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When you were younger, you didn’t have anything to your name except for the generations of ancestors who spent their lives shackled to the Rich Men.
They don’t need to be named.
Kalim’s father took you aside when Kalim was asleep. You were wearing your nicest Hashmi dress, and a head scarf. You cried, because it hurt, and because Mama and Baba didn’t believe you.
You sat in the bathtub for hours, scrubbing the soap on your skin until it bled.
He won’t get off.
Najma was younger than you by five years. She wouldn’t leave your side, and since Kalim liked her, she was allowed to stay.
It was the most idiotic parade in the world. An Idiot, a Nothing, and a Toddler, waltzing through the palace, making a mess everywhere, wailing and wailing.
Najma would look at you, with her big, watery eyes, whenever you changed her. A thought struck you: “What if I touched her like Kalim’s father did to me—”
You made yourself throw up until you could get the thought out of your head. But it kept coming back.
It keeps coming back.
Kalim hugs you all the time. You’re the only person he trusts. It’s not his fault. You know that. It wasn’t your fault either.
Or maybe it was?
You sit in the bathtub, legs spread out. You think about him. Big face, bigger—
You’ve gotten it all over the bathtub. You clean yourself and the tub and try to sleep so if he tries anything, you won’t feel it.
The second time it happened, you were twelve and bleeding for the first time. Baba took you aside, and told you to undress.
He was your Baba. You love him.
Loved.
When it was over, Mama brushed your hair.
“Don’t think too hard about it.” She hummed. “It happened to him when he was younger. He doesn’t know what to do with it.”
She kissed you on the forehead. The whole night, you thought about what would happen if she kissed you lower.
You made yourself throw up until you couldn’t think anymore.
Why won’t it ever work?
Now that you’re older, you choose a new name for yourself, one that suits you more. You don’t have to wear your dresses.
You keep your hair long so it’s easier to hide.
Azul makes himself throw up too. You know because you’ve caught him once. You held his glasses and cleaned him up with patient hands. He got on your last nerve, but that doesn’t mean you want him to draw his last breath one day.
And now you’re studying him too hard, for late at night, in case---, well, it's not like you ever need a reason to fuck yourself. It’s just the way that you are, and you hate it.
When you first came here, you studied the old teacher with the cat because he complimented your writing in an essay once.
You had to drop the class.
Cater Diamond is flirty. You know this. He does it with anyone and everyone.
“Jamil…omg look at how toned you are! You’d have people going gaga over you if you started a Magicam account! Maybe you could be a model!” He snaps a picture of you before you can really think about what he really said, and immediately posts it. “Remember me when you’re famous!!”
He was just being friendly, he was just being friendly, he was just being friendly, he was—
You need to make at least twelve different dishes in three hours for Kalim’s party. You don’t like the parties, because someone could easily pin you against the wall and—
What if it was Cater?
You sit on the floor and retch, feeling dizzy. You can’t breathe, but your head is telling you to shut the fuck up because Cater wouldn’t do that to you.
Right?
Right?
You keep a small knife in your jacket pocket, just in case.
Azul sits next to you in class, and doesn’t stop offering a place beside him when he takes the world by storm or something. Floyd jokes about him really offering a place underneath him. Azul gets all red and starts stammering.
You shiver when the image comes to you.
You let it play out throughout class, knowing full well your mother would be turning in her grave if she knew.
“Mama!” You cried the first time. “Mama! It hurts! He hurt me!”
She was with the other female servants, sewing up new clothes for the endless stream of children that kept appearing. The other women glanced at her, then started whispering to themselves.
“It’s what she gets for dressing so shamefully in front of the master’s son.”
“She’s a little whore, just like her mother.”
“Of course she is, she’s the spitting image of her.”
Your mother’s eyes were filled with tears. She didn’t even look at you, as she said, “Don’t be a liar. You’re still alive, aren’t you? He couldn’t hurt you that bad.”
You didn’t tell her about the third time, or fourth, or however many times it happened.
After she died, Baba replaced her with you. You didn’t mind. You were used to it by then.
When you go to Tartarus with Leona, he insults you, snaps at you, then critiques your… everything.
And you get wet. Boys used to pull on your hair when you were a kid. Mama said it’s because they liked you.
When he gives you advice, like a father would, you get even wetter. He’s always been an asshole, but…maybe he was glad you were on his team. Maybe you actually meant something to him.
You still get off on the idea. Even though you know it’s wrong, and not even real. Even if you’re disgusted by it.
Maybe you’re his baby brother, and he loves you so much, but you stole something…
Disgusting, disgusting, disgusting.
Azul almost caught you one of those nights. It was all over your fingers by the time he came knocking on your doors.
“Why do you smell like fish?” He wondered.
“Why do you care? What do you even want at this hour?”
He hands you a small basket. “Consider this a thank you. For that day.” You take it with your clean hand. When you look up, he’s already gone.
A new scarf with the same embroidery of the handkerchief you offered him that day. You don’t know if you should laugh, or cry, or throw it away.
