Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 33166 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33166 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
We fall quiet for a moment before Ari asks, “How is it going at the shelter?”
I welcome the shift in conversation. Discussing my feelings about Iran is both freeing and depressing.
“I love it. It’s great to make a difference in people’s lives. Switching from policy to outreach is the best decision I’ve made. I feel like I’m making tangible changes now and positively affecting lives. Those who come into the shelter seem to trust me, and I never want them to regret that decision. The people I work with say I’ll eventually become hardened to it, but I don’t see that happening. If I can help one person, it’s all worth it.”
Ari smiles. “That’s great, Mona.” She shifts in her seat, leaning toward me to whisper, “Why does that guy in the glasses keep looking over here?”
Ari’s words are heavy punches to my gut because sometimes I feel like someone is watching me. My therapist thinks it’s PTSD, but it’s more than that. When I attempt to discuss my trauma with anyone, even my sister, an icy dread seeps into my bones, leaving me speechless. I think people are staring at me, seeing a paranoid, irrational woman. Yet even when I try to shake it all off as a residual effect of being held captive, I can’t ignore the twist in my gut. It’s hard to explain. It’s like the soft brush of a palm against my flesh or a warm breath teasing the back of my neck. It’s a lingering scent in the air: clean, sharp, and familiar. A warm wind carrying a memory.
It’s not constant. I don’t go through my day in a state of paranoia. It’s fleeting moments when I swear someone is watching me.
At times I even pondered if it was paranoia, but then the deliveries started coming.
Random grocery orders or food delivery. Initially, I was hesitant to eat anything, but the reputation of the delivery company put my mind at ease.
I should have been fearful, but the first order, containing Iranian items like saffron, cardamom tea, rose water, basmati rice, and herbs, made me feel warm and nurtured. Whoever sent it knew I was Persian.
Each package since has felt like a ghost of my mother wrapping me in comfort, feeding parts of me I didn’t know were starving.
What truly unsettled me, though, wasn’t the memories of her. It was the echo of them—two men whose names I haven’t dared speak aloud in two years. Two men I once believed could see every fractured part of me… and maybe still do.
Two men I miss more than I care to admit.
“Why is he wearing sunglasses inside a coffee shop?” Ari's question pulls me from my thoughts.
I shrug. “I’m sure he has his reasons. Maybe he just had eye surgery.” I wiggle my eyebrows. “Maybe he’s checking you out?”
Ari snort-laughs. “That’s instant serial killer behavior. Oh, my god, what if he wants to kidnap you? Or me? I love the whole Stockholm Syndrome trope in books, but I don’t want to live that fantasy. With my luck, Mr. Hotstuff over there would take me to a seventy-year-old Hugh Heffner type who would chain me up in his basement and force me to do disgusting things to his shriveled penis.”
Laughter bursts out of me. “The issue isn’t the kidnapping, but that the penis could be of the geriatric variety?”
Ari slaps her palm to her face and lets out an audible grasp. “I’m so sorry. I’m such a lousy friend.”
My lips tip up in a reassuring smile. It’s interesting how people react to what I went through two years ago. Apparently, being kidnapped by a money-hungry cult leader is a taboo subject for those who’ve never experienced it. “It’s not a big deal. It was years ago. We can be normal about it all.”
Ari sips her iced coffee while she studies me. Silence is something that’s always bothered me. I hate it. There has never been a moment of comfortable silence in my life. I sit with my discomfort, fighting the sudden urge to crack open her head to figure out what she’s thinking. I wish people would ask what they want to know instead of being so damn weird.
“You never talk about it, so I assumed something bad happened, you know?” Ari finally says. “In my experience, avoidance is usually due to trauma.”
Ari isn’t wrong. I have trauma. A shit load of trauma. The healthy thing would be to tell my therapist and work it out, but I’m Persian, and we don’t like people to know our secrets. Oh, the way of Persian people? Bottle it up, swallow it, put it under the rug, cover it with a blanket—anything other than revealing the chips and cracks in your armor.
I always thought it was stupid to feel that way. But the thought processes are lodged in my DNA. My mother tried so hard to break us of it. Growing up, nothing was too shameful or taboo to discuss. My mother’s only rule was to not lie to her. She promised we wouldn’t get in trouble as long as we told the truth. That woman even accepted my sister having three boyfriends.