A Prayer Heeded: A Prayer Series II

By Samreen Ahsan

This is Book 2 of A Prayer Series

Honorable Mention - 2014 New York Book Festival

Honorable Mention - 2014 The Great Midwest Book Festival

"Rarely have I seen such an artful blend

• Language: English
• Publisher: Samreen Ahsan
• Release date: Oct 14, 2020
• ISBN: 9781999264499

Samreen Ahsan

Samreen Ahsan is an international award-winning author. She is a traveller and a history buff by heart. However, art and literature are her passions. She loves visiting historical cities, their architecture and art galleries. She lives in Milton, Canada

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© 2020 SAMREEN AHSAN

A PRAYER HEEDED

Book 2 of A Prayer Series

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or

reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or

mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any

information storage retrieval system without the written

permission of the publisher except in the case of brief

quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web

addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since

publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any

responsibility for them.

Cover Image by: Shutterstock

Cover Design by: Ammara G.

ISBN: 978-1-9992644-7-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-989893-01-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-9992644-9-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014904099

Those who spend their wealth

night and day,

secretly and in public,

their reward is with their Lord,

and they will have no fear,

nor will they grieve.

(Holy Qur’an - 2:274)

TABLE OF CONTENTS

INTERNATIONAL

AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR

PROLOGUE

SEPARATION

ONE BY ONE

THE TRUTH

THE OTHER SIDE

DISCLOSURE

THE CURSE

ANOTHER WORLD

THE CONFESSIONS

HOLY MATRIMONY

THE PYRAMIDS

MY LIFE

AN UNHEALED WOUND

MY WORLD – UPSIDE DOWN

A SILENT PRAYER

A FEW YEARS LATER…

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

It’s so hard to forget someone…

who gave you so much to remember…

In loving memory of my brother,

Muhammad Ali.

Your presence will always be felt

and missed.

PROLOGUE

♂

July 2012

It’s a warm summer evening, as the sky turns a darker shade of orange, the energy sparkling and fizzling with awareness, people dancing under the open sky—drowned in lust, on the rooftop of one of the nightclubs I own in downtown Toronto.

I tap my cigarette over the ashtray, blowing smoke rings into the air. I’m not a regular smoker, but I do when I have a lot on my mind, usually in places like this. It’s crowded due to the weekend, and all I can smell is smoke, alcohol and sweat. Men are lined up at the bar for their drinks, but also drinking in the available women around them. Women are waiting for an opportunity to hunt them down into their bedrooms tonight. Purple and blue lights are changing and flickering over the dance floor, as the DJ rolls the discs and changes tracks. Couples are dancing closely, grinding to the beat of the music, swallowed into the mass of squirming dancers filling the dance floor.

At one corner, a man runs his hands all over his woman as if he’s going to take her right here, right now. Get a room! Scantily clad women are pressed between steamy male bodies—sweating hard, but none of them is showing any inclination to leave, reveling in the sultry atmosphere of the club.

Running a nightclub is a strange business, isn’t it? You’re giving a platform to all the singles and availables—to come, drink and pick up a partner for casual sex. And the next day, they don’t remember who they slept with, let alone talk to them afterwards. But then, why am I wasting my breath at the thought? I do the same when I come here. I don’t remember a woman after a fuck either. The only difference is, I don’t talk to them before or after it.

I take a sip of whiskey, and a woman in a very short red-lace dress sits down next to me. From her red stilettos, my gaze drags up her long sexy legs to her neckline. Yeah! Fucking sexy body. I turn my attention back to drink, not willing to check her face. Their faces don’t intrigue me…not anymore…except the one I saw a few months back. I’m not sure if that woman was real or a figment of my imagination, conjured out of fantasy and too much alcohol. But whoever she was, she’s raised the acceptance criteria of beauty for me. Comparing others, I don’t find anyone as mesmerizing as her. It’s mid-July, almost five months since I saw her in that nonexistent spiral structure, but never once has she slipped from my mind. I seek her beauty in every woman’s face, regardless of whether I’m at work, at a party or in a nightclub.

