Blood Oath Of Love

 

Love, blood, pain

Author's Note: This story was inspired by my failed relationship. The letter to Aisha is the original letter I sent to her, which I used in this story unedited.

You could hear Celine Dion's voice once floated through the airwaves, carrying a message that seemed so simple at the time: "The greatest thing you will ever learn is just to love and be loved in return." It is a sentiment that resonates in the quietest corners of the human heart. Truly, we have all sought that connection, and many of us have been lucky enough to find it. As we grow up, some of us experience a love so profound, so all-consuming, that the very idea of it ending feels like a physical impossibility. We build our lives around it, anchoring our souls to another person, convinced that the storm clouds of reality could never dampen such a bright flame.

They say love is everlasting; they say it is a universal language that transcends borders and cultures. They say love is an imperfect thing that we, through patience and sacrifice, make perfect. Love is that visceral feeling that makes your heart skip a beat; it is the chemical surge that makes your blood run cold with fear or hot with passion, depending on the shadow or light of the moment. Love is the silent companion that makes you sit in the dark and cry until your eyes are swollen, yet it is also the magic that allows you to walk through a blizzard without feeling the bite of the wind. It makes you run through a downpour with laughter ringing in your throat, oblivious to the world. But love has a jagged edge. It can make you forgetful when it hurts, and it can leave you questioning the very fabric of your reality. How do you love someone with every fiber of your being and, at the end of a bitter day, come to despise them? What happens to the promises whispered in the sanctuary of the night? What becomes of the shared laughter and that deep, unshakable feeling of security? How does something so monumental simply dissolve into nothingness?

Farouk was drowning in these thoughts as he sat in his cramped, dimly lit room that evening. The air felt heavy, thick with the scent of stale coffee and the lingering ghost of a perfume he knew he should forget. It hurt to think of Aisha—it truly did. Every time his mind drifted to the memories of the time they had spent together, or the intimate nights where they had shared their bodies and souls, a sharp pang of regret pierced his chest. Looking at her framed picture on the bedside table was a form of self-inflicted torture, yet he couldn't bring himself to turn it over. He wanted her back with a desperation that bordered on madness.

Their downfall had been a singular, explosive fight. Vicious words had been hurled like stones, shattering the glass-like peace they had maintained for years. They were words that could not be retracted, echoing in the silence of his current isolation. Now, he sat in the wreckage, haunted by his own pride. How could love be so cruel? How could it bring out a person’s worst imperfections during a mere misunderstanding? The loneliness of the night was a cruelty he could barely endure. He was so accustomed to the warmth of Aisha sleeping by his side, her rhythmic breathing serving as his nightly lullaby. Earlier that day, he had seen her in town with another man, and the sight had felt like a physical blow to the stomach. His mind raced with jealous assumptions—was she sleeping with him? Even if she wasn't, the mere image of her smiling at someone else was a torment. In his heart, she was made for him; she was his better half, the missing piece of his soul. How could they be this far apart? It felt like a glitch in the universe.

Driven by a sudden surge of resolve, he stood up and moved to his cluttered desk. He pushed aside the remnants of a lonely dinner and brought out a fresh sheet of paper and a pen. He didn’t want to call her; he knew his voice would crack, and she would likely hang up before he could find the words. He believed that pouring his heart out onto paper—the old-fashioned way—might carry a weight that a digital text never could. He sat there for a long time, watching the ink dry on the tip of the pen, before finally writing:

Aisha,

Last night, I dreamt about you, and I woke up feeling a profound sense of melancholy and nostalgia. It hurts more than I can put into words to think how two people who once shared such an unbreakable bond could end up as strangers.

I've been trying to bridge the gap between us for weeks, but your silence has been a wall I can't climb. I genuinely don't understand why we are doing this to ourselves. There are always disagreements between people who care—that is just part of being human. What matters is that we have the courage to sit down and talk about it. I am begging for that conversation, the one you’ve been avoiding.

Please, don’t let us end like this. Give me one chance to make things right. I love you more than I ever told you.

