Eve by Raghad Al Rijraji

Posted on May 2, 2011 by

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In order to understand this, you must first learn who Eve really is.

Eve did not know how long she was in the bathtub. In her old rusted studio that she owned, nothing seemed to bring her solace but this bathtub. It seemed silly, really. Nonetheless, she loved it. It seemed to contain her well than her bed did. Perhaps because it cradled her body fittingly.

She did not think she would ever end her own life in it, though.

But a whore deserved such an ending, didn’t she?

Her vision turning blurry, Eve panicked. Survival instinct kicking in. She tried to focus on the burgundy chipped paint on her toes. The water in the bathtub kept rising and rising, till it over flowed. Eve grew cold, as the warmth in her body escaped with the deep twin cuts in both her wrists. The water turned pink, soon red. Her eyes rolling into the back of her head, she let out a weak breath, meaning to scream. Her cheeks were wet, but whether caused by her own tears or hit by drops of water caused by her own flapping arms, she did not know.

Towards the end, Eve went still. Her eyes searching till they grew dark and unmoving.

But there, on the gray sheets of her bed, a white pice of paper was waiting to be unfolded. In it, Eve wrote what she had never been able to pronounce;

“My flame has run out of fuel. For 35 years my candle kept burning. But now, no more. I wish that this note was written by a lover, or a mother. Wish it were meaningful to someone. Wish they’d hold this between their trembling hands and burn it afterwards. Or maybe keep it somewhere safe; yellowing with dust with each passing year. But no, I don’t have such luck. This is Eve, writing her life on a sheet of paper. This is Eve, the girl who was born into this world to a cruel father with bad breath and a right deaf ear. This is Eve, the girl who was not able to finish school. This is Eve, who eventually turned to the streets and got payed for the use of her body. A body that was explored beneath hungry devilish eyes. It seems important to me to write about my body, the one exposed to many men, but was never really seen. Not it’s magnificent details anyway. I have a few freckles scattered on the top of my shoulders, like sprinkled brown sugar over cream. I have rebellious bicolored eyes, one’s hazel and one’s green. I hope you remember the colors, I honestly do. The scent of roses repulses me, I prefer the smell that oranges leave on the pads of my fingers after peeling the skin off. I can sketch, beautiful men and women, drawn with nothing but a cheap black eyeliner on a worn out notebook. If I had a daughter I would’ve named her Laila. I never got to tell this to anyone. Not a single soul. A man was not interested about how I got that scar on my hip bone or why I don’t smoke cigarettes, no, he was always distracted by that one place; where thigh met body. Love was never something I yearned for, it has always been out of reach for me.

What reason do I have to live for?! The lips of thousands of men laying atop of my body? Or the money that was offered afterwards, with a smirk of satisfaction? Maybe the false whispered I-love-yous that I soaked myself in? No, I am done! My heart will never be torched, it will not ignite and it will not roar.

This is nothing but a cliché. A typical ending for a whore.

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