THE FLAME DEVOURS
1408 Words
CHAPTER 2: THE FLAME DEVOURS
"The worst fires are the ones you beg to stay in, just to feel something."
The message came at 3:11 a.m.
> Ahyan (text):
“You belong to me now. One click — and your world ends.”
Attached was a video.
Riya didn’t open it. She didn’t have to. She knew. Her mind replayed flashes of that night with a cold, acidic clarity. She remembered the way he had held her down—not roughly, not violently—but with the smug entitlement of someone who believed he owned her silence. She remembered the weight of his mouth on her neck, her frozen limbs, her soul curling away while her body stayed behind.
But she had believed it would be over.
She had been wrong.
---
The second time, he called it an invitation.
A hotel room downtown. Clean sheets, crystal water on the nightstand, red lights dimmed to a soft haze. When she hesitated, he sent a second message.
> “You’re my pet poetess now. Come when I say.”
She stood in the elevator, shaking. Her phone buzzed.
> Ahyan: “If you don’t come up, I’ll send the video to your father. Or your college. Or both.”
That did it.
She entered with her heart pounding in her throat. He smiled as if nothing was wrong. Patted the bed. Opened a bottle of wine. Asked her to recite one of her poems — the one about drowning in fire.
> “Say it slowly. I like when your voice shakes.”
When she stumbled through it, he reached for her shirt and whispered, “That’s better.”
---
Afterward, she went home in a daze. Her body felt unclean, not because of what he’d done, but because of what she had allowed — because she hadn't screamed, hadn't run, hadn’t died.
She scrubbed herself in the shower until her skin burned. But the shame didn’t come off. It clung like oil, soaked deep in places her hands couldn’t reach.
That night, she typed a message to him. Then deleted it. She wanted to say stop. But there were no good words left.
---
The third time, he wasn’t alone.
Rehaan was there — sprawled on the couch, beer in hand, grinning like a boy given a toy he didn’t deserve.
> Ahyan: “You’ve met Rehaan, haven’t you? He’s always had a thing for poets. Pretty ones.”
Riya’s legs turned to stone. She stepped back, but Ahyan’s voice dropped into that cold register she’d come to fear.
> “I pressed record again, pet. Do you want a second video? Or a dozen?”
She didn’t move. Her lungs felt too full. Rehaan stood, walked toward her with a smirk, and circled her slowly like a buyer inspecting damaged goods.
> “I like how shy she is. Can I try her?”
She bit down on the inside of her cheek so hard it bled.
Ahyan waved a hand lazily. “Not tonight.”
That mercy wasn’t kindness. It was strategy. Breaking her slowly was more entertaining.
---
Over the next few weeks, the visits multiplied. Her life became a calendar of silence: when to leave, when to return, when to pretend nothing had happened. Her parents never noticed. Or maybe they did and chose not to see.
She stopped writing poetry. Her notebooks remained closed, her pens untouched. Her words had been taken from her — stripped, corrupted, violated. Now every syllable reminded her of how she used to be.
---
Buraq was next.
He was crueler than Rehaan — less playful, more entitled. The kind who didn’t ask for anything, just reached. He showed up at the suite without knocking, threw his wallet on the table, and stared at her like she was a cigarette waiting to be smoked.
> Ahyan (to Buraq): “She cries sometimes. But she stays. That’s loyalty, isn’t it?”
Riya sat on the edge of the bed, trembling.
Buraq approached her. She didn’t flinch. Not because she wasn’t afraid — but because she was already gone.
She let herself disappear again, folding her mind into darkness while her body obeyed. She focused on the ceiling, on the hum of the air conditioner, on anything that wasn’t his hands.
---
Then came Emaar.
She had seen him once before — tall, quiet, polite. He entered the room like someone who didn’t belong there.
Ahyan poured him a drink. Joked about her nickname — the poetess with a talented mouth. Emaar’s jaw clenched.
Then he turned to her. His eyes met hers, and something passed between them — recognition, maybe. Or horror.
She didn’t speak. She had forgotten how.
> Emaar (quietly): “She’s not a game. She could be my sister.”
Ahyan laughed. “Then pretend she is.”
Emaar stood up and walked out.
---
That night, she cried for the first time in weeks.
Not because someone had hurt her — but because someone hadn’t.
---
By now, Ahyan had taken everything.
Her jewelry. Her savings. Her sense of self. He made her kneel and called it obedience. He made her dress up and called it love. He made her scream and called it art.
Every time she protested, he would pull out his phone and wave it like a weapon.
> “I’ll destroy you with one tap. No one will believe you. Everyone will watch.”
She started to believe him.
She imagined her father’s face — pride collapsing into shame. Her brother’s fists tightening, too late. Her mother’s tears. Her friends’ silence. Her name trending online like poison.
So she obeyed.
Because silence was the only way to survive.
---
Some nights, he made her watch the video.
He would press play and sit behind her, whispering in her ear.
> “See how pretty you look when you give in?”
She would close her eyes and hear herself — not moaning, not resisting, just breathing. Like an animal. Like something broken that didn’t even know it was broken.
---
By the end of the month, she had lost weight. Her cheeks hollowed, her eyes shadowed. The housemaids stopped asking if she’d eaten. Her professors stopped calling when she missed class. Her family chalked it up to stress.
Inside, Riya stopped dreaming. Her sleep became a cold, gray space where even nightmares had no shape.
---
One evening, she went to the suite and found it empty.
No Ahyan. No Rehaan. No Buraq.
Just silence.
For the first time, she didn’t feel relief. She felt fear. She waited, pacing. Her skin crawled. Every second was a question: What if they’re setting up something worse?
She curled up in the corner, phone in hand, refreshing her messages every minute.
Nothing.
At 3 a.m., Ahyan finally replied.
> Ahyan: “You miss me, don’t you?”
She didn’t answer. Her hands were shaking too much to type.
---
The next morning, she tried to disappear.
She skipped class. Discarded her phone. Wandered the city aimlessly. Sat in a public restroom and stared at the mirror.
Her reflection looked like a stranger. Hollow. Dirty. Unsalvageable.
That night, she bought pills.
---
She lay in her bed, counting them slowly. The room swam around her. Her throat was dry. Her heart pounded like it knew something she didn’t.
Then came the memories.
Not of Ahyan — but of herself.
Laughing on a beach once. Writing poems under a tree. Singing badly in the kitchen. Falling in love with the idea of someone who looked at her like art.
She put the pills down.
She picked up her pen.
She wrote one line.
> Even the flame leaves ash.
Then everything went black.
---
She woke up in a hospital bed.
Her throat was sore. Her hands were cold. Her father sat beside her, face pale, eyes blank.
No one said anything.
But she knew.
They had seen enough to understand.
---
Zaraq stood in the hallway, speaking to Wahad, their uncle.
> Zaraq: “He made her into something… empty. He doesn’t deserve to breathe.”
His voice didn’t tremble. His fists did.
Wahad looked away. Said nothing.
---
Riya closed her eyes again. Not to sleep. Not to die.
But to remember who she was — before the flame.
Before the blackmail.
Before she broke.
---
[END OF CHAPTER 2: The Flame Devours]
- Writer
