Lashirah_Hash

They called it blasphemy.
A sin against God.
A disgrace against blood.

The news headlines twisted her name like a curse.
Muslim Girl Marries Two Brothers in Secret Ceremony.
Father Disowns Daughter Over Immoral Union.
Religious Extremists and Feminists Clash in Street Protests.

But none of them knew the truth.

Not the journalists who stalked her outside the courthouse.
Not the clerics who spat fire from the pulpit.
Not the activists who used her face for posters, never asking if she even agreed with them.

They didn’t know about the long nights with one brother’s rage burning her skin—and the other’s cold touch wrapping around her heart like barbed wire.

They didn’t know how it started—not with love, but with survival.

They didn’t know that once, she believed in God more than anything.
And now?

Now, she stood in front of a grave with no name.
Black veil pulled tight.
A Qur’an in her hand.
Two wedding rings on her finger.

Behind her, they stood—her husbands.
One with blood on his hands.
The other with secrets behind his eyes.

She would never be the same girl again.
But she was still alive.
Still burning.

And if the world wanted a monster?

She would give them on

BETWEEN GOD AND THE MONSTERS

Not loud. Not urgent. Just... careful. As if whoever stood outside already knew the weight they carried.

Lucien opened the door with a knife behind his back, Silas a silent shadow behind him. But it wasn't their father. Not yet.

Barely sixteen, thin, with dirt under his nails and eyes that had seen too much. He held out an envelope, trembling.

"He said… he said if I didn't deliver it, he'd skin me."

Lucien snatched the envelope. Silas pulled the boy in, checked for bruises, marks—anything. He was clean. Just scared. A pawn.

Lucien stuffed some bills into his hand and sent him off before closing the door.

Lucien opened the letter. Read it once. Then again. Then handed it to Silas.

There was no name. No signature. Just the same serif font they remembered from their youth. The same ink-stained threats disguised as affection.

Lucien nodded. "He never stopped watching."

Aaliyah sat slowly, her face unreadable. "Again?"

Silas looked at her. "There was another. Before you. A girl. From the brothel."

Lucien's voice was low. "She tried to help us escape. She paid for it with her life."

The silence that followed was heavy. Aaliyah's hands went to her belly. She closed her eyes.

"Yes," Silas said. "But not with revenge. With release."

Lucien turned his gaze to the window, the horizon bleeding orange. "We kill him. Not because we hate him. But because we love her."

Aaliyah stood. "Then let's make a plan."

And they did. In the flickering candlelight, between prayer and silence, love and memory, they wrote the death of a man who had haunted them all their lives.

And this time, they would not run.

Whispers Of The Devil