When it came time to board the plane Sahar could not help but shed tears because she knew that she might not ever see her family
again. Understanding her sorrow, her grandfather cupped her face before he laid a soft kiss on each cheek. Always free with his
smile, he looked deeply into her eyes as his own silent tears shed. “Go, my grandson, and learn well. Make us proud,” he had
said before he pushed her to the waiting attendant.…
In this manner, Sahar became a runaway at the age of sixteen. Although she had no family or friends in America, it was the first
place to which she thought to run. She could not have explained her reasons except to say that her brother, Hamish, had always
talked of going to America. So when her KLM flight landed in Amsterdam she wasted little time in exchanging her Paris bound
flight for one headed to San Francisco, California.
Upon arriving on the west coast of America, Sahar had the good fortune to meet Briannon. The strange woman was like
something out of an American glamour magazine. Wearing an all white pant suit with tan high-heeled shoes that she later learned
were Valentino Garavani and a matching tan purse, the smaller woman held an air of sophistication. The white wrap over her
shoulders lent to her exoticism. When the young teen looked closer at the woman she felt an unfamiliar stirring as she gazed at
the smaller beauty’s long, wavy red hair and her milk white complexion. Her delicate nose over full pouting lips brought out a
feeling that Sahar had never felt. When Sahar looked into the woman’s intense green eyes, she felt her breath being taken away.
She knew from this first glance that this stranger held much power.
While Sahar felt an underlying fear toward her mysterious savior, she felt pity for her. She knew, although she could not voice it,
that this woman was not a whole person. The small woman appeared as if she was missing a part of her soul. Only later did the
Persian teen learn that Briannon had lost the person who loved her dearly. In a miscalculation that proved beneficial for Sahar,
Briannon had thought that the runaway was the embodiment of the woman she once knew.
As if it were only yesterday, the Persian allowed her memories to take her back to their first meeting. The moment an old man in
the airport called her by her brother’s name, Sahar began to panic. If it had not been for Briannon, she might have inadvertently
revealed herself. Thankfully, the mysterious woman stepped before her to save her from being discovered.
The moment Sahar gazed at the stranger, she felt an unfamiliar feeling deep within her stomach. Obviously a woman of wealth,
Briannon was filled with a silent courage that brought awe to the Persian teen. Although short, the woman’s bearing held
unbridled power. At the sight of Briannon’s beautiful features, Sahar felt her heart beat out of control as her palms grew suddenly
wet. She remembered the open reverence she felt toward her savior. Once inside the stranger’s luxurious car, Sahar listened
carefully to the woman’s speech. Although she was not as familiar with the English language, her Arabic was able to decipher
what Briannon was asking.
“…or, you can return with me to my home. I have need of a servant, someone to tend to me, to keep order in my home, to serve
me with obedience, and most of all, loyalty. Is this something that you think you can do?” Briannon had asked the teen.
For Sahar the choice was simple. She had nowhere to go, her language was limited and since she had arrived on her brother’s
passport she was technically an illegal alien. The risk of being sent home to face the punishment of the Khomeini regime wiped
away any apprehensions she might have held. So on that day she accepted this stranger’s help.
Throughout the long ride back to the woman’s home, the young woman could feel the stranger watching her. Sometimes it felt
as if she was searching within Sahar’s mind. But each time the teen sensed it, she brushed the idea away as mere nonsense.
After all, no one can read a person’s mind, her innocent thoughts assured.
“This is the city of San Madrone. Have you heard of San Madrone before?” the stranger had asked as the car whisked over the
busy freeway and past the multitude of city lights.
Sahar had turned her attention from the window to the smaller woman sitting beside her. With a brow arched in a question, her
mind slowly translated the woman’s words. It was then that the stranger smiled slightly, her rosy red lips curved so beautifully
that the young teen felt an unfamiliar stirring between her legs.
“Never mind. As time goes by, you’ll begin to understand me more,” Briannon sighed as she turned her attention to the window.
