(Warning: death, blood, slightly-graphic violence)
Blood on the Sand
A woman of regal bearing stood tall against the backdrop of white sands and blue skies. Her piercing green eyes reddened with tears regarded the men before her with a quiet calmness and acceptance of her fate. Her long, glossy black hair tumbled over her naked shoulders, gently blown in the dry breezes that whipped grains of sand at her bare feet. The rough, grasping hands of the men took her, lowering the woman into a deep hole that came to her neck. Then they began to bury her; the coarse sands encircled her naked figure.
When the task was completed, they stepped back as if to admire their work and the beauty of the woman one last time. One man dressed in dark-blue robes with finely-crafted jeweled rings adorning his fingers simply addressed her as, “Khadija.” No other words escaped his lips. His eyes lingered on the woman, maybe a trace of longing or regret reflected in them briefly before he turned away and nodded to the men. At the nod, the men took from their sides pouches, filled with roughly edged stones.
Khadija watched them with that unsettling, unflinching serenity as the first rock was lobbed at her. The force of the blow caused the rough edge to slice into the thin skin of her forehead. With it came the trickle of blood. Dazed from the strike, she did not have enough time to recover her senses before the rest of the rocks began raining down on her. Not once did she cry out in pain or beg them to stop. She refused to give them the satisfaction of hearing it. Instead, she retreated into the back of her mind where she found comfort in a single memory.
The memory of her holding the hand of a small girl.
Blood trailing down her bruised lips, the woman whispered in a ragged breath, “…Nasirah.” The harsh rays of the sun above her dimmed and a blanket of darkness began to descend over her. Her eyes slipped shut, the memory faded, and in her last moments she swore she could hear the laughter of a child.
