By L. Crystal Michallet-Romero
Copyright © June 23, 2004 L. Crystal Michallet-Romero
All Rights Reserved c/s
reworking this little tale, I have signed a contract with Limitless Dare 2 Dream Publishing (http://www.limitlessd2d.net/) and look
forward to turning the entire tale over to them as soon it is completely edited.
Rated: NC-17, not intended, or suitable for children.
Violence: There is a scene of domestic abuse in this chapter. If you have a friend who is going through this, just continue to
offer your support by being a friend. If you recognize yourself in some of this, then always know that help is there for you.
There is a way out of your situation and you are not alone. http://www.ndvh.org/
Sexual Violence: Nope, none in this chapter.
Vampire Violence: It is a vampire story, so of course there’s going to be some fang action.
Subtext: Yep, there is “girl on girl” action in this chapter.
All feedback welcomed at: CrystalMichallet@yahoo.com
Ana bahebik owie (Arabic) – I love you very much.
Habebtee (Arabic) – My heart. Used as a term of affection.
Hijab (Arabic) – Women’s head covering.
Jân (Farsi) – Love, as in my love.
Mensos (Spanish) – Stupid.
Motashakkeram (Farsi) – Thank you.
Mujer (Spanish) - Girlfriend
Shab bekheir (Farsi) – Goodnight.
III. Sahar
The orange glow from the early morning sun sent warmth over her bare skin. The lone figure wore a white tank top with a white
sports bra under it and dark blue jogging shorts with comfortable running shoes. After her early morning jog, Sahar returned to
the house. As she sat on the lush green grass, she watched in silence as the dawn ate the darkness in the sky. By her side Nafi,
her mastiff guard dog, seemed to smile his toothy grin as he excitedly wagged his tail. In an absent manner she reached over and
lightly scratched the fur on his head.
Each morning was always the same for Sahar. Knowing that Briannon was safely resting the day away in her coffin, Sahar spent
her mornings, and most of the days, in solitude. Sometimes her mistress would stay awake during the day to keep her company.
But most days, the mortal was left alone to her own devices.
As the night sounds of crickets gave way to the song of the morning doves, Sahar watched the changing colors around her.
When the morning sun cast its first rays upon her flesh, she closed her eyes and basked in its warmth. She began contemplating
the changes in her life. Her past childhood in Iran was all but a faint memory. The feel of the hijab that she had to wear when
she became a teen was like a dream of someone else’s life, not hers. Now at the age of thirty, she began to wonder where her
life path would lead. Although she knew her past, the Persian was not certain of her future. With a tired sigh, she closed her
eyes to the bright morning glare as her memories took her back to that time from long ago.…
With little hope for a future, Sahar left her home for America where she had no friends or relatives. She felt that she had little
choice. With her older brother dead since the war, her family was left to try to survive in the harsh regime of a religious fanatic.
If they had been poor farmers during the Shah’s rule, they would have faired better, but her grandparents had been educators.
With their status they had sent their children to the finest schools in America in order that they could bring their knowledge
home. But once the children returned and married, and the politics of the government changed, their world was turned upside
down. Their once liberal government was overturned in the blink of an eye, or so the story was told. Sahar was only five when
the Shah was sent into exile, and although she was too young to remember the details, she knew that their lives would never be
the same.
The country was sent into turmoil. Sahar’s mother, a once beautiful fashion model, was forced to cover up when in public.
Although a Harvard educated doctor Sahar’s father, the second son of her grandparents, worked for meager wages. When not
fighting to keep his patients alive, her father had to fight the dreaded Khomeini regime and the unruly band of Shi’ite thugs. They
all seemed to know that at one time his parents had been well known professors, and he was branded an American sympathizer.
If it had only been the taunts, her brave father might have withstood their abuse. But many times he came home nose bloody,
eyes blackened and body bruised. Sahar’s mother would weep as she tried to clean his wounds.
Sometimes when it seemed like he could take no more, Sahar’s father would turn on her mother. At first, it began with his
shouts but quickly led to his beatings. Sahar remembered the number of times when the sounds of her mother’s screams rose
through the house followed by the sound of her father’s fists hitting, slapping and beating her until there was only silence. Once,
when it seemed that the abuse was going on for too long, her older brother, Hamish, tried to intercede. At sixteen he was taller
than anyone Sahar had ever known, but he was no match for the fury of their father’s rage.
With nothing but the clothes on his back, Hamish left and was never heard from again until the uniformed men arrived at their
door. Sahar’s mother had not said it openly, but she blamed their father for her son’s death. If he had not beaten her, then her
son would not have tried to defend the mother. Had Hamish not failed in his attempt, the young boy would not have felt the need
to join the Khomeini’s army in hopes of growing physically stronger.
Hamish died in the Iran-Iraq war when Sahar was thirteen years old. Although he had been gone for only a few years, she was
already beginning to forget his face. As the family mourned his loss, she saw a picture of her brother on the kitchen table. So
grief stricken was her family that they didn’t even notice when she secreted away her brother’s passport. Night after night she
sat by the single light and stared at the image of her older brother. In the daytime, she hid his passport in a crack between her
floor and the wall.
At the time, Sahar did not know that this single act would one day save her life, but it did on her sixteenth birthday. Under the
Khomeini regime, girls were only educated in the holy Qu’ran and wifely duties. By day she was taught how to tend to a house,
make food and care for infants with the intent that one day she would be wed. But by night her grandparents would close the
curtains, and in hushed words they would teach her all that they could. In addition to the studies that were once their specialty,
she learned some French, the language that her grandmother knew. From her grandfather, she learned not only to speak but also
to read and write Arabic, and from her mother, she quickly picked up the English words that had enabled the former model to
move through the streets of London.
