Fated

worse—thousands of bloodied, severed heads hanging on spikes that fill up the square.
    Their gruesome mouths yawning into a terrible chorus that calls out my name—urging me to listen—to heed their warning—before it’s too late.
    One voice in particular rising above all the rest, its grisly battered face bearing an eerie resemblance to one in a crumpled old photo I know all too well.

two
    The light zooms toward me, bright and unexpected—prompting me to squint, to cover my face with my hands, only to find that I can’t raise my arms—and when I struggle to sit, I fall back again.
    What the—?
    My limbs lie useless, stretched out to either side, and after lifting my head, trying to get a grip on my predicament, that’s when I discover that someone’s restrained me by tying me up.
    “She awakens!” a female voice shouts, bearing an accent so thick I can’t tell if her tone is one of fear or relief. “Miss Jennika—please, to come quickly! It is your daughter, Daire. She is up!”
    Jennika! So my mom’s in on this?
    I roll my head to the side, taking in blue color-washed walls, terra-cotta tiled floors, and the ornately painted octagonal table that serves as a convenient drop spot for my banged-up tin of Rosebud Salve, my silver iPod and earbuds, and the water-warped paperback I’ve been lugging around. Watching as an old woman wearing the traditional long, black, hooded djellaba rushes from the room that’s served as my home for over a month, returning with a frantic Jennika who drops down beside me, and brings her cool palm to my brow. Her familiar green eyes, nearly exact replicas of mine, appearing lost, set adrift, among her shock of bleached platinum hair and pale worried face.
    “Oh, Daire! Daire—you okay? I’ve been so worried about you! Are you in pain? Are you thirsty? Is there anything I can get you—anything I can do? Just tell me, and it’s yours!” She veers closer, peers at me anxiously, as her hands fret at the pillows just under my head.
    My lips are so cracked, throat so sore, tongue so parched, when I open my mouth to speak, direct the words at her, it comes out sounding garbled and senseless even to me.
    “Take your time,” Jennika coos, patting my shoulder and indulging me with an encouraging look. “You’ve been through a lot. There’s no need to rush it. I’m not going anywhere. We’ll stay for as long as it takes for you to feel better.”
    I swallow hard. Try my best to drum up some saliva to speed things along, but my supply is so depleted, my second attempt isn’t much better.
    “Untie me,” I croak, yanking hard against my restraints, hoping the action will convey what words can’t.
    But if Jennika understood, and I’m pretty sure that she did, she chooses to ignore it and reaches for a bottle of water instead.
    “Here, drink this.” She shoves a long red straw into the bottle and wedges it deep between my lips. “You’ve been asleep for so long—you must be dehydrated by now.”
    Despite my mounting frustration, despite wanting to turn away, deny myself the drink until she unties me, I can’t help but guzzle it greedily. My mouth locked around the straw, my cheeks sucked in as far as they’ll go, overcome with relief when the cool, welcome liquid washes over my tongue and soothes my dry, scratchy throat.
    The moment the bottle’s drained, I nudge it away, my gaze narrowed on hers when I say, “Jennika, what the hell are you doing to me? Seriously!” My arms and legs flop crazily as I try in vain to break free.
    Watching in frustration when she turns, abandons me for the other side of the room where she takes her sweet time consulting with the old Moroccan woman, murmuring something I can’t quite make out, then listening intently when the woman shakes her head and murmurs something back.
    Finally returning to me, she takes great care to avoid my gaze when she says, “I’m sorry, Daire. I really, truly am, but I’m not allowed to do that.” She runs a nervous hand over the front of her black tank top—correction, my black tank top—and I don’t remember telling her she could wear it. “I’ve been given strict orders not to untie you, no matter how much you plead.”
    “What?” I shake my head—sure I misunderstood. “By who ? Who instructed you to bind me like this? Her?” I nod toward the old woman. With her plain black robes and matching headscarf that covers all of her hair and most of her face, she looks just like every