Regarding the crowd, a hope stirs inside me, to find the same provocative beauty that took my breath away, but I guess she was just my imagination. I saw her at a place which has never been built. I’ve returned there so many times, hoping to find that same rusted door that led me to another world but there is no building attached to that restaurant. I don’t know what it was in her that drew my body and soul so close to her. Her face was half-covered, with a mask tied around her eyes, but the radiance that beamed from her has cut me deep inside.

I search for the same refinement in every woman around me. I touch so many women, hoping to feel the same spark that I felt when I touched her, searching for her divine fragrance. And the kiss—it was off the charts. After looking at her sensuous lips, I have no desire to kiss any other woman. I don’t know what would happen if I saw her again; she might unman me with just a look.

I don’t believe in the concepts of Hell and Heaven, but if someone told me that she had fallen from Heaven, I’d believe it. If I take my faith in a direction where Heaven exists, I would concede that she is not from this world. I have looked for her for five damn months, and if she truly existed, I’d have seen her somewhere on the street, in a club, at a party—anywhere. But where is she? Why do I always lose my wits when my mind and soul shifts into the memory of her? Unable to acknowledge anyone talking around me, I regard the crowd with cold detachment, moving from face to face, searching for her; my mind constantly trailing into that spiral passage.

Shaking off the delirious thoughts billeting my mind, I snub out the cigarette in the ashtray.

Looking for someone, Mr. Gibson? The woman in the red dress asks me. Glancing at her, I notice she’s a stranger but the way she’s talking, I’m not sure if we know each other. I turn my attention to the bartender, who fills me another glass of whiskey. As I take out another cigarette, her voice slits my thoughts again. I can help you find the one you’re looking for. She smiles with her luscious red lips, her voice as smooth as her legs.

You don’t know what I’m looking for, I say, my voice matter of fact.

I know everyone here. Almost all the women. I’m sure you’re not looking for a man.

Smirking, she takes a sip of her martini. I ignore her words, focusing on my drink. Unless I can make you forget who you’re looking for. After all, it’s not the first time for us, Mr. Gibson. Really? Do I know her? She stands up and leans closer to me, whispering in my ear. "I can even make you forget who you are."

Without thinking, I leave my bar stool and walk toward the exit, expecting she will follow me, and she fulfills my expectation. She flaunts behind me as I trail down to the main level of the nightclub and exit the hallway. After a few minutes, we silently enter my suite. She closes the door behind me as I walk toward the bed with drunken stupor. Yanking the nightstand drawer to open, I take out the pink shimmery mask. I throw it on the bed and walk to the window, looking out at the glittering skyline.

Put that over your eyes before you take off your clothes, I order, my voice coarse with the effect of the whiskey. The only audible sound in the room is her stilettos tapping over the floor. From the window reflection, I watch her walking toward the bed, obeying my command like a trained dog.

It’s the fourteenth time we have slept together, she remarked. You’ve touched every part of my body, but you haven’t ever looked at me once. Fourteen times? Seriously? How come I don’t remember her? I turn around as she takes off her red heels, her eyes adorned with the mask. Like a wolf spotting a delectable prey, I walk toward her. Smiling, she places her hand on my chest. What is it with you and this mask, Mr. Gibson? Do you have a connection with it? She’s looking straight into my eyes, intending to dive into my soul. Not willing to answer, I walk past her, tossing my jacket over the couch. When I start to unbutton my shirt, she reaches out to stop my hand. Allow me, she offers, her voice laden with seduction.

I observe the woman’s face, trying to recollect my memories of her, but even wearing the similar mask, this woman is not even close to her. You only look at me when I wear this mask. Does it intrigue you, Mr. Gibson?

Poker-faced, I remain quiet, not sure what to say in return. Why don’t I remember sleeping with her in the past? But if I think about my previous experiences, I don’t remember any of my sex partners. Only that one single woman has been etched into my memory so deep that I can’t think of anything else but her. What is fucking wrong with me?

