3. Meetha

3

MEETHA

T he stench of rotting vegetables assaults my nostrils as I weave through the crowded market stalls, the air heavy with sweat, spices, and spilled wine. Merchants bark their wares—a sharp-tongued woman hawks overripe tomatoes, while a burly man shouts about his honeyed figs. The vibrant colors of pomegranates, honeycombs, and lush herbs vie for attention.

Ahead, a vendor haggles with a customer over wrinkled citrus, their voices rising in frustration. Despite my hunger, I can't help but smile at their antics.

My stomach growls, reminding me of the meager coins jingling in my pocket. A child nearby clutches a twisted caramel stick, evoking bittersweet memories of when Korrine surprised me with similar treats. Those days feel like a lifetime ago.

"Fresh bread! Get your fresh bread here!"

I pause, eyeing the golden loaves longingly. "How about I get a half loaf, huh? What's it gonna take?"

"For you, pretty one, a special price."

"How special?" I ask, arching an eyebrow.

He leans in close, his breath hot on my ear. "Perhaps we can… negotiate."

I step back, my skin crawling. "I'll pass."

As I turn away, I catch sight of my reflection in a polished copper pot. My hair's a mess, and there's a smudge of dirt on my cheek. Some 'pretty one' I am. The thought makes me chuckle despite myself.

An unattended fruit stand catches my eye. My fingers twitch. It would be so easy…

You're better than this , a voice whispers.

Am I?

The memory of my Jarvil's sly grin flashes through my mind: "It's not theft if they don't catch you, Meetha."

I step closer, heart racing. The fruit beckons. My hand trembles.

No . I jerk back, clenching my fist. I'm not a thief. I won't be.

But hunger gnaws at me. And for a moment, I hate myself. I shake it off.

I'm not a thief. Not today.

"Meetha! Over here!"

I spin around, spotting Korrine waving from a nearby alley. With her disheveled auburn hair and kohl-rimmed eyes, a woman who is now a mere shadow of her former self. She beckons me over with a trembling hand.

"What are you doing here?" I whisper harshly, glancing over my shoulder. "If Jarvil sees you…"

Jarvil would have a lovely time beating his wife, and he should be back from another one of his grand adventures any day now.

"Keep it down, will you? Just listen." Her voice shakes as she presses the small pouch into my palm. "Take this. Get something filling."

"Where did you?—"

"Don't ask!" she snaps, the strain in her smile cracking into something more genuine at the corners. "Just make it last."

Before I can respond, she retreats into the shadows, her silhouette swallowed by the darkness. A heavy silence fills the air, leaving only the lingering scent of cheap perfume—a reminder of her struggles.

I clutch the pouch to my chest, torn between gratitude and shame. This money… I know how she earned it. The same way she always does when her bastard husband's schemes run dry.

Squaring my shoulders, I turn back to the market. At least we'll eat tonight. And maybe, just maybe, it'll be enough to keep that coward's fists at bay.

For now.

The weight of the coin pouch tugs at my conscience. Korrine's gaudy perfume lingers in the air, a bittersweet reminder of her sacrifice. I should feel ashamed, disgusted even. But I don't. How can I, when it's kept us alive all these years? At least her work is honest.

I weave through the market, securing bread and a few bruised apples. My stomach growls, but I resist the urge to eat. I must account for every morsel at home.

As I walk, memories of last week's argument with her surface, piercing through the haze of the market.

"Let me help," I had pleaded, the desperation creeping into my voice. "I'm old enough now. We could earn twice as much."

I remember the way her face had paled, as if I had struck her. "Never. You hear me? Never."

Why couldn't she see? It's just work—one more pair of hands to lighten the burden. "But why? It's just work, isn't it? And we need the money."

But then she gripped my shoulders, her eyes wild with a fear I recognized all too well—life had shaped her into a fortress, and I was trying to break down walls she deemed necessary. "It's not 'just work,' Meetha. It's… it's surviving. But at a cost."

I felt the weight of her words settle heavily in my chest. A cost? I had witnessed the slow erosion of our lives, day by day, and I was tired of watching her bear it alone. "A cost I'm willing to pay," I had insisted, the defiance in my voice ringing clear. "For us."

