Hell in the Veins

What a night. Like the difference between heaven and hell. The rain came down hard, turning the streets cold and dark. Families stayed inside their warm houses. Couples walked close together under umbrellas. People hurried past, looking for somewhere dry and safe. But inside the big house on the hill, it was different. While everyone outside ran from the rain, the people trapped inside would have done anything for just one drop of water. The fire had already started spreading, eating through the rooms like a hungry animal. Najma stood by the window, watching the rain hit the glass. She was twenty-six, but she looked older. Tired. Like someone who had given up fighting a long time ago. She had started the fire. She had locked all the doors. No one was getting out tonight. Not her parents, not her husband's family, not her husband. Not even her. What makes someone do something like this? The answer wasn't simple. It was built from years of pain, years of keeping quiet, years of pretending everything was okay when it wasn't. "So stupid," Najma whispered to herself. Outside, people were laughing and running through the rain. They looked happy. Free. She couldn't remember the last time she felt like that. She had tried to be good. God knows she had tried. For years, she did what everyone told her to do. Smile when they wanted her to smile. Stay quiet when they wanted silence. Make herself smaller and smaller until there was almost nothing left. Behind her, the house was full of screaming. The fire was getting closer, and her family finally understood what was happening. They were clawing at the doors, banging on the walls, begging and crying. "NAJMA!" Her father-in-law's voice was loud and angry. "What did you do? WHAT DID YOU DO?" Her mother was crying hard, her voice breaking. "Please, baby, this isn't you! Open the doors!" But it is me, Najma thought. This is who you all made me. Heavy footsteps came toward her. Her husband Marcus was running, and she could hear the exact moment he figured it out. The way his breathing changed. The curse that came next. "You crazy b***h!" His hands went around her throat - the same place he'd grabbed her so many times before. His face looked scary in the orange light from the fire. This was the real Marcus, not the nice guy everyone else saw. "OPEN THE DOORS RIGHT NOW!" His hands squeezed tighter, cutting off her air. For a second, she felt the old fear, the need to say sorry, to give in like she always did. But then something else came up inside her. Something wild and angry and free. She smiled. It started small but grew bigger and bigger until she was grinning even though she could barely breathe. Marcus had never seen her smile like this - like she didn't care what happened next. "We're all going to die here," she said softly. "Every single one of us." Marcus let go and stepped back, his face pale. When he spoke again, his voice was different. Calm. The voice he used when he wanted to control her. "Okay. What do you want, Najma? What's this all about?" She bent down and picked up the old gun from under some broken wood. Her grandfather's gun that used to hang on the wall. It was warm from the fire and heavy in her hands. She threw it into the middle of the room. It hit the floor with a loud crash. "Whoever gets the gun dies fast," she said, her voice carrying over all the noise. "The rest of us... well, fire takes longer." For a moment, everything went quiet. Then chaos broke out again. Her family lunged forward, fighting over the gun, screaming at each other. "You're sick!" her mother yelled. "This isn't my daughter!" "Your daughter?" Najma's laugh was sharp and bitter. "You taught me to shut up and take it. You taught me to smile while they hurt me. You made me the perfect victim." She looked at all of them - her parents who had pushed her into this marriage, her husband's family who treated her like garbage, her husband who hit her and called it love. "And I was perfect, wasn't I? I did exactly what you wanted." She turned back to the window. Outside, people were still running through the rain, going home to people who actually loved them. She picked up the letter opener from the table. It was sharp and cold in her hand. "But tonight," she said, putting the blade against her throat, "tonight I get to choose." Behind her, someone had gotten the gun. She heard the shot, then sudden quiet. She didn't turn around to see who it was. It didn't matter now. For the first time in years, Najma felt free. One quick cut, deep and sure. Her throat opened like a red flower, and she fell to the floor. The screaming got quieter. The fire's noise became almost peaceful. As everything went dark, Najma smiled one more time. She had finally chosen herself. And that was her end. Later, people would call it a tragedy. A waste of life. A terrible thing that shouldn't have happened. But they would be wrong. It wasn't a tragedy. It was freedom. The fire roared, the knife cut deep, and the world went silent. For a moment there was only darkness. The taste of smoke. The heat of flames. The echo of her own broken laughter. She thought it was the end — her soul slipping into nothing. But then— Light. Sunlight spilled across the city, warm and golden. Birds sang from rooftops, morning laughter drifted from the streets below. A new day for everyone. But not for her. The heavy pounding of a fist rattled the door. “You little demon, wake up!” The old nanny’s voice cracked through the silence, sharp as ever. Najma stirred faintly, her body still heavy as stone. Was she dead? Was this heaven? Or hell? The door burst open. Maids hurried in, folding clothes, pulling curtains, throwing open the windows. The nanny stormed toward the bed, ripping away the sheets with practiced cruelty. “Get up, you ungrateful child!” Najma’s eyes blinked open. A white ceiling above her. Voices buzzing in her ears. Slowly, her vision sharpened—until she saw her. The old woman. That sharp, hateful face. No. This was not heaven. Not even hell. This was worse. “There’s no way,” Najma whispered hoarsely, her lips curling into a cold smile. “There’s no way someone like you could set foot in heaven.” The maids froze. The room went still. The nanny’s jaw dropped, disbelief twisting her face. In all her years, she had never once heard such words from the quiet, beaten little girl. Najma pushed herself upright, her eyes darting around the room. The furniture. The curtains. The smell. It was all so familiar. Too familiar. Her old room. The nanny grabbed her arm, squeezing tight. “How dare you speak back to me, you little demon! I—” “Don’t touch me with your filthy hands.” Najma cut her off, yanking free without even looking at her. Her attention was fixed on the calendar across the wall. 2015 Her heart jolted. She stumbled toward the mirror. A face stared back at her — wide eyes, soft cheeks, a small frame. A child. A younger version of herself. Najma’s breath caught. “Who… who is this?” But she knew. She knew that reflection. This wasn’t heaven. This wasn’t hell. She was alive. Again. Had she gone back in time? Was she meant to walk through the same fire again, suffer the same humiliations, the same betrayals? Or was this her chance — the one she never believed she would get?