We lie on the bed but I’m not really in the mood for fucking her. She rests her head on my bare chest and plays her fingers over my body, trying to pass ripples of desire into my skin. I don’t feel her touch; I don’t feel her warmth. And maybe, I won’t even remember her in the morning.

Do you even remember my name? She holds up her head to meet my gaze. It seems like she has read my mind; I really don’t know who she is. Pulling away, she sits up. You can talk to me, Mr. Gibson. I won’t spread a word of it to anyone. Consider me as your therapist, not as your bed partner.

Are you a therapist? Those are the first words to come out of my mouth since I gave her the mask.

I am your therapist, Mr. Gibson. She takes off her mask. You’ve stopped coming to me over the past few months. Is she telling me or is she asking me? I’ve been observing your behavior, and you are not the same as you used to be. You don’t look at a woman’s face, except for giving it a glance. You shag women with this on their faces. She picks up the mask. Staring at her for a moment, I recall; she is my therapist.

Rebecca Nicolson?

Yes, that’s right, Mr. Gibson. I’m glad you remembered my name.

Of course, I have come to you for two years. How come I didn’t notice you earlier?

It’s because you never look at any woman, anymore.

Have we…slept together before?

I told you earlier, Mr. Gibson, fourteen times. You don’t remember? I shake my head in negation. Are you having a memory loss issue? Now she’s talking like a doctor.

I take a deep breath, struggling to form words out of my chaotic mind. Why did you approach me this way? You could have called me to inquire why I’m not attending the sessions.

I tried, Mr. Gibson. You said you don’t need sessions anymore. I saw you at a party, back in February, and the way you were behaving made me worried about you.

I’m all right. I give her a blank look.

You look all right, but your mind isn’t, she objected, regarding me like a specimen under a microscope. You need to let it out, Mr. Gibson. Whatever is on your mind, whatever is plaguing you inside, you need to discuss it. You ask women to wear this mask and try to find something in their faces. And you know this behavior is new in the last few months; it’s not something you have done in the past. Has anything happened to you lately? I stare at the wall, avoiding her speculative gaze. "I’d have met you and talked to you about this change, but I wanted to experience the change that others have noticed in you. Do you notice how you have changed?"

What difference does it make? They all get paid. You will too.

I’m not a whore, Mr. Gibson, scowls Rebecca. Yes, I will charge you for my session, but not for this. You are like a fascinating book to me. Every chapter, there is something new.

So, you’re using me for a case study.

You are my case, Mr. Gibson. But what surprises me is, you don’t talk anymore. I notice your mind is completely occupied with something…something related to this mask. And I’m sure you’re keeping this to yourself. I blow a heavy sigh, trying my best to let her words sink in. It’s quite surprising to see a man like you in this state of mind. I told you I slept with you fourteen times and you believed me? I blinked at her, surprised. You didn’t even argue that you don’t know me, or you haven’t slept with me. You stayed quiet, acknowledging everything I just said. She goes on, No, Mr. Gibson, we haven’t slept together at all. I don’t sleep with my patients, but I wanted to test your mind, to see if it’s clear or not. Unformed thoughts swirl in my mind, refusing to fashion themselves into words or arguments. And sad to say, your mind is blurred. It is clouded with something…I can’t really tell, unless you share. But I’m certain it’s related to this mask. Do you have nightmares?

Picking up the mask, I flick my finger on it. I wouldn’t call them nightmares. I pause for a moment, studying the mask. I saw her wearing a similar mask. I’m sure she is observing me, reading me.

When did you see her?

In February.

And?

I saw her dancing…she was extremely beautiful. I haven’t seen anyone like her.

Did you meet her again?

No. That’s the misery of it. I keep searching for her, everywhere I go. Something in me pings open, like a spring releasing from the mountain. I ask every woman to wear the mask so I can make sure if she’s the one or not, but it fails every time. I can’t get her off my mind. What should I do, Doctor? I touch the mask again—long, buried feelings rise up and words flow out, full of shaky emotion. Is there any medicine to make me forget?

