Feral – Darkly Ever After Read Online Mila Crawford

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Dark, Insta-Love Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 51051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 255(@200wpm)___ 204(@250wpm)___ 170(@300wpm)
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Later, Azadeh told me she loved that sweater, and when I asked her why she gave it away, she said it was custom. Apparently, Iranians had this thing called Tarof, but we Westerners had no clue that we weren’t supposed to take what they were offering.

Tarof was the act of offering. I discovered through Nasrin that Tarof was this constant back-and-forth offering for someone to take and keep anything they complimented. I liked the custom. It made someone feel worthy. The only problem was that some people would take advantage of it.

“Sorry. Az. I should’ve watched my mouth.”

Azadeh laughed. “Good old Abraham. I’m not sure if he was the problem or the four billion people who think God ordained a man with severe paranoid delusions and homicidal tendencies. Religion isn’t evil, not by itself. If you take lessons from the texts, it could be a form of enrichment. It can help be a moral compass of sorts, but as soon as religion becomes an obsession, it morphs into poison, and that’s when it becomes lethal to anyone who adheres to it. This is why so many people rage against it.”

“Do you believe?” I asked.

“God? I’d like to think he or she is up there watching over us. I’d like to think whatever being God is, he’s a good one, not one of vengeance or intolerance in organized religion. But to answer your question truthfully, wanting to believe and believing are two vastly different things. No. I don’t believe in God. Not anymore. I’ve seen what religion does to people. I don’t want to live in the world of us and them. To place humans in neat little boxes where they’re worthy or unworthy. Life doesn’t work like that. And to be fair, the concept of free will and love thy neighbors that so many religions preach is stripped away until all empathy and humanity is tarnished.”

I glanced at a framed black-and-white photo of a man and a woman with two young children by their side, a boy and a girl, no more than ten. They were standing under a monument in Tehran, The Azadi Tower. The woman was laughing, her hair blowing in the wind as the man looked on at her adoringly. “Who’s that in the photo?”

“That’s my grandparents with my mom and her twin brother. That was right before the revolution. They renamed it Azadi Tower. Can you believe that? The great freedom tower in Tehran symbolizes the opposite of freedom. Down with the monarchy only to replace it with a tyrannical theocracy. They killed thirty thousand people right after the revolution. Executed them in one go. Thirty-thousand people who didn’t want a monarchy but didn’t want to live under oppressive religious rule either. The killing didn’t stop there. Anyone who dared to speak out against the regime was silenced with imprisonment, extortion, blackmail, or death. The propaganda machine had people convinced Iranians wanted the current government, but they didn’t. The revolution was stolen, swiped right from under those kids who had a dream of democracy.” Azadeh shook her head as sadness welled up in her eyes. “What did all those young people fight for in the first place? The king didn’t fall for freedom; he fell for a new form of oppression, far worse and far more lethal. Now, the country is mostly populated by people who never had a say but must now endure the foolish choices of their parents and grandparents with no hope of ending their suffering.”

Mrs. Baran interrupted our deep conversation by handing me a hot cup of tea in a small clear mug with a lollipop stick standing at attention on the side.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“This fixes everything,” Mrs. Baran said with a warm smile. I found it a little jarring how she could be the sweetest mother on earth but also yell at her son like a damn drill sergeant. “Chai nabat.”

“Translated to sweet tea, it’s black tea with saffron-infused rock sugar,” Azadeh said. Iranian mothers believe it will cure whatever ails you.”

I took a sip and let the sweetness coat my throat. The liquid wