The clack was the loudest sound I’d ever heard. Ahmad’s whole body convulsed, and a dark stain spread across the front of his pants.
This grown man had pissed himself.
“Look at you.” Mehar pulled the gun from his mouth, wiping the barrel on his shirt like it was dirty. “The big, strong man. The king of his castle. Crying. Begging. Pissing on yourself like a toddler.” She crouched down to meet his eyes. “This is who you really are, Ahmad. Not the righteous brother. Not the disciplinedMuslim. Just a weak, pathetic little boy who could only feel big by hurting someone smaller.”
“Please—” His voice was barely a whisper. “Please don’t kill me. I’ll do anything. I have money. I’ll sign the divorce papers. I’ll?—”
“I don’t want your money.” Mehar stood back up. “I want you to SUFFER.”
“Lie down.”
“Mehar, please?—”
“LIE. DOWN.”
He collapsed onto his back, arms spread, chest heaving with sobs. Mehar stood over him like an executioner.
“You used to make me get on my knees and pray for forgiveness after you beat me. Remember that? Made me thank Allah for a husband who ‘disciplined’ me out of love.” She adjusted her aim to his right knee. “Let’s see how grateful YOU feel after this.”
She pulled the trigger.
The blast was deafening. Ahmad SCREAMED—not a man scream, a little girl scream—his body jackknifing off the floor before collapsing back down.
“SHUT UP.” Mehar’s voice was flat. “Shut up before I give you something to cry about. Isn’t that what you used to say to me? Every time I cried? Every time you hurt me and I dared to show it?”
She shot him in the left knee.
More screaming. More blood. The carpet was turning into a crime scene.
“Please—please stop—I’ll do anything—I swear to Allah?—”
“You used this—” Mehar moved her aim lower. To his crotch. To the sad little situation he’d been so proud of earlier. “—to hurt me. Every night. Whether I wanted it or not. You took what wasn’t yours because you thought it was your RIGHT as a man.”
Ahmad’s eyes went wide. “No—no, please, not there—please, Mehar?—”
“You don’t have rights anymore.”
She pulled the trigger.
The sound that came out of Ahmad wasn’t human. It was something from the depths of hell—a howl that would probably wake me up in cold sweats for years. His hands flew to his crotch, blood pouring between his fingers, his whole body convulsing on the floor.
And you know what? I didn’t feel bad. Not even a little bit.
This man had raped my sister. Beat my sister. Controlled my sister. Made her life a living hell for years while hiding behind religion and tradition.
This wasn’t enough. Nothing would ever be enough.
Mehar watched him writhe for a moment, her face completely serene. Then she shot him in the right hand.
BANG.
Then the left.
BANG.
“You will never hit another woman.” She stood over his destroyed body like a goddess of vengeance. “You will never touch another woman. You will never force yourself on another woman again. Those days are OVER. You’re DONE.”
Ahmad was barely conscious now. His eyes were rolling back. His breath was coming in wet, shallow gasps. But he was alive. She’d made sure of that.