I’m afraid not. Have you thought about what you will do, if you see her again?

I guess…I’ll lose my mind again, like I did last time, I confess, gathering the weeds of my thoughts. But…I will make sure I won’t let her out of my sight. I close my eyes, shaking my head in despair.

What if she acts the same as you do when you see other women? Her blatant question addles me. I mean, what if she treats you the way you treat other women? What if she ignores you like you do to the others? You reap what you sow. Have you ever given a thought to that?

I never thought about it. What if she truly exists? What if she doesn’t look at me the way I imagine her? What if she ignores me and walks away like she did the first time? Would I ever be able to handle it?

I would make sure she looks at me the same as I imagine her to.

But what if your imagination doesn’t match the reality?

I inhale sharply. Then I’ll make sure she matches my imagination. I will dwell in her fantasy. I will make sure she feels me and no one else. I will make sure she desires me as much as I desire her. The doctor is listening to my every word. I will make sure I’m the only one for her and there is no space for any other man in her life. I hate the sound of my voice, the wheedling note, the desperation. I will make her mine, no matter how far I have to go, no matter how hard I have to strive for it. I can’t live like this anymore. It’s eating me from inside, Doctor. And the worst part is, I don’t even know if I will ever see her again.

SEPARATION

December 24, 2012

Acknowledging the damage around her, Rania rushes toward the exit. Ali catches her elbow at the doorway, holding her back. She cries out in pain. Let me go, Ali.

I’m very sorry for what happened, Rania, but where would you go at this hour? Ali regards the worn-out girl with pity.

I don’t know. Just let me go.

I will drop you wherever you want. Ali tries to calm her down.

I will get a cab. Please don’t make it so hard on me, Ali. If you ever respected me, just let me go and call a cab. He releases her arm, noticing the pain she is going through. She is not warm, she is not cold, she is simply broken inside. The person whom she mistakenly considered to be her soul mate has crushed her soul into millions of pieces. Ali helps her to call the cab. She thanks him and, before slipping into the car, she opens her clutch and hands him her phone.

Give this to Adam. She wipes her tears with the back of her hand, still sobbing hard. Tell him not to chase me ever again. I don’t want him to contact me in any way.

Just give him one chance, pleads Ali. You might not know it, but he loves—

Please, Ali. I don’t want to hear it, she snaps. I was always his. He didn’t have to win me, but still, he’s lost me now. Please take care of him and don’t let him drink too much. Bye. She closes the car door and leaves for nowhere.

⚏⚏⚏⚏

Inside the party hall, Grace picks up her son and takes him to the same private room where Aunt Marie was still running her fortunetelling sessions. When Adam enters the room, he sits in the corner, his mother providing first aid for his injured hand. Marie observes the broken man intently. Leaving her session, she sits beside Adam, studying his hands, covered with blood and pieces of broken glass.

So, you let your demon win over your soul, she remarks. Adam whips his head at her, a thread of terror weaving inside his chest. And she thought you had a powerful soul. She was overconfident about it. Perplexed, Adam is unable to understand what she is trying to say. He wonders how and why she is even talking to him about this. What does she have to do with their lives? But then he recalls she was the one who first made Rania run away from the party. Adam wishes he had let her go home then, and not let Nathan meet her. Things wouldn’t have gone beyond that, if he had agreed to her.

You were warned, Adam. Jealousy burned your relationship, she adds disdainfully. You didn’t hear what was being said to you. She is very far from you now. You will have to start all over again, and this time, it’s going to be much harder. You need to start searching for her soul. He deliberately suppressed panic in order to assess his predicament rather than lose himself to terror. You were almost there, Adam. You found her lost soul with your goodness, but you lost it as soon as you let your demon win over you. Her soul escaped from one fire last night to find yours, but your own fire burned her.

Gaping at her, Adam wonders how she knows about the fire. What do I do now? He is unable to fathom why he is even talking to this strange lady, but somewhere in his heart, he knows the old lady and Rania share a secret.