He read the letter out loud to the empty room, his voice trembling. He folded it carefully and stepped out into the cool night air, heading toward the house of a mutual friend, Flora.

"Hey, Flora," he greeted her when she opened the door, his eyes downcast.

"Hey, Farouk. You look terrible. How are you holding up?" Flora asked, her tone unreadable.

"Fine... actually, no. I'm not fine at all."

"Is this about Aisha again?"

"Yeah," Farouk sighed, extending the envelope. "I need you to do me a massive favor. Please, deliver this note to her. She won't pick up my calls."

Flora stared at the paper as if it were an ancient relic. "What! Farouk, this is the twenty-first century. We have smartphones, instant messaging, video calls. Why on earth are you writing letters?"

"I know," he whispered, his voice catching. "I just... I need her to feel the weight of it. My emotions are just too raw for a screen." He choked back a sob and turned away. "Please, just give it to her."

"Fine," Flora said, her voice softening slightly. "I'll see what I can do."

Farouk returned home, a glimmer of hope finally piercing his gloom. He spent the evening pacing, convinced that the sincerity of his words would bring her to his door. But as the hours turned into days, the silence only grew louder. She never acknowledged the letter. One afternoon, they accidentally crossed paths on a busy street. Farouk’s heart leapt into his throat, but Aisha didn’t even blink. She walked past him as if he were a ghost, an invisible man in a world she no longer inhabited. The rejection was so cold it felt like a cardiac event.

Broken, he went home, stripped off his clothes, and sank to the floor, feeling the cold tiles against his skin. In his rawest state, he turned to the only power he had left. He knelt and prayed with a broken spirit: "Father God, I know I am a sinner. I know I have failed in many ways. But please, forgive my wrongs and bring Aisha back to me. I promise to honor her, to live a godly life, and to be the man she deserves. Take anything else from me—my comforts, my pride—just return my love. In Jesus' name, Amen." He wept until he was empty, his tears pooling on the floor.

Unknown to Farouk, Aisha was living in a parallel hell. Leaving him hadn't been an act of malice or a loss of love; it was an act of agonizing protection. Every day was a battle against her own heart. She surrounded herself with friends and noise, trying to drown out the memory of his laugh, but the pain was a constant shadow.

The truth was far darker than Farouk could imagine. Aisha was trapped. Years ago, seeking a sense of belonging, she had been led into a secret coven by someone she trusted. Now, the debt was due. The leaders of the coven had issued a chilling decree: she was not permitted to be with a man of her choosing. If she disobeyed, they claimed his life would be forfeited—moved from this world to the spirit world. She had spent nights on her knees, not praying to God, but pleading with the coven for mercy. They remained unmoved. They reminded her of the blood covenant she had signed—a binding, spiritual contract that offered no exit. "It is either your life, his life, or your separation," they had told her. "Choose."

When she had seen Farouk on the street, it took every ounce of her strength not to scream his name and throw herself into his arms. But she knew that any contact, any sign of affection, would be his death warrant. Reading his letter had been like having her heart shredded by a thousand blades. She saw his pain, his confusion, and his desperation, and she knew she was the cause of it.

The cruelty of the situation was compounded by a bitter irony: Flora, the "friend" who had delivered the letter and mocked Farouk for his sentimentality, was the very person who had introduced Aisha to the coven in the first place. Flora watched Aisha’s suffering with a detached, almost mocking curiosity, acting as both a messenger and a jailer.

Aisha sat in her room, clutching Farouk's letter, the paper wrinkled by her tears. She was caught in a spiritual and emotional deadlock. To love him was to kill him. To save him was to let him hate her. She looked at his picture, the man who was her better half, and felt the walls of her life closing in. She was a prisoner of a vow she couldn't break, watching the man she loved beg for a return to a life she was forced to destroy.

 If you were Aisha, trapped between a deadly vow and an undying love, what would you do?

Do you think love can conquer all?

Next story:The last day that bring the curse