This is the first ever chapter without any dialogues. You'll get to know who Wajeeh really is. Check the previous chaps if you haven't already and make sure to vote and comment.
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Wajeeh.
I had never been a good man. I had never been the kind of man that a mother would willingly want her daughter to marry or to love.
I had never been the kind of man that she thought I was or she thought I was capable of being. My entire being was based on lies. My entire existence was based on a false identity. My entire life was based on me acting like someone I wasn't.
Ironically, at least I knew who I was and who I belonged to. At least I knew the truths and the lies of my world, at least I knew that the world we existed in was not real, at least I knew that this life in America wasn't the one that we were supposed to be living.
I was 13 years old when I first found out who I was. At that age, when I was only discovering about crushes and girls and sex, I discovered something brutal and dark. Something that changed my life forever.
Wajeeh Masroor. Even my own name felt like a lie. My real name was Shah Wajeeh Sheherzad. I was the son of Shah Masroor Sheherzad and the grandson of Shah Sheherzad.
I belonged to a family that people thought only existed in films and movies. I belonged to a family of monsters and killers. And fortunately or unfortunately, I was one of them.
When my father took me to my Homeland for the first time at thirteen, I was treated like a prince. I still remember that day very clearly. People greeted us and it scared me.
It scared me because they held guns and they shot bullets in the air as I passed through the middle, gripping onto my father's shoulder for dear life.
When I asked him what did all of this mean, he told me that this was his legacy and this belonged to me. I told him I did not want it, I remember his laugh and the way he turned stoic and looked at me.
He told me I did not have any choice in the matter, just the way he did not have any choice all those years ago.
I did not know why I belonged to such a family but I did and in that world, no one seemed to care about things like morals and ethics and peace.
Still, my father gave me three more years and took me back to America. I knew who he was and I tried to distance myself as much as I could for those three years.
On the eve of my 16th birthday, a man barged into to my room and put a gun to my head. I still don't know how but for some reason, a sort of reflex kicked in and I snatched the gun from his hand. I could have just shot him in the leg, in his arm, could have simply kicked his ass and called the police but I did what the son of Shah Masroor would have done.
I shot him in the head.
Guilt came crashing in an hour later and I went to my father, crying and shaking that there was a man bleeding out in my bedroom and I had shot him. I expected a look of panic on his face but there was pride instead.
