Jim stumbled through the darkened halls of the Fairview Mosque, the stench of cheap whiskey wafting from his unwashed body. At 55, he was a wretched husk of a man, a slave to the bottle. Another bender had left him penniless, desperate enough to rob a house of worship. He was only dimly aware of what a mosque even was – to his alcohol-addled mind, it was just another building to plunder. Clumsily picking the lock, he slipped inside, congratulating himself on his stealth. But then, with a resounding thunk, the doors slammed shut behind him, sealing him in. Fluorescent lights flickered to life, revealing the intricate geometric patterns adorning the walls. Jim froze, certain he’d tripped a silent alarm.
It was then that they appeared as if from nowhere. Three women, clad in colorful hijabs, blue, green and pink. They regarded him with cold disdain, their dark eyes boring into his shabby form. The one in blue spoke first, her voice dripping with contempt. “Pitiful. You dare to defile our sacred space with your filth?” Jim quaked before them, flop sweat mingling with spilled booze. He fell to his knees, pleading incoherently. “This is serious, sisters,” said the one in green. “This trespass demands the Ultimate Punishment.”
Eyes widening in fear, Jim babbled out his pathetic life story: the divorce, the job loss, the slow rot of alcoholism. To his shock, the women’s gazes softened slightly. The one in pink sighed. “Perhaps the Ultimate Punishment is too severe for one so lost. But he cannot go unpunished.” Nodding agreement, Blue turned to Jim. “We will help you, wretch. But you must submit utterly to our will. Agree, or face the consequences.” Jim, sensing police sirens in his future, hastily consented.
Rayyan shifted uncomfortably on the prayer rug, the fabric chafing her knees. The hijab felt tight around her face, a constant reminder of her new reality. She still couldn’t believe what had happened: one minute a drunken bum, the next a teenage Muslim girl. The women had explained it as they transformed him. It would be a fresh start, a chance to live cleanly in submission to Allah. But it didn’t feel clean. It felt perverse, a cruel joke played on her by an uncaring God. The hormones of her new body warred with the fading impulses of her old male self. She found herself staring at the round bottoms of the other girls as they bent in prayer, suppressing urges she dared not name.
Worst of all was the nagging fear, the sword that hung over her head, that even this new existence was conditional. She still didn’t know what the “Ultimate Punishment” entailed, only that she’d be subject to it if she displeased her saviors The girl next to her nudged Rayyan sharply: it was her turn to recite a prayer. Trembling, she recited the unfamiliar Arabic phrases, horribly aware of her own ignorance. As the congregation knelt as one, Rayyan caught the eye of the woman in the green hijab. The older woman smiled, but there was no warmth in it. Only a cold, assessing cruelty, as if to say that Rayyan was being watched, tested. One toe out of line, it implied, and she’d discover the true meaning of “Ultimate”. Dread coiled in Rayyan’s belly, mingling obscenely with the tingling in her virgin sex. She bowed her head, praying silently for deliverance, even as some shameful part of her yearned for the forbidden. She was trapped, in more ways than one.
After the harrowing prayer session, Rayyan sat slumped on a bench in the mosque’s tranquil garden, her face buried in her hands, overwhelmed by despair. Aisha, the girl in the pink hijab, sidled up beside her and draped a comforting arm around Rayyan’s quaking shoulders. “There there, habibti, it will get easier,” Aisha murmured, her honeyed words belied by the predatory gleam in her eyes. “”Allah tests those He loves most. You must be strong in your faith… and never forget who you are now. Never.” At those loaded words, Rayyan shuddered, a moan of misery escaping her lips. She wanted to scream, to rip off this suffocating hijab and run until her legs gave out. But Aisha’s grip was firm, a reminder of the hold she had on her. That they all had on her. She was Rayyan the Muslim girl now and forever. And all she could do was pray for the strength to endure this living hell.
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