Once or twice, Sahar heard what sounded like a whisper. At first it was so low that she almost missed it. But once it was heard,
she could not mistake the words that were said. Is it you? The invading question entered her thoughts. When Sahar would look
at her new mistress the woman remained silent, her eyes ever watchful.
Later, when Briannon took her to the small servant’s room in the farthest area of the house, Sahar remained silent as the mistress
was showing her around. “This will be your room. The facilities are here, and I’m sure you’ll find everything that you
need…shampoo, soaps, towels. If there is anything special you need, you can make a list, and I’ll make sure you have it,”
Briannon spoke quickly, almost too fast for the girl’s mind to translate. “This bed is brand new. You will be the first to sleep in
it. The television is right there,” the woman touched a single button by the bed and the wall opened to reveal a hidden television.
“Eventually you’ll understand how to use it.”
While Sahar took in the lavish room, Briannon’s ominous presence bore down on her. Like a customer, the woman’s eyes
glanced over her. As she paced before Sahar, her gaze held the Persian girl captive. After a moment of silence she stared deeply
into the teen’s eyes. “Is it you?” Sahar heard Briannon’s hushed words, but did not understand her.
Confused by the question the girl nervously gulped as she averted her eyes. At this move, Briannon reached under her chin and
forced their eyes to meet. “Child, are you the one?” the woman’s strange accent asked again.
Unable to speak, Sahar backed slowly away from the woman. While a part of her was confused, another part was afraid. Her
mind frantically tried to decipher what the stranger was asking, even as the shorter woman stared up at her. “Do you remember
me? Is it you?” the questions continued.
With only a shake of her head, Sahar pinned herself against the wall. As if sensing her fears, the woman retreated long enough to
allow the girl to calm herself. When it seemed as if Briannon’s strange behavior was gone, the Persian girl glanced up at her
mistress who was looking at her intently.
“Tomorrow you’ll get a proper haircut,” Briannon said as her fingers reached up and touched her hair. When Sahar felt the
woman’s deathly cold fingers against her cheek, she looked sharply at the woman. At the chillingly cold touch, she began to
wonder about this strange person before her.
“I sleep by day, so keep quiet during these hours. By night is when I work. If I have need of you to perform a task, you’ll
receive a message,” the smaller woman stated as she quickly moved away. When the small beauty stood at the door, her head
bent in thought, Sahar took in her features. She noticed how her brows arched delicately over almond shaped eyes. Her nose,
small and angled seemed to compliment her rosy red lips.
As if hearing her thoughts, Briannon looked up at her. A smile curved her lips and her gaze grew soft. Sahar noticed the woman’
s pouting lips slightly apart and the way the tip of Briannon’s tongue lightly traced her own lips even as a smile crossed them.
“Shab bekheir, Sahar,” the redheaded woman tilted her head slightly, her radiant smile causing the Persian’s heart to skip a beat.
When Sahar realized that her mistress was waiting, she gulped and quickly pulled herself together. “Shab bekheir, Mistress
Briannon…G-Goodnight,” she nodded as she tried to master the foreign language.
That was the first night in her new home. True to her word, the mistress was never seen again, except late in the evenings. Even
then, Briannon was only seen walking back and forth within her office, her voice low and flowing as she issued orders to
unknown people on the other end of the phone. For many months the only way that Sahar knew of her employer’s requests was
through the messages delivered from her assistant, Michael.
Michael was a small little man who walked with a funny gait. Unlike the men of her country, this man cared greatly about his
appearance. Like a little peacock, he would spend most of his days primping his hair, face and nails. On truly disturbing days, he
would have a woman come in and fix his toenails. Every time he had this done, he insisted that Sahar have the same treatment.
At first she tried to balk, but when he stated that it was the mistress’ orders, she felt compelled to comply.
In Sahar’s mind, Michael’s only purpose was to continually remind her of where she came from, and how she would never be
good enough for the madam. Even when he took her to purchase the clothes that she would wear, his slight comments never
went unnoticed. After a while the Persian girl began to believe him because, after so many months of not seeing the woman, she
wondered if perhaps the mistress had second thoughts about having her around. A few times she thought of trying to go out and
find her own way in this country. However when she realized that she knew no one and still had difficulty with the language, she
chose to work even harder.
