In The Name Of L.U.S.T (based on a true story)

"Hi! Would you like some biscuits?" I turn my face around to look at the girl sitting beside me. She looks around 20. Wearing a face full of make-up. Her clothes look expensive; perfectly matched together. If it was any other day I would start judging her based on her looks. That her clothes are too revealing for a girl from my country. That she had worn too much make up for a decent girl. That probably she comes from a wealthy family. A kind of family that doesn’t let you have any worries worse than a broken nail or a bad hair color. That she’s probably a snob who looks down at people like me. But today…, today I don’t have time to criticize other people. I have my own problems to deal with. My own worries and fears to overcome. I stare at a lock of her bright brown hair that rests on her broad shoulders, poking out of her black scarf. She looks confident and strong. That makes me a little bit jealous of her. Maybe if I was as confident as she is when I was her age, maybe if I had a kind of family that she has I wouldn’t be at where I am right now. Maybe I would be happy somewhere. “Ma’am.” She calls me again sweetly. Holding a box of biscuits open for me. I force a smile on my face and take one. “Thanks.” I murmur. “You’re welcome.” She smiles wider. “I’m Almas.” She reaches her other hand out for me to shake. “I’m Fatima.” I whisper shyly shaking her hand. “Nice to meet you Fatima.” She nods. “Nice to meet you too.” Then she puts the box back in her purse and tucks her earplugs in her ears. I watch her pulling a book out of her purse and putting it on her lap to open the pages. I read the cover curiously. “Girl, Stop apologizing.” Wow she’s reading an English book. And it’s not one of those simple books for the foreigners that you can buy based on the level of your English. It’s an actual book. Well, sister, I don’t think you’ve ever actually apologized anyone. She should be a…. God, what did they call it? A feminist? Yeah she should be a feminist. It totally suits her. I look down at my own lap. The book that my friend Maryam had given me is resting on my lap. She had said it’s a book from a feminist. She said it can give me the strength I need through my hard times. I look back at the girl. There is something about her that captivates my attention. Something that makes me want to know more about her. Suddenly her scarf falls and the rest of the locks of her brown hair gets revealed. I tighten my scarf feeling exposed. I wait for her to fix her scarf but she doesn’t. She just keeps reading. I look around. No one is watching. Everyone is busy doing their own thing. I tighten my scarf once again and tap on her shoulder lightly. She turns her face to me while taking one of her earplugs out. “Yes?” She smiles swiftly and I smile back automatically. “Your scarf has fallen.” I whisper not wanting to drag any attention towards us. “So?” She raises an eyebrow. “Your scarf has fallen.” I whisper once again looking around anxiously. “So what?” She asks confused. “Your hair is out.” “Okay.” She nods then tucks the earplug back in her ear. I tap on her shoulder again. “But there are men around.” I whisper. “I don’t give a fuck.” She responded casually. I gasped clenching my fist around my scarf surprised to hear a girl at her age swear like that. Well, maybe it’s a normal thing for a feminist to do. As far as I know they are different. They shred the limitations. I decide to don’t bother her anymore. So I move a little bit on my sit and fish my phone out of my pocket. I stare at my wallpaper. And immediately a drop of tear roll down my eye. Oh my baby. My little sweet baby. I’m so sorry. Mommy is so sorry. I cover my mouth with my scarf and sob silently. “Are you okay?” The girl touches my shoulder lightly. I nod quietly wiping my eyes with my scarf. Not now Fatima. Not now. Stay strong. You can do this. I turn my face to her. She looks concerned. “I’m good. Thank you.” I whisper, trying to pull myself together. “Do you need anything?” She asks kindly. “No. Thanks.” “Are you travelling alone?” She asks. I nod. “Yes.” “Awe. Guess you’re missing your family already.” She squeezes my shoulder lightly in a comforting way. “I do.” Then I unlock my screen to show her my babies. “This is Muhammad. My oldest. He’s 18. This is Ali. And this is my little one. Emir. He’s only 2.” And I burst in tears. “Awe. Come here. Please don’t cry.” She wraps her arms around me kindly and I sob against her chest silently. Oh God. When did I get this miserable to cry on a stranger’s shoulder. Maybe I’ve chosen the wrong path and all of this is a sign for me to go back and ask for my husband’s mercy. “I’m really sorry.” I apologize pulling myself out of her arms feeling embarrassed. “It’s okay.” She says softly patting on my back. I should be ashamed of myself. I’m a 40 year old woman seeking comfort in a 20 year old girl’s arms. My husband hates me and I’ve abandoned my children. I’m the worst mom in the whole universe. I have no home. No Money. No nothing. I’m an embarrassment to my family. What would my father think of me if he was alive? He would be so disappointed. My only job was to keep my husband happy and keep my home in order and I couldn’t even do it right. I notice Almas’ gaze on my wedding ring. “I’m still married.” I try to explain. “legally.” I add at the end.