On the Day of Her Descending

The egg yolk had a bloody spot. 

The steamy morning sun penetrated the cold kitchen. Damp hibiscus petals pressed against the window. The yolk in the frying pan was yellow, the albumen  solidifying into white. And there was that fleck of blood.

In the bathroom, after vomiting, she lay on the cold tiles. The room smelled like aftershave and piss. Her mouth tasted acrid. It was her fourteenth birthday, and she was pretty sure she was going to have a baby.

Yesterday one of the customers pulled her onto his lap and made her puff on his cigar. His shirt was stretched tight over his gut. 

“What’s your name, sweetie?” he asked, fingers twisting in her hair.

“Zara.” 

Zara was the name Aqil had given her. “It means princess,” he told her. She did not say that her real name, Borte, was the name of a queen. A queen who had once been kidnapped. A queen who was rescued and became the mother of the Golden Horde. Aqil thought Borte was an ugly name and maybe he was right, but it was still her name.

She had three clients last night. Americans with gold bands that cut into their thick fingers, men wearing checked shorts and baseball caps. One was old, one was young, one was neither. They pinched and shoved and groaned.

And all the time they could not really touch her, for she was north, north, north, riding her white mare across the steppes. The wide turquoise skies ached with brilliance under the bright hammer of the sun. Temujin, her twin brother, was at her side, and he laughed to see her stand up in her stirrups and draw an invisible arrow to fire at imaginary enemy armies. The sunshine lit her black hair with coppery fire.

The men inside her did not know what was truly inside her.

Afterwards Aqil was pleased with her, and gave her a coral bead necklace. Aqil had white teeth, and always smelled good. His hair was black and his skin smoothly golden. He was the one who taught her what to do for the customers. He hardly ever hit her. It was Aqil that had kidnapped her on those cold, concrete streets, luring her with promises of warmth and an easy job. Her family needed money badly—they had moved from the plains in search of work. And so she went with him. But instead he gave her a drug and brought her south, to this jungle city by the sea, to these men called tourists.

She got up and rinsed out her mouth. Then she made her way to Aqil’s bedside. On his table was a glass mug shaped like a skull. Someone had filled it with rose sirap and forgotten about it. The red liquid was warm, sticky, but she gulped it down anyway. Then she looked at the long, black knife lying next to the bed. Aqil’s pet scorpion, which was seldom in its tank, curled protectively round the handle. 

“You’re right,” she told it. Her eyes drifted to the heavy gun instead.

Aqil woke up.

“What are you doing?” he said. The sheets slid over his tattooed chest. “Princess, what’s wrong?”

“It’s my birthday,” she announced. “I’m fourteen today.”

He looked at her seriously, but did not wish her a happy birthday.

“You can still say you’re twelve,” he assured her. “You don’t look fourteen.”

“But I’m not twelve. And there’s a baby.” She put her hand on her belly. 

“Are you sure? Don’t worry. We’ll take care of it.” 

He meant get rid of it. They would go to the clinic, and then she would have some time off. She thought of the baby floating inside her, hardly more than a speck. She picked up the gun.

“Come here, sweetheart. Honey. Put the gun down.”

“Okay,” she said “But I have to do something first.” She shot him in the stomach.

She descended the stairs, listening to his screams. Would the police come? Not in time. 

Kechik came running. She didn’t like Kechik because he fondled her when Aqil wasn’t watching. She shot him and he flopped down to the landing, bleating like a goat. Descending another floor, she found Tenuk passed out drunk on the couch. She shot him in the face because that is where he slapped his girls. And on the bottom floor she shot Bisaam because he tried to shoot her first. At last the house was quiet. She trudged back upstairs.

“I don’t want to get rid of the baby,” she told Aqil, who was writhing on the bed. 

“No, no, you don’t have to,” Aqil gasped. He dribbled scarlet.

“Today is my birthday. I am fourteen and I want to go home.”

“Sure.” 

He grabbed her by the arm. His fingers bruised her and she fell on top of him, gun between them, muzzle against his neck. He held very still.

“Princess….” he whispered, very carefully.

“That’s not. My. Name,” she said.

Her finger twitched on the trigger, and everything beneath her dissolved into hot, hot blood. 

She rested then, happy in the lake of gore. Everyone was dead. Finally she rolled over, sat up. There wasn’t very much left of Aqil’s head. 

“My name is Borte,” she said. She went down the stairs, pushing Kechik out of the way. “My name is Borte and today is my birthday.” Tenuk lay on the couch, but he was no longer snoring. “My name is Borte and I am fourteen,” she said. She had to step over Bisaam to get to the kitchen. “My name is Borte and I am going to have a baby,” she said. She set the gun on the counter and washed her hands in the sink.

Soon there would be sirens and police and questions and cameras, but for now the house was wonderfully quiet. She pulled a fork from the drawer and went to the stove. It was time to finish eating her egg.