Nothing, right now. Let her go wherever she wants to. If her soul is destined to be yours, then your soul will find its way. With authoritative resignation, the old lady rises from her seat. Stopping at the doorway, she turns to him. Just make sure she is only bent, and not broken. She exits the room, leaving Adam speechless and perplexed.

His pride and envy have taken everything from him. He lost Rania once by fire, but this fire that is burning inside him flayed everything, including him. His fire is worse than the fire Rania had in her apartment.

After a few minutes, Ali returns, looking for Adam. With a hopeful glance, Adam waits for Ali to say something as he may know where his love has gone. Ali sits beside Adam and hands him the phone.

She requested that you not look for her, Adam, says Ali. Silence stretches between them, thorny and uncomfortable.

Ali doesn’t like the idea of seeing them separated. He knows how much Adam was addicted to Rania’s company, and he is afraid of how Adam will survive without her. He saw him falling apart the night before, when Adam heard the news of the disaster, but this disaster is worse than last night’s incident.

Adam still regards Ali with hope as if he might change his words. Don’t look at me like that. I couldn’t stop her. She made me promise not to follow her. Ali’s words shred Adam’s heart into a million pieces. He has to admit; he has lost everything with his own flames.

⚏⚏⚏⚏

It has begun to snow. Thousands of iridescent spindles careened blindly down to earth. Rania’s cab wanders the cold streets of Toronto on Christmas Eve. She is still not able to decide where she will go. She has no home; she left her money and her wallet at Adam’s place. The only thing she has in her clutch is her fifty-dollar bill and the donation checks Adam handed her, before leaving for the party. She looks out the window, recalling his words. I will never let you go. Ever. He deceived her in front of so many people. She can never forget what he did to her at the party.

Looking out the window, she notices the Hope community center and shelter home, decorated with holiday lights. She asks the cab driver to stop the car in front of the shelter home. She pays the bill of twenty-six dollars and sends him on his way.

When she steps inside the warm entrance, a large picture of Adam hanging on the wall, welcomes her, with the notation: We thank Adam Gibson for his generous donations. Tears trickle down her face on seeing the image of the man whom she once thought was her true love, whom she thought she could trust with her life. In the lobby is a shelter worker, a seventy-year-old Englishwoman named Martha. Upon noticing Rania with her eyes smudged with mascara, Martha leads her to a chair.

Rania bursts into sobs, letting all her pain flush away with her tears. Martha pats her back, providing her motherly warmth. Rania finally wipes her tears and her makeup which is running down her face.

I have no home. Can I stay here? Rania pleads the old lady.

The lady smiles, offering her comfort with a warm embrace. You can stay as long as you want, my child. You know, due to some good people living in this world, we have shelters, even if we have no home. There is a bit of goodness left in this land. Rania knows the lady is talking about Adam’s generous donation of this state-of-the-art shelter home. She puzzles over her fate. Of all the places in the world, she ends up seeking shelter in one of Adam’s charities. She recalls Adam’s words when he said he’d bring her home back. Her fate has landed her back into his hands and riches. She is at the mercy of Adam’s generosity.

She takes out all the checks signed by Adam; each check worth fifty thousand dollars. She hands all the slips to the old lady. This is all I have. But I need shelter for a few days, against these checks. Her bargaining startles the lady, when she reads a quarter million dollars’ worth of checks in her hand, her eyes flickering with mild skepticism. "They are for donations. And there is no better place than Hope. But I’d appreciate it if you can manage to hide me for a few days. I don’t want my name to be on this donation."

Don’t worry, my child. You have a big and generous heart. Come, I will take you to your room. Rania follows the old lady who shows her a small room. We have plenty of space in this shelter, and since you have donated so generously on Christmas Eve, you deserve a private room.

Thank you. But you shouldn’t be thanking me for this money. It is from someone else. Rania smiles sadly at Martha. Reading the slips once again, Martha is surprised to see the Gibson Enterprises name on them. Can I sleep now? Her voice, like her heart, is broken into shreds of despair.

