Women's Revenge

Episode ten

Rashdi pulled a few crumpled bills from his pocket, waved them carelessly in the air, then tossed them onto Bara’a’s frail body slumped in the corner of the basement. A cold smile crept across his face as he adjusted his trousers, trading a glance with Samer.

Samer, grinning as he did the same, let out a low chuckle. Their laughter rose together, echoing through the dank, suffocating space, slashing at Bara’a’s silence like another form of violence.

Rashdi shook his head with satisfaction.

— She’s really something, this girl.

Samer smirked, his voice dripping with mockery.

— And she wanted it.

Their laughter burst out louder, bouncing off the broken walls like the jeers of demons dancing in the shadows. With every echo, the basement grew darker, heavier.

Then, arm in arm with their own cruelty, they left through the basement door. The sound of their coarse laughter trailed after them, leaving Bara’a drowning in unbearable stillness, surrounded only by the suffocating weight of ruin and night.

Nawal Cocktail drove her car slowly through the empty night streets until the abandoned building appeared ahead, a dark mass that seemed to swallow every trace of light around it. She stopped abruptly when a black cat darted out from the basement door and froze in the middle of the road, its glowing eyes fixed on her like a warning.

Nawal pressed the horn, but the cat didn’t move. It stood there, rigid, as if waiting. She stepped out of the car, her heels striking the ground, and walked toward it. Suddenly, the cat bolted back into the basement. Nawal lifted her gaze and peered into the darkness, where she saw a young girl curled up against the wall.

It was Bara’a — her body frail, her clothes torn, her face streaked with tears, eyes vacant like someone who had witnessed the end of the world.

Nawal stepped forward cautiously, her voice carrying a strange blend of authority and false tenderness.

— Why are you sitting here like this?

Bara’a didn’t answer. Only tears spoke for her, falling soundlessly. Nawal extended her hand.

— Come with me, sweetheart. You’ll work, you’ll get money. Better than sitting by this wall, waiting for the dogs of the street to tear you apart.

Hesitant, Bara’a raised her trembling hand and clutched Nawal’s. She stood slowly, like a child pulled from a nightmare, and walked beside her to the car. Nawal opened the door and guided her inside. The door slammed shut with a sharp thud, making Bara’a flinch in fear.

Sliding behind the wheel, Nawal glanced at the girl beside her.

— You look so exhausted. What’s your name?

Her answer came faint, broken, hardly more than a whisper:

— Bara’a.

Nawal’s lips curled into a wide grin.

— And I’m Nawal… but everyone calls me Nawal Cocktail.

She laughed loudly, her laughter filling the car. Bara’a sat in silence, drowning in fear. The car rolled forward slowly, leaving the basement behind — and with it, the darkness that had swallowed her cries, cries no one had ever heard

Bara’a sat on a chair in the living room of the apartment, next to Nawal Cocktail, as if fate had thrown her into a place that didn’t belong to her. Her torn clothes clung to her exhausted body, and her features were so broken that only her distant, vacant eyes remained, sinking into a void that no one could reach.

Nawal watched her with the eyes of a predator who had found a new prey. Her gaze was steady, charged with curiosity and cunning, until she finally broke the silence with a feigned tone of concern: — So, what’s your story? You look completely humiliated.

Bara’a did not answer. She lowered her head further, staring at the floor as if searching for an escape between its tiles. Her silence felt like a thick wall protecting her from Nawal’s words—or at least giving the illusion of protection.

But Nawal did not give up. Her voice softened, more cunning now: — Alright… go into this room. It has everything. Change your clothes, take a shower… then we’ll talk.

A sly smile spread across Nawal’s face, as if she held the keys to Bara’a’s future. — What are you afraid of? No one can touch you… except at your own will.

She said it with complete confidence, then added, as if selling an illusion: — This is how we work, and everyone here is very respectable… good people.

Bara’a rose slowly, her legs feeling heavier with every step. Nawal continued: — Come on… I’ll order food. Until you come out… we’ll eat together.

Bara’a moved cautiously toward the room, her eyes wary of her surroundings. The place was unfamiliar, but stranger still were Nawal’s features—an unsettling mix of false reassurance and hidden danger. Finally, she surrendered to the situation and walked into the room, while Nawal’s eyes followed her with cold interest, like a cat watching its prey walk into the cage willingly.

Bara’a stood inside a room in Nawal Cocktail’s apartment, her hands trembling slightly as she opened the wardrobe. Sadness and anxiety etched deep lines across her face.

She pulled out a white pajama set and a towel, her movements slow and deliberate, weighed down by the exhaustion that clung to her every muscle. Each step toward the bathroom felt heavy, as though the floor itself resisted her passage.

The bathroom door creaked as she entered, closing it softly behind her. Inside, silence enveloped her, broken only by the subtle sound of her movements as she began removing her torn clothes, each piece falling like a layer of her past pain.

The dim light cast long shadows across the walls, reflecting the quiet tension in the room. Bara’a moved carefully, almost ritualistically, preparing herself for the small act of reclaiming some sense of normalcy amidst the chaos that had swallowed her life.