Am I Still a Woman?
Ourfa, June 1912
Khatoun
A cool breeze drifts in the window. A flap of light hovers birdlike above the bed, spilling across one eye. Early morning. Downstairs, in the street below, the bustle and cry of life continue. A snatch of conversation, the clattering of hooves, the arched song of a vendor. They reach out to her but are far away, removed.
Khatoun knows Ferida is there; can hear the shuffle of feet on the kilim, smell the starched cotton tucked around her as calloused hands turn her first to one side and then the other, removing the bloody sheets from beneath. A damp cloth sweeps across her brow. The room is thick with orange blossom and antiseptic. Footsteps retreat across the wooden floor. The door cracks open and in the gap between her and the rest of the w