Of course, my child. Let me get you something to change into for the night. You can’t sleep in this gown. Martha leaves for a few minutes, then brings some donated clothes for Rania, leaving her alone in the room.

Rania locks the door and sits on the corner of the bed. Regarding the donated clothing, she wonders at her fate. Within a few seconds, her life has dropped from the sky and she is buried under the ground. She remembers how graciously Adam filled his closet with a huge selection of high-end clothes for her. I will place the whole world at your feet. Adam’s words ring in her ears like a siren before the war. How her life is broken into pieces in front of her eyes, how a streak of jealousy can tear strong relationships. How Adam treated her royally and lovingly, the whole day. And now, she is empty-handed.

The thought of Adam kissing her tenderly keeps flashing through her mind. Even with what he did to her, she knows deep down she still loves him. She has never trusted anyone in her life. Adam has passed all her tests of faith, but she wonders what happened to him tonight. What was the feeling that overtook his heart?

She cries for a few hours in the night, and then, with a heavy heart, falls asleep.

⚏⚏⚏⚏

Adam is all alone in his apartment, lying on a chaise in his study, drinking heavily, studying the picture of his and Rania’s first dance. Cursing the demon that overpowered his mind, he wonders why couldn’t he wait and let her dance with her old friend? All she wanted from him was trust, and he failed in providing it.

Adam recalls the times he begged for her trust and when she finally agreed to trust him, what he had done brought him beyond the level of despair. He’d insulted her in front of three hundred people, and worst of all, bruised her lip, and then let her leave on her own. His mind wracks over every possible place, wondering where she would go in the middle of the night. She has no home of her own, he has pushed her out of his life, and she has even left her wallet at his place. He thinks of calling Mike and asking him to hunt for her personally, but the idea of how Mike would react when he finds out what Adam did, shakes him to the core. He knows how protective Mike is about Rania.

Closing his eyes, he imagines her presence. It would have been the best Christmas of his life, but due to one single sin, it has turned out to be the worst. Entering his room with a drink in his hand, his eyes search desperately for her, sensing her presence with her fragrance that still lingers in the room. He has not touched her, he has not kissed her, yet, his body craves her touch like a druggie in need of his addiction. Picking up her clothes from the bed, he hugs them, trying to feel her. Her absence has indeed broken him.

He feels Ali’s hand on his shoulder. Please stop drinking, Adam. I promised her I’d not let you drink heavily. Please let me keep my promise. Ali takes the glass from Adam’s hand and puts it aside.

She has no home, Ali. Where did she go? You know where she is, right? Desperation fills inside his heart as he gropes for any shred of hope.

No, Adam, I don’t know. She requested me not to chase her anymore. Ali takes a deep breath and continues. Give her some time. Let her go for a while.

But where is she? She could be out in the cold. She doesn’t have anyone, and I know, even if she had, she wouldn’t go there. Adam hugs her clothes again. Last night when I thought I lost her to the fire, I was cursing God for His decision, but now…I have lost her with my envy…who should I blame now, other than me? Regret crumbles under the weight of his soul. You aren’t going to look for her?

Ali remains quiet, watching Adam with pity, concluding how grateful he is to never have fallen in love with anyone, how a man of strong mind is falling apart, all because he is madly in love. Ali remembers how Adam was with the other women in his past, not caring about their feelings, and one single woman changed him from head to toe. Her absence is killing Adam.

Adam picks up Rania’s bag and hands it to Ali. I know you will find her. And when you do, this is hers. She’ll need all these things. I’m just afraid…if she does anything to harm herself, I won’t ever forgive myself.

She is a woman with a strong mind. Ali provides his point of view. Suicide is a sin for her. I don’t think she’d do anything reckless.

Extremely tired and drunk, Adam’s head is spinning with thoughts of where she might be. He is hardly able to stand on his feet.

Fulfilling his promise to Rania, Ali stays