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TORN LIFE
BY HIFZA SHEIKH
C
The room was pitch dark, empty, and suffocating. A heavy sense of dread lingered in the air, pressing against her chest with every breath.
"Is anyone there? Please… please… help… someone…" Her voice trembled, breaking into panicked sobs. "M…m…m…please… get me out of here… it's so… dark… I… I feel like I'm going to die…"
She stumbled forward blindly, her hands outstretched, desperate to touch something, anything, to guide her. But the darkness swallowed everything. There was nothing—only shadows that seemed to reach for her.
Then, suddenly, a voice pierced the silence. Chilling. Sinister.
"Well, well… aren't we in a hurry? Look what I've brought for you, darling…"
A figure emerged from the shadows. The sound of heavy boots echoed against the walls. Slowly, a man took shape before her eyes. He wore black from head to toe, his shirt partially unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbows. In his hand gleamed a large knife, sharp enough to end a life with a single strike.
"N…n…no… d…d…don't come closer… s…stay away… they… they'll kill you…" she stammered, terror clawing at her throat.
He laughed—a low, manic sound that echoed through the room. "One minute… one tiny moment… and I could end you. But no… I have something far more interesting in mind."
He raised the knife, his twisted smile revealing cruel intent. "I'll take your beautiful eyes and send them to that wretched Hira… let's see what happens when the one obsessed with your mother sees this. Pain… agony… all will unfold before me. Hahaha… very soon, I will watch him die, writhing like a dog…"
His eyes were black, burning with hatred, fury, and obsession. A fire of revenge flickered behind them. Anyone who dared meet his gaze would faint from fear.
In contrast, she was a trembling picture of innocence. Her blue eyes, fragile as glass, glistened with tears. Long, silky black hair fell over her shoulders like a dark waterfall. She wore a soft pink frock, stained with dust and wounds. Her bare feet and hands bore cuts and burns—the marks of unimaginable cruelty. Cigarette burns scarred her arms, her nails were bruised, and her face bore the imprint of torment. Every detail spoke of a tortured, innocent soul.
"What… what happened? Why are you crying?" His voice, tinged with sadistic curiosity, pressed against her like a physical force.
She trembled, voice barely a whisper. "He… he… hit me… and… and… there's glass in my foot… and… and my hands… he burned them too…"
"I didn't do this," he said, mock-serious, as though testing her honesty.
Her hiccuped sobs barely carried her words. "But… but it was your men, wasn't it? They did all this…"
He hummed, intrigued by her innocence.
"I… it hurts… it really hurts," she whispered, wiping her tears with trembling hands. "Please… let me go… my papa… he's waiting…"
At the mention of her father, his eyes flashed red, a dangerous mixture of anger and obsession. For a moment, he paused, as if snapped back to reality.
"Yes… your father… you want to call him?" His voice softened, calculating.
She nodded eagerly, hope shining in her eyes. He handed her a phone and retreated, letting her dial. Her fingers shook as she fumbled with the device, but eventually, she got through.
"Papa… please pick up… I'm here… it's so dark… please… come and get me…" she cried, tears streaming uncontrollably.
On the other end, a cold, harsh voice replied. "Who is this?"
"Papa… it's me… your daughter… please… I'm here… I'm scared…"
The voice responded with icy disdain, suspicion, and disbelief. The past haunted them: the cruel accusations against her mother, the scheming relatives, the bitter family dynamics that had planted seeds of hatred. Her mother, accused of crimes she never committed, had passed away, leaving scars on the young girl's heart. Her father, unable to trust anyone, watched from afar.
Even now, his eyes, along with others in the house, were filled with judgment and resentment. Somewhere, a hidden observer—Azmir Alam Shah—watched the scene unfold through CCTV, his own eyes burning red with fury.
The helpless girl, innocent and pure, a symbol of fragility, found herself trapped in a her fear. Every tear told the story of a past she
--Aw