The Ruins Between Us

Trigger warnings: child abuse, sexual assault

She could not remember the last time Uncle had let her out of the house.

While he only usually spoke to her once a day, at breakfast where he sat at the head, not looking at her, he would never let her stray without permission or a chaperone. Either one of Uncle’s friends or a married woman that he knew.

The girl was named Minerva Edri and she was to be married before she bled.

Lying in those humid sheets, in the room that would never be hers, no matter how many times she slept in it, Minerva Edri stared at the ceiling. It was bare plaster, rivulets of carmine slithering up the walls.

Just after dawn, she listened as the door wheezed open. She knew who it was, but she kept her eyes shut.

She knew the shape of his footfalls. Uncle. Stepping into her room, as he did every morning, to peel back her sheets.

Minerva never looked at him; she feigned sleep. Somehow, she understood that he knew she lay awake, waiting for him, unable to scream because if she tried to tell people what he’d done they’d never believe her.

She was luckier than most, she supposed. Sometimes, with a proper escort, she could visit Latakia: the bustling streets, stuffed to the brim with short-sleeved tourists hiding beneath straw hats, their long hair falling in lanky clumps. The apartment blocks rising from the dirt, white and winsome. The windows were small, rectangular, but, if Minerva peered inside, she could see the spine of a Rex Chair, the curvature of a television.

She’d never watched television.

After Uncle left, she turned and breathed silently into her pillow. The glacial scent of Asters assaulted her. A half-smile split her face. This house, though there were invisible bars on the windows, was a wonder from which she would struggle to stray. Since her parents, who’d died in a car accident a mere three years ago, Minerva had resided in Uncle’s house, basking in the streams of sunlight which floated through the curtains. Curtains which parted like the Red Sea as the madbarrah Menzel, the housekeeper Maha, breezed into the room.

From the bed, Minerva looked up. Buried her head in the covers.

“I know you are awake,” said Maha. Her voice held a French lilt; her Father had been a Paris National. He’d died at the end of the Second World War, from sepsis. She had a Mother, in Aleppo, who lived off Maha’s meagre earnings.

Slowly, Minerva turned over. Rubbed her eyes, wiping dried drool from her chin, even though Maha scolded her when she did so. Uncle had hired Maha the week after he’d taken in his orphaned niece. At the time of the accident, which was the only word Minerva could not apply to her parent’s death, she’d been reading in Uncle’s library. He was a Merchant and had many books on Economics, all of which she’d devoured by aged twelve.

Uncle would not let her go to school.

He’d compromised last year, by hiring a Tutor who’d taught many of the young sons of his clients. The Tutor was an elderly man named Asaad, though Minerva had to call him seydi. Yes, seydi. I’m sorry, can you show me where I went wrong, seydi. He was a stout man who visited for lessons every Wednesday, where she spent eight hours in the sitting room, chaperoned to relieve herself every hour on the hour by Maha.

Maha, who was tying the curtains against the wall. Minerva did not know what colour Maha’s hair was. She guessed it was black, like her own, but it was captured in a simple hijab coagulating around her neck like oil. It was likely the only expensive thing she owned. Her eyes were onyx-obsidian. She smiled often, but it never seemed to grow past her nose. Her brow was low, almost Neolithic, but she had a strong jaw, much like the Goddess Athena.

Minerva’s parents had adored the Classics, revelling in the tragic grandeur of the Greek and Roman myths. Her Mother used to read her each one, so often that Minerva developed a recurring nightmare where she sprouted beautiful feathers and flew too close to the sun.

“Come on. Up. Up. Up”. Maha began to pull the sheets off the mattress, forcing Minerva to vacate her four-poster.

She had no idea that this would be her last day as an unattached woman.

Not that she was a woman, of course. She was barely thirteen, with smouldering ash which passed for hair under her armpits. She was pudgy, not slender, and her Hijab itched. Uncle her refused to let her keep any of her old clothes from the home where she’d lived with her parents. He bought her the coats he liked, flat shoes with cushioned insoles because he hated women with cracked feet. He’d married once, Uncle had, and one day his wife, Aunty Christine, who was English born and bred, walked out the door and never came back. Uncle said this was because she was a witch; she lured men to their doom, and he’d escaped. Now, she had left to find her next victim.

Minerva knew Uncle was a liar. He knew that if there were no laws in place, if he had nothing to lose, he would marry her, or the very least keep her for his own. But there were laws. And so, she endured what she could. She should be grateful, at least that’s what Uncle kept saying. He’d given her a home, all the clothes she could desire, so long as he chose them, and food. He’d given her books on Fashion, on Art. She’d stolen the rest – books on Economics, History, Religion – from his study. She’d never heard of the Spanish Inquisition or the French Revolution until Maha had relayed all she’d learnt from her dead Father.

“Better hurry and get dressed,” said Maha, who proceeded to slide over to the wardrobe. Minerva looked down, frowning. Maha had worn those same shoes ever since she started working here.

“Why is it so early?” she grumbled. Maha grinned.

“The better question is why are you so tired? Another late night”.

“You make me sound like the headliner for a scandal,” said Minerva. Maha laughed.

“A reading scandal, yes. When are you going to get your head out of those books? They can’t take you anywhere. You can’t do anything with them”. Folding her arms, Minerva walked to join Maha by the wardrobe.

“I could,” she said. Maha raised an eyebrow.

“What then?”

“I could hit Uncle over the head with one,” she beamed proudly. Those were the first words she’d spoken in over a year which didn’t make her feel as if she were about to crumble. Sometimes, she felt like the pages of a book, the chapters perhaps, only these chapters had been written in the wrong order. Her housekeeper of nearly two years turned to face her, eyes blown wide like craters. She shook her head, grasping Minerva’s jagged shoulders, ignoring the way her charge winced at the touch.

“You can’t talk about him like that. Please. For both our sakes. Just keep your mouth shut. Do what you’re supposed to do,” she snapped, before turning to the wardrobe and pulling out a green Thob, a cotton dress with triangular sleeves, embroidered with golden leaves. Minerva ran a hand over the fabric, smiling fondly. That smile soon vanished. Uncle had made her parade in this Thob for hours at the store. He’d taken pictures on his phone.

She glanced at Maha, who was busy arranging the Thob on the bed. What was she supposed to? Her parents were gone. There was no legacy to protect. Uncle had the money. She could offer him nothing, or rather, nothing she would not regret giving later.

“I don’t want to wear this,” said Minerva Edri in a small, small voice.

Maha smiled and cupped Minerva’s cheeks.

She would wear whatever Uncle desired.

And, a thousand miles across the sea, a boy named Edward Rivers sat at his desk pretending to do his homework, unknowing that he would cross the ocean and find the woman who had lost everything and was about to lose more.

But, for now, in that moment, Minerva Edri sighed and resigned herself to her fate.