Najma receives it three days later in the mail.
Kalim comes to you when you’re cooking for his umpteenth party that month to tell you your father has died.
“I’m so sorry, Jamil.” Then, “My dad said he’ll raise your payments now, because he feels bad.”
You stare at the knife in your left knife, and the cucumber in your right. Baba hated cucumbers.
“It’s alright, Kalim. Go on and enjoy your party.”
He looks at you, then the kitchen door before hugging you, then running off.
You sit on the floor, laughing your head off. You’re going from four thummarks a week to six. Baba would be turning in grave if he knew you and Najma would make more money in a week than he used to make in months, all because your parents had to go and die.
He probably would’ve killed his own.
Maybe then he wouldn’t have hurt you.
Azul thinks you’re pretty. You know because he told Floyd, and Floyd told Kalim, and Kalim told you.
He’s the new hand in between your legs, leaving you to die when he’s done with you. “Aren’t you just ashamed?” Mama whispers.
You wash your body with the fancy jasmine soap.
It won’t get off of you.
Kalim invites all the second years over for a game of spin the bottle. When it lands on you and him, you almost stop breathing.
He looks like his father.
Thankfully Kalim refuses. “He’s like my brother!” He protests.
Silver leads you back to your room, seeing as you can’t stop trembling. He leaves you on your bed, and leaves, just like you tell him to.
Azul comes knocking on your door. “Jamil? Are you alright?”
You pretend to be asleep. He tries again.
When he leaves, you scratch your skin until there’s dead skin and blood under your fingernails. And it won’t leave.
Azul keeps asking you to join his dorm. You keep ignoring him. You find him on the floor of the bathroom again.
He tries pulling up his sleeves, but you see the scars anyways.
You offer him some apple slices you were going to give to Kalim. He wipes his blood-shot eyes and takes one.
A Princess of the Scalding Sands once accidentally stole an apple because she didn’t realize she had to pay for it.
Azul is saying that he accidentally ate something bad, because he doesn’t realize you also throw up, even if it’s for a different reason.
You help him put his glasses back on.
Azul loves you. You know because he told you. You don’t know if you love him back or not, but you let him take you out on a date.
“You like curry, right Jamil?” He’s so shy, he almost whispers it. You nod.
“And you like fried chicken?” He nods. “I have a lot of experience making variants of it. I’d be happy to make you some next time.”
He grins, cheeks going pink.
Next time? Next time.
He comes over to your room next time, and teaches you how to play poker. He does not touch you, and you do not touch him. He loves you, and you know it because he tells you before he goes.
He does not give you a kiss goodbye.
You have to clean the bathtub twice, but for once, it feels good.
The first time you lay down together, he has more scars all over his legs and arms and upper thighs, and he’s crying agian.
He pulls you into him, and…that’s it. He doesn’t do anything else to you.
When he leaves, you try not to scream. Does he not want you? Why didn’t he fuck you? Are you ugly? What happened? Doesn’t he love you? What about you? Why do you want to fucked so badly? Do you only love him for his body? He was crying for fuck's sake! What’s wrong with you!?
Pervert, pervert, pervert, disgusting—
You crawl up to him in bed. He’s shy and it’s easy to push him into the mattress. He takes off your clothes and you take off his tie and---
He’s in between your legs when you feel it. Not anything a normal person would notice.
He's stroking the insides of your thighs with his fingers and going as soft as he can.
It doesn't hurt. It doesn't hurt.
You want it.
You start to cry.
Both of you sit in the bathtub. He doesn't want to let you go, no matter how many times you lie between your teeth and say you’re fine.
“Did I hurt you?”
“No—I’m—I’m so sorry.” You sob. “I’m alright, I don’t know—”
“You can cry if you need to. It’s the least I can offer you." Then, "I love you."
You look up at him. He kisses your forehead, then takes some shampoo in his hands, running it through your long hair.
It doesn’t hurt.
And you want it, so you let him.
You let him lay on your bed. He’s holding you to his chest. You told him about all the fucked up things that happened, and he helped give you a bath.
It’s still there.
It’s always there in the back of your mind.
Najma sits next to you at the diner table. She’s wearing one of your Mama’s old dresses, and talking to Kalim over the phone.
She lives with you and Azul, because according to the contract the Asim’s signed, you’re both now his “property.” He put a whiteout over that word as soon as he returned home.
The bathtub is still cleaned almost every night. You’re still scared of changing in the same room as someone else.
But today the children are in the square singing nursery rhymes because it’s New Years, and you’re a million miles away from the place you were born. Your name is Jamil Ashengrotto. Your husband gifts you the most beautiful suit you’ve ever owned, the same maroon color you’ve always loved. He doesn’t care if you’re disgusting, and you don’t care if he’s skinny.
Najma is playing with her friends, wearing the scarf Azul gave you. Kalim and Cater and whoever else showed up to the party join her.
Azul has his arms around you, head on your shoulder, and you look up at the stars.
You don’t mind if he stays on you.