I choked on the sweet scent of lavender, my cheek smashed into the porcelain bowl.
No, I cried. It’s Nowruz. I’m having dinner with my husband.
But Pasha Moradi couldn’t hear my silent screams. He grabbed my hair and pulled so hard that I was staring at his twisted face in the mirror, still foggy from my shower. His other hand reached for his pants. I could hear the zipper unfastening, the sound of my dreams being sucked down a rusty drain. I screwed my eyes shut, locking out the thought of his ugly, purple penis pushing into me.
My hands flailed out, like a drowning man trying to keep afloat. The plastic tumbler by the sink tipped over. Toothpaste. Comb. The soft bristles of a toothbrush. My fingers closed around a cold, ring shaped handle.
Scissors. Hafez’s tiny, cuticle scissors. The ones I laughed at whenever I caught him trimming his nose hair.
I could feel Pasha Moradi’s beefy knee between my thighs, forcing them apart.
I gripped the scissors and drove the pointy end straight back. Pasha Moradi hissed as it punctured his big balloon of a body. But it wasn’t enough. His grip remained iron-tight. I dislodged the scissors and stabbed him a second time, with all the desperate, sobbing force I could muster. This time he screamed and staggered back.
I was shaking so hard, I could barely push myself off the sink. My soles skid on a wet mess of blood and lotion. I broke free, dragging a dead shower curtain along with me. I could see the front door. My heart hammered with wild relief.
I was almost there when he grabbed my leg.
I clutched at the shiny parquet tiles as Pasha Moradi dragged me into the living room by my feet. When he rolled me over, the first thing I saw were the scissors sticking out of his eye, like some horrible cartoon parody. And then I saw his face. Rage-blinded, with red devil tears streaming down one cheek. He slapped me twice. Each time I felt my teeth rattle, my still-wet hair spraying drops of water everywhere. Then he wrapped his hands around my neck and squeezed. I clutched at my throat, my legs thrashing against the floor. He could have killed me then, but he was enjoying it too much. So he eased up and let me gasp a lungful of air before tightening his grip again.
I felt myself fading as darkness overtook me, but then I saw his bloated face through the haze and started laughing. He looked pathetic, a big, swollen puffer fish with scissors jiggling in one eyeball, like a knife stuck in jello.
“Jendeh!” He slapped me again.
He didn’t like me smiling, but I couldn’t stop.
A huffing, puffing blowfish was blowing my house down.
“You want pain?” He fumbled with his flaccid penis. A sharp object in the eye can do that to a man’s libido.
I laughed harder.
I was in a different place, removed from myself, wrapped up in a cocoon where everything was muffled. Still, my entire body clenched at the thought of it. How many times does a girl think of her first time? How many perfect, golden scenarios? I laughed at the irony of it.
“Shut up!” He spit on me, his face red with exertion, still trying to get himself hard.
Blood collected around the silver rims of the dual metal loops sticking out of his eye, and plopped down on my face. I wondered if his slimy, convoluted brain would spill out if I unplugged the scissors, and laughed harder still.
My lip split open with that slap. Or maybe it was from before. I couldn’t be sure. All I knew is that when I felt Pasha Moradi’s body being pulled off me, I felt so defiled, I wanted to hold on to its stifling weight, to have the life squashed out of me.
“You fucking
I kicked. I tore. I hit. I bit. I could feel the thick, wiry hair on Pasha Moradi’s arms as they tightened around my ribcage. He yanked me off my feet and slammed me, face down, against the sink. My feet slipped as they beat against the floor, sliding on a slick layer of spilled lotion. I choked on the sweet scent of lavender, my cheek smashed into the porcelain bowl.
No, I cried. It’s Nowruz. I’m having dinner with my husband.
But Pasha Moradi couldn’t hear my silent screams. He grabbed my hair and pulled so hard that I was staring at his twisted face in the mirror, still foggy from my shower. His other hand reached for his pants. I could hear the zipper unfastening, the sound of my dreams being sucked down a rusty drain. I screwed my eyes shut, locking out the thought of his ugly, purple penis pushing into me.
My hands flailed out, like a drowning man trying to keep afloat. The plastic tumbler by the sink tipped over. Toothpaste. Comb. The soft bristles of a toothbrush. My fingers closed around a cold, ring shaped handle.
Scissors. Hafez’s tiny, cuticle scissors. The ones I laughed at whenever I caught him trimming his nose hair.
I could feel Pasha Moradi’s beefy knee between my thighs, forcing them apart.
I gripped the scissors and drove the pointy end straight back. Pasha Moradi hissed as it punctured his big balloon of a body. But it wasn’t enough. His grip remained iron-tight. I dislodged the scissors and stabbed him a second time, with all the desperate, sobbing force I could muster. This time he screamed and staggered back.
I was shaking so hard, I could barely push myself off the sink. My soles skid on a wet mess of blood and lotion. I broke free, dragging a dead shower curtain along with me. I could see the front door. My heart hammered with wild relief.
I was almost there when he grabbed my leg.
I clutched at the shiny parquet tiles as Pasha Moradi dragged me into the living room by my feet. When he rolled me over, the first thing I saw were the scissors sticking out of his eye, like some horrible cartoon parody. And then I saw his face. Rage-blinded, with red devil tears streaming down one cheek. He slapped me twice. Each time I felt my teeth rattle, my still-wet hair spraying drops of water everywhere. Then he wrapped his hands around my neck and squeezed. I clutched at my throat, my legs thrashing against the floor. He could have killed me then, but he was enjoying it too much. So he eased up and let me gasp a lungful of air before tightening his grip again.
I felt myself fading as darkness overtook me, but then I saw his bloated face through the haze and started laughing. He looked pathetic, a big, swollen puffer fish with scissors jiggling in one eyeball, like a knife stuck in jello.
“Jendeh!” He slapped me again.
He didn’t like me smiling, but I couldn’t stop.
A huffing, puffing blowfish was blowing my house down.
“You want pain?” He fumbled with his flaccid penis. A sharp object in the eye can do that to a man’s libido.
I laughed harder.
I was in a different place, removed from myself, wrapped up in a cocoon where everything was muffled. Still, my entire body clenched at the thought of it. How many times does a girl think of her first time? How many perfect, golden scenarios? I laughed at the irony of it.
“Shut up!” He spit on me, his face red with exertion, still trying to get himself hard.
Blood collected around the silver rims of the dual metal loops sticking out of his eye, and plopped down on my face. I wondered if his slimy, convoluted brain would spill out if I unplugged the scissors, and laughed harder still.
My lip split open with that slap. Or maybe it was from before. I couldn’t be sure. All I knew is that when I felt Pasha Moradi’s body being pulled off me, I felt so defiled, I wanted to hold on to its stifling weight, to have the life squashed out of me.
“You fucking
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