Although they were teaching Sahar many subjects, her relatives knew that her father could never know. They understood that if
he were ever to be picked up again by the Shi’ites, that their beatings might cause him to betray their nightly lessons. As far as he
knew, they were only teaching her what would be useful to a wife.
The idea of being married, although alien, was not repugnant to Sahar but it was something that she hoped she would have a
voice in. But as was the case with her family they not only had no choice, but they also could not voice their objections in the
matter. Unbeknownst to her, a leading Imam had spotted her in the market. Although he already had a handful of wives, they
apparently were not enough to keep the old man busy. The choice that her family had was simple. She would marry the old man
or her father would go to prison. In exchange for her compliance, her male cousin, Harish, would be given special papers and a
passport to travel to Europe in order to be educated. His family would remain in Iran to insure that he would return.
Sahar felt that a death sentence had been issued. The idea of such an old man, someone older than her grandfather, touching her
caused her stomach to lurch. In a panicked state, she kept her silence while her mind churned with ideas. A week before the
wedding, she knew what had to be done.
As the large family gathered in the farthest part of the house, Sahar went to her cousin’s room and searched through his
belongings. When she found the special government papers, she saw his passport stamped with a French and American visa
along with a thick envelope. Glancing over her shoulder, she made certain that she would go undetected, and then slowly opened
the envelope.
They would have surly heard Sahar’s gasp of surprise had she not been alone. Never in her life had she seen such large amounts
of cash, all of it foreign currency. When a small paper fell out, she read the note that was written to her older cousin.
Harish,
Your assistance in this marriage has not gone unnoticed. May Allah bless your education!
When Sahar realized what her cousin had done, her anger began to boil. But rather than bring his actions to light, she took the
envelope and paper and secreted them away. Later that night when the house was dark she took the document that would be her
ticket to freedom and carefully altered the single lettering. Then, in her best effort, she replaced the marking with the one that
matched her dead brother’s name. From there all she had to do was to cut her long hair.
It was at this point that an unexpected noise caught Sahar’s attention. Turning from the mirror she stood face to face with her
grandmother’s shocked expression. At first she thought the woman was going to call the others awake, but instead she shook
her head and moved to Sahar. After sitting Sahar down in front of her, the old woman took out some proper scissors and
carefully cut her hair as she always did with the male cousins. As the old woman’s hands snipped away her identity, the tears
slowly flowed down the withered woman’s cheeks.
When it was over, the grandmother took a strand of Sahar’s hair and held it to her heart. “You must go tonight,” she said even as
the girl looked at her reflection in the mirror in shock. “But wait!” the old woman whispered as she quickly left the room. After
a short time, her grandmother returned to her room with a package in hand, “Here, here, this was to be your brother’s, now,
Sahar jân, it is yours.”
When she opened the package, Sahar saw a new suit carefully folded. Shocked by her grandmother’s actions, the young girl felt
her tears slowly falling. Suddenly angered, the elder woman shook her head as she wiped Sahar’s face. “Shush, boy, don’t be
such a girl! You are leaving your family to go to school. You must be happy. Now quickly, dress before you miss your flight!”
she ordered.
Sahar acted on pure adrenaline. She quickly threw together a few clothes, but when her grandmother saw what she was doing,
she shook her head. A slight tsking sound came from the aged woman as she pulled the women’s clothes from the suitcase.
“No, no, my grandchild, not those clothes! They will inspect your bags when you leave. Take only these,” the old woman
admonished as she began to fill the travel bag with Hamish’s clothes.
Once packed, Sahar quickly grabbed her single sketchpad and followed her grandmother through the quiet house. When they
stopped at the end of the home, the teen glanced at the door of her parents’ room but remained frozen as her grandmother gave
her a warning glance. “No one must know,” she whispered as she continued to lead her toward the dark entryway. When they
stepped outside Sahar was surprised to see her grandfather waiting by the old, battered Mercedes. He nodded as he gave a
toothless smile.
“But I thought?” the girl turned to her grandmother even as the old man took her bag and put it in the back seat.
“No one else must know but your grandfather and me. We are too old for them to do anything with,” the shorter woman smiled
and for a moment Sahar thought she saw a twinkle in the old woman’s eyes. “Now go quickly, and study hard,” she whispered
as the girl entered the passenger’s side.
Through the streets of Tehran Sahar listened to everything that her grandfather said. He gave her instructions on how to act on
the plane and how to remain silent until it was safe. Most importantly, he taught her how to be quiet and respectful when in front
of a government official.
At one checkpoint where they were pulled over, Sahar grew fearful when she saw the Shi’ite soldiers waiving their guns, but her
grandfather quickly took control. In a nonstop chatter he told the guards that his grandson had received special permission from
the Ayatollah Khalaf to go abroad for studies. Even as the guard was looking at the paperwork, her grandfather pulled her
sketchpad out and began to show the man the various sketches of buildings that she had drawn. But when the man glanced
down, he only mumbled something as he handed them back the paperwork, and then waved them by.
That night brought many close calls, but her grandfather seemed to talk his way out of every situation. At the ticket counter the
old man spoke softly to the man behind the counter. Occasionally he pointed to Sahar as a wide smile crossed his lips. Then,
with ticket in hand, he returned and continued to walk with her to the waiting chairs. When they sat waiting for the plane he
spoke softly to his granddaughter. He assured her that the family would be well as long as they knew that she was free to study.
