Beauty is Deception

Twenty-five-year-old Sara woke up groggily and headed directly to the gleaming bathroom, absent-mindedly rinsing her elegant body. Skilfully applying makeup that highlighted her naturally soft features. Her pale, slightly rounded face with rosy cheeks, large innocent-looking brown eyes, and luscious, soft lips enhanced her youthful beauty. She barely had to bat her mascara-curled eyelashes, making any man feel possessive toward her. As men usually did with women because of how frail they looked.

She put on a navy blue V-neck kameez, leaving her shoulders exquisitely exposed, and gently threw a Kashmiri shawl over them. She pushed tenaciously on the casement windows' clasp, pulling open the massive curtains. Her fingers quickly began to freeze despite her body's heat as she crossed her arms over her slender breasts; a cold shot through her. She peacefully leaned out the window, letting out a deep breath that seductively turned to fog in front of her mouth.

The magnificent scenery of Swat unfolded before her, with its enormous, snow-capped mountains dominating the small town's dimly flickering streetlights, the only reminders of the past. Below, a lone boy was wearing a brown beanie and a navy-green woollen sweater. Riding a bicycle assiduously with a stack of newspapers securely fastened in the passenger seat, he rang the bell with each step. The harsh sound resonated in the peaceful neighbourhood while his short breaths produced puffs of dissolving mist. The boy stopped and gazed at the sky, admiring as the sun crept out from behind the mountains and shone its first sublime rays upon him. The royal mountains appeared to be wearing a glittering crown to dominate another colourful day as they glistened like gold in the sun's orange tones.

Sara took in the captivating view as much as possible before gloomily closing the windows. Combing her fingers through her silky hair and rearranging the golden bangles on her thin wrists, her eyes landed on the disgusting marks they left on her soft skin. Her husband, who was fifty years old, had supposedly gone for a morning stroll. She audibly groaned as she straightened the wrinkled blankets from last night's events, leaving her body aching.

She went to the hotel's restaurant for a hot breakfast and tea. As she opened the door, a wild, ear-piercing scream erupted from her mouth. Her husband laid on his back with a gushing wound on his flabby stomach and eyes that were wide and mortified. Doors to various rooms in the hallway opened inquisitively in response to the commotion, and gasps could be heard everywhere. Helpless tears streamed down her flushed cheeks. One of the courageous lodgers grasped her shoulders as she staggered back and guided her away from the corpse.

The Marina Hotel, a modest two-star hotel amid the city, was the scene of a great deal of commotion. With solid competition nearby, this hotel was afraid of damaging its reputation due to the murder of one of its visitors. The sturdy, dim-witted manager worried about the future but could not stop the following ruckus.

The manager waited anxiously for the police, leaving the few employees with the frustrating responsibility of ensuring the customers' safety and preventing them from leaving without paying. The customers' anxiety increased as Sara continued to bawl noisily. The manager's heart ached at the excruciating sight of her, even though he acutely wanted her to reduce the sound of her grief. He would have picked her up and rocked her to sleep if it weren't for moral propriety.

Fortunately, the hotel's cleaning staff showed up after the manager convinced them to take care of the upset, newly-wed young lady. The cleaning lady wanted to escape this terrible plight and return home. But when she saw Sara, her heart overflowed with compassion. Sara's cries gradually subsided as she gently placed her face into the cleaning lady's chest.

Several police officers arrived to investigate and gather evidence by questioning the guests and employees. They began by asking Sara a few simple questions, stammering and eventually halting halfway since they couldn't bear distressing the already traumatised girl. Even the most ruthless officers felt sorry for Sara after seeing her face turn scarlet. She requested some privacy in her room, so they excused her. The cleaning lady offered to accompany her, but Sara gently declined.

Enthusiastically entering her room, she skipped over the old carpet, still covered in her husband's blood, before slamming the door. Her tears had dried up, leaving nothing but stains on her flushed cheeks, which now gleamed with the joy that was quickly filling her. She let the wind thrill her even more by unlocking the casement windows. Unburdened by the stack of newspapers, the lone boy in the navy green sweater and a brown beanie delivered the newspapers on the bicycle on the sidewalk before riding back with ease and joy.

Sara carefully removed the blood-covered knife from the empty drawer while covering her hands with a cloth to prevent any fingerprints from being left behind. She had encountered a migrant worker who appeared to blankly watch the incident unravel as she mercilessly murdered her husband. And seemed to be putting up an act of mourning her spouse. She knew he was the one to get up early in the morning and welcome her husband before he left for his morning stroll. While serving them their meals these past few days, she also knew that her husband had a friendly conversation with him.

She boldly proceeded toward the migrant worker's cramped room while concealing the stained knife under her scarf. She conveniently transferred her crime to him, like handing him her dirty dishes after their meals.

Ryan, a 24-year-old migrant worker from the southern area of the nation, was apathetically observing the agitated girl in the restaurant. Adam, a friend and co-worker, was pitifully admiring the beauty.

