THE HOUSE OF HOLLOW GOLD

CHAPTER 3: A Daughter's Shame

Aisha's Blood

The bathroom door hangs open like a mouth screaming. I see her first,Aisha, my middle daughter, floating in water that runs red like spilled wine. Her arms drift beside her like broken wings. The razor blade glints on the white tile floor like a silver tooth.

Time stops. My heart stops. The world tilts sideways.

I dive into the tub, with my clothes and my all. The water is warm, too warm, and it sticks to my skin like guilt. Aisha's eyes flutter open when I pull her against my chest. She looks at me with those deep brown eyes,Majid's eyes, and I see nothing behind them. It's not pain. Not relief. Just emptiness.

"Mama?" she whispers, and her voice sounds like a ghost asking for permission to haunt me.

Blood swirls around us in lazy circles. My white dress turns pink, then red, then the colour of shame. I press towels against her wrists, but the cuts are deep. Too deep. They gape open like hungry mouths, and I can see the pale bone underneath.

"Why, baby? Why?" I whisper into her wet hair.

She doesn't answer. She just stares at the ceiling like she's watching angels I can not see.

The hospital smells like bleach and broken dreams. Majid arrives twenty minutes after the ambulance, and he brings his mask with him,the one he wears for cameras and crowds. He weeps perfectly. Not too much, not too little. Just enough to look like a devastated father.

"My precious daughter," he sobs into the reporter's microphone. "She's been struggling with depression. We're getting her the best help money can buy."

The lies roll off his tongue like honey. Sweet and sticky and poisonous.

I stand in the corner,watching him perform. He holds my hand for the cameras and squeezes it like he loves me. But his fingers dig into my palm hard enough to leave marks. The message is clear: smile and say nothing.

"Mr. Majid, do you think this was a cry for help?" asks the blonde reporter with hungry eyes.

"Absolutely," Majid nods, dabbing his eyes with a silk handkerchief. "Sometimes our children need to know how much we love them. Aisha will get through this. We're a strong family."

Strong family. The words taste like acid in my mouth.

When the cameras stop rolling, his tears disappear like magic. He checks his phone, straightens his tie, and walks away without asking how his daughter is breathing.

The car ride home feels like riding inside a coffin. Faisal drives with his jaw clenched tight, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. The silence stretches between us like a wire about to snap.

"She's always been dramatic," he finally says, not looking at me. "Remember when she was twelve? She threatened to run away because you wouldn't let her pierce her ears."

This is different, and we both know it. But Faisal needs his lies like other people need air.

"This isn't about earrings," I whisper.

"Then what's it about?" he snaps, turning to face me at a red light. "What? You think Daddy...."

"Don't." My voice cuts through the air like a blade.

"Don't what? Say what we're all thinking? That maybe Aisha's just weak? That maybe she inherited Mom's tendency to"

I slap him hard. My palm connects with his cheek and leaves a red mark shaped like my fury. The sound echoes in the small space like a gunshot.

Faisal touches his face, staring at me with wide eyes. For a moment, he looks like the little boy who used to climb into my bed during thunderstorms.

"She tried to die today," I whisper. "And you call her dramatic."

That night, I can not sleep. I walk to the garden in my bare feet, feeling the cold earth between my toes like punishment. The roses smell too sweet in the darkness, cloying and thick like funeral flowers.

I gather herbs with shaking hands lavender for peace, sage for cleansing, and rosemary for remembrance. My grandmother taught me these things when I was small, before I knew that some wounds can not be healed with plants and prayers.

I build a small fire in the metal basin behind the greenhouse. The flames dance orange and gold, reaching toward stars that hide behind clouds. I throw the herbs into the fire and watch them curl and blacken.

"Grandmother," I whisper into the smoke. "Help me. Show me how to save my children."

The wind picks up, stirring the ashes. For just a moment, I swear I hear her voice, soft,kind, and sad.

"Some gardens grow only poison, child. Some soil is too cursed to heal."

The fire crackles. Sparks fly upward like tiny prayers.

And somewhere in the darkness behind me, I hear footsteps on gravel slow,deliberate. Getting closer.

I turn around but see only shadows and the glowing windows of our house of hollow gold.