The last virgin

Sit down, It’s finally time for me to tell you a ghost story.

A tale of hot foul winds, sand that burns like sunlit glass and the whisper of the dead.

Once there was a a young woman, much like any other. The lady was far from the prettiest but wasn’t exactly the ugliest. Her hair was well brushed, her nails were clean, and she always looked wonderful in cobalt blue.

The important thing about her was that before me, she was the last virgin left.

One morning the grand advisor arrived at her father's spice stall with urgent news.

It was a stall like dozens or so in the heaving marketplace. The last virgin watches from behind her burka as she weighed cumin.

She was the last virgin in the city and would become the kings' bride by sunset.

The girl was scrubbed and scraped while she shook and vomited with error.

They braided her well brushed hair with fine gold thread.

The wedding gown was a little too big and the heavy white satin had small rusty blood stains on the hem.

To avoid needless sobbing and hysteria, she was taken immediately from her parents.

To avoid needless mess nobody told her fiancé, the son of the man who delivered her father's coriander.

They had arranged their marriage since the moment the girl was born and although they met infrequently his eyes were kind.

I remember that the wedding was unusual, which as I be expected considering the circumstances. Her silk robes fit terribly, her maids were old women and the guests were all men.

No one sang of danced despite the feverish pipe music.

The last virgin drank until she collapsed and was taken away by the guards.

My sister and I were the only women invited to the celebrations.

We all wore white, as was customary at funerals.

I had seen over the course of four years nine hundred and ninety-nine virgins.

Fat, skinny, beautiful, ugly, grand and poor.

They all blended together one by one. I could barely remember what the first one looked like.

I think she was short, short and fair.

This one was the only one left.

Trembling and sickly her hair dyed the traditional clay red.

Perhaps the girl dreamed that her betrothed in a fit of love would attack the palace and rescue her. That they would ride away on a white horse, and she would become nothing more than a myth with a happy ending.

But by sunrise she would lose her head instead.

There would be no funeral, instead her body would be tossed upon a fire pyre.

Her head would be sent back to her parents in a gold casket.

The next morning I approached my father, the grand advisor, and I would insist upon marrying you.

I would already have a new dress prepared.

I would wear the sapphire earrings that belonged to my mother.

That night I would approach you. After lying spent sore, I would spin you a tale.

“You know my uncle once told me a story about a place as rich as this and a thief” I begin before you have a chance to reach for your sword.

“A thief? Are you trying to stall for time?” You ask as I gather the sheets around my form.

“Does it matter if I am? I know I’ll eventually meet my fate” I replied.

You smile, it’s a terrifying and handsome smile.

“Fine, continue your tale of a thief”.

“Well in the cave of marvels the thief finds a magic lamp..” I continue.

Every night while I save myself and live another day, the last virgin watches me. Her face is gray, a ribbon of red blood around her neck.

She smiled.

Waiting for the night I run out of tales too tell.