Her voice had cracked, revealing a vulnerability I rarely saw. "No. I won't let you. You deserve better."

Better? I scoff in hindsight. "Look around, Korrine. What 'better' is there for someone like me?" I wanted to scream, to shake her until she understood the truth beating in my chest.

But she was being a good mother, trying to protect her daughter from the harshness of the world. If only she knew the truth about her precious Meetha.

I glanced at the bustling stalls, at the hopeful faces of others around me, each one struggling for survival. If she only knew what I was capable of, what I will endure for our sake. Sacrifice was not just a choice; it was an inevitability. But to her, it seemed more than that—it was an unwritten rule, her shield against a world that had already scarred her deeply.

But fear won't define me. I'll carve my path; I'll survive—no matter the cost.

Now, trudging home with our meager provisions, I wonder if she'll ever see reason. It's not that I want to sell my body. But compared to Jarvil's pathetic abuse to make him feel like he's more than the rat he is, and our empty bellies? It seems a small price to pay.

I've seen how the men look at me in the market. I'm not blind to my reflection. Why shouldn't I use what I have to keep us safe? To keep us fed?

But Korrine refuses. Each time I bring it up, she shuts me down. Sometimes with tears, sometimes with anger. But always with that haunted look in her eyes.

I don't understand her reluctance. She does it. Why can't I?

After securing bread and a few bruised apples, I weave through the market once more. A group of street musicians catches my attention, their lively tune a stark contrast to my mood. For a moment, I let myself get lost in the melody, my feet tapping along almost of their own accord. It's a small reprieve, but a welcome one.

As I near our home, unease settles in my stomach. But then I see these stubborn wildflowers growing through the crack in the pavement. Their resilience sparks a strange hope in me. If they can thrive here, maybe I can too.

One day, I'll get us out of here, with or without Korrine's blessing. And maybe, just maybe, I'll look back on these days with the wisdom of survival rather than bitterness.

I push open the creaky door, muscles tensing in anticipation of Jarvil's usual barrage. Silence greets me instead. The musty air of our cramped hovel fills my lungs as I step inside.

"Jarvil?" The word comes out soft, half-hoping he won't hear. Silence. Good.

Relief washes over me, followed by guilt. I shouldn't be happy about his absence, but every moment without his looming presence is a blessing.

Jarvil's always been a storm of a man, unpredictable and destructive. The memory of last winter's solstice flashes through my mind. He'd stumbled home, reeking of cheap ale and fury.

"Where's the fuckin' money?" he'd bellowed. "You whores holdin' out on me again?"

He'd grabbed Korrine by the hair. I tried to intervene, earning a backhand that sent me sprawling.

"Ungrateful little shits," he'd snarled. "I'll teach you to lie to your own blood."

What followed was a nightmare of fists and screams.

I shake my head, banishing the memory. My hands clench without thought. Jarvil's "lessons" have shaped our lives in ways I'm only beginning to understand.

I move through the sparse living area. You can still smell Mom - lavender and sweat. She must have just gone to work.

"Another double," I mutter. "While that bastard's off chasin' his next big score."

My gaze falls on a crumpled parchment near Jarvil's chair. I snatch it up, deciphering his scrawl:

"Big score. Manor on the hill. Easy pickings."

Anger bubbles up inside me. Another foolish scheme. Another night Korrine will spend worrying.

"Damn you to hell," I hiss, chucking the parchment into the cold hearth.

The house feels different without the constant threat of Jarvil's temper. Lighter, somehow. I allow myself a moment to breathe, to exist without fear.

Without Dad here, the house feels lighter, but reality sets in fast. Korrine will work herself to the bone again. And when Jarvil returns empty-handed, his rage will be twice as potent.

I move to the tiny kitchen, determined to have a hot meal waiting for Korrine. As I rummage through our meager pantry, my fingers brush against a loose floorboard. Beneath it lies my secret stash—a few coins, a map, and a worn pamphlet about apprenticeships in the capital city.

My heart quickens at the thought of the life that awaits beyond these suffocating walls. I've been counting the days, watching guard rotations, memorizing merchant caravan schedules. Soon, I'll have enough saved. Soon, I'll make my move. There must be more to life than this endless cycle of fear and want, and I'm determined to find it.