"It's heart-breaking that she lost her husband at such a young age," Adam remarked sympathetically.

"Particularly like that…." He shivered and stumbled over the word "murdered."

"Any man would be blessed to have her; she is so attractive. She'll have a queue of guys waiting to court her in a few months." He continued placing his head on Ryan's shoulder and breathed a dreamy sigh.

"I would join that queue if I wasn't confined to this bleak location." Said Ryan. Gazing at her through narrowed eyes while stroking his shaved chin.

Ryan was the police's initial suspect since he arrived at the scene before the cocks began to crow and had developed an amicable relationship with the victim. He had been somewhat involved in bloody riots and had been arrested once, which caused him to leave his state. With his bulging eyes, lanky frame, and complexion that was a deeper shade of brown, he resembled the conventional picture of a criminal, which was the icing on the cake.

Ryan welcomed him back from his walk a few minutes before Sara's husband was brutally stabbed. He faintly remembered the sound of the golden bangles jingling. But, he was rudely disregarded when he voiced his memories and suggested that a woman, Sara, might be the

perpetrator.

Ryan had accidentally eavesdropped on their conversation over dinner. Sara and her husband were frequently at odds with one another. He also saw the enmity in Sara's glare towards her husband as he carelessly devoured food the day before he was murdered. Ryan noted the

innocence and fearfulness she displayed now were absent earlier. He examined her suspiciously.

Receiving a smack to his shoulder, he turned to find the irritated manager furiously yelling at them. "Is she a TV? What are you staring at? Do your duty and leave."

Ryan was about to follow Adam and the manager grudgingly when he noticed Sara excuse herself. He immediately began to follow, being led by his instincts, blaring like sirens inside of him. The manager collided with him as he rounded the corner and obstructed his way.

"Did I not tell you to accompany Adam?" He asked in a testy tone, attempting to hold back his boiling rage.

After giving a silent nod, Ryan began to pace backwards until he could no longer feel the manager's eyes on him. He waited anxiously behind the door for a few agonising minutes. As Ryan heard the manager's footsteps become distant. He frantically rushed after Sara, stepping on the visitors' feet and flagrantly disobeying their instructions, unable to find her. He noticed Sara looking in the little, broken mirror in the workers' quarters hallway when he peered over a wall and heard the recognisably soft jingling of bangles.

"What is she doing here" he wondered, holding his breath. She purposefully rubbed the eyeliner out of her eyes, squeezed her cheeks to bring out the colour, and laughed at how dejected she looked. In the mirror, their eyes met for a split second before Sara strode out, leaving Ryan perplexed. He gingerly made his way to his room as if he were about to fall into a booby trap. Once inside, he sat down on his bed and covered his face with giant hands.

That sly grin. That sinister smirk. Ryan knew Sara was responsible for her spouse's death, but how could he prove it? He even tried to state it frankly, but the police reacted as if he had accused their mothers. Therefore, he decided to stay out of it and trust God with the outcome.

He grabbed for the drawer to look through for some stray tablets to treat his intensifying headache. Still, the anguish persisted in his chest. Goosebumps sprang on his dark skin as he gasped in terror at seeing the blood-stained kitchen knife in the drawer. He quickly sprang up and, acting once more on instinct, tremblingly yanked the drawer and slipped the knife without touching it into a cotton bag.

As his hands shook in fear, he cursed, "That little b---!" and held on to the bag.

Even in school, he was a naive kid who was always blamed for his friends' antics; no one would believe him. The only possibility was to return the knife to the murderer, who had graciously made him the scapegoat for her sin.

He sprinted frantically, trying to reach Sara's room, breathless. His whole surroundings, even the flawed furniture, blended into a single, absurdly black mass as he concentrated on his only goal: getting rid of the evidence. He was noticeably startled and froze as he felt a hand grab his frail arm.

Varun gazed at him with astonishment. "We had a lot of stuff to get done. Where were you?"

"Did you go grocery shopping?" His eyes wandered to the grocery bag in Ryan's hand.

With an intensity that seemed off to Adam, Ryan admitted, "Y-yes,". He pretended to be calm, which seemed even more suspicious.

Ryan placed a comforting hand on Adam's shoulder before rushing to find Sara and confront her. Mindless, he opened the door and stepped on the blood-splattered carpet.

The room seemed strangely quiet and frigid, as if he had planted his head in the fridge. Suddenly the wind blew, causing the casement windows to close, and he took the knife from his bag.

Then he heard a terrified voice, "What did you do?"

Ryan muttered, his voice low, "Adam... It's not what you think..."

He dropped the knife, appearing to submit to the terrible, unavoidable fate to which he had been doomed from the moment of his birth.

He still tried to weakly defend himself. "I swear it was Sara. She did it."

Ryan's words fell on deaf ears as Adam backed away, believing that turning in his friend was honourable. Ryan stared in disbelief at the majestic, snow-capped mountains beyond the window, their beauty failing to faze his weak, ordinary heart as he rode the police vehicle handcuffed.