The first thing Sahar tried to do was to keep Briannon’s house tidy. She kept the house spotless and the yard immaculate, but this
quickly ended. With his scolding tone and biting words, Michael chastised her for performing such menial labor. “That is what
the maid and gardener are for!” he exclaimed as he paced in front of her. Never before had she seen the sweat break on his
forehead as it did this day. With a red, puffy face he explained that the mistress had heard about her antics and that she was very
upset. Briannon did not want Sahar’s hand calloused like a day laborer, and she did not want the smell of disinfectants lingering
around her.
After that day Sahar could do nothing but try to find ways to occupy herself. Although she had not brought many things with
her, the one cherished item she had was her sketchbook. Every time while she watched American television, she would sketch
little images within her book. Knowing that she did not have many pages, she was careful to ration out the space. When every
page was full, she began to sketch images on the back of the pages that were already used. Once, when her book was almost full
and she wondered what she would use next, she returned to her room before nightfall to find some items on her bed.
Sahar did not know how the tablets, pencils and charcoals arrived on her bed. As she glanced over the items a smile crossed her
lips. Never before had she seen so many different types of papers. Each tablet had a different texture and the pencils were not
like any she had ever used. The charcoals, unlike what was found in her country, were of the highest grade.
When the shock wore off, Sahar went out into the dark house. She called out to Michael but he was nowhere to be found. After
seeing his car missing from the parking area she knew that it was only herself and the mistress in the house. She instantly went to
Briannon’s office, but found it empty and dark. As she stood in the center of the room she held a tablet in her hands. A slight
smile crossed her lips before she looked out at the darkness of the room. “Motashakkeram…thank you,” she spoke out loud,
hoping that her mistress would hear her.
With nothing else to do with her time, Sahar spent the days sketching and the evenings watching television. It was some months
later when she began the habit of running every morning. When she began to feel her new clothes fitting tighter around the
middle, she took matters into her own hands. With only her tattered shoes, she took her brother’s old pants and cut them into
shorts. Wearing one of his tee shirts that she still had in her suitcase, she would go out early in the morning and run around the
property line. It only took a few days before her brother’s ill-fitting dress shoes began to cause blisters, but she didn’t care.
Simply jogging gave her a satisfaction she had never felt before, so she reasoned that cleaning up the bloody blisters at night was a
small price to pay. After a week of running in that state, Michael instructed her that he was to take her to town for more
shopping.
Filled with dread Sahar complied and went with the man thinking that she was going to be subjected to an exclusive tailor who had
her try on the men’s suits that Briannon ordered. To her surprise Michael took her to an American mall. If she had not been so
interested in observing the shoppers, she would have noticed his disdain as he guided her through the crowd. When they entered
the women's athletic shoe store, she was surprised, but not as surprised as by the number of salespeople who waited on them,
handing her shoe after shoe, and running clothes.
“Madam has truly gone mad now,” Michael mumbled under his breath as he pranced away from her, his look of distaste falling on
the shoes and clothes.
Sahar ignored him as she happily chose some apparel. After that day she was able to run in comfort. The blisters that her old
shoes had caused never returned. Eventually not only did her pants fit comfortably again, but they also became loose. Elated, she
continued to run every morning through Briannon’s property.
Once, before the sun even rose, she made the mistake of going outside of the boundaries but was quickly stopped by the
mistress. “What are you doing out here?” Briannon had appeared out of nowhere on the trail.
At first Sahar was surprised by her anger. With sweat dripping down her face, she panted as she glanced around, trying to
discover where the woman had come from. Taking her surprise for disobedience, Briannon growled as her hand struck out.
Sahar had been hit before. She had not been immune to the wrath of her father, so when Briannon’s open palm left a burning
against her cheek, she remained silent as the stinging of her mistress’ touch caused tears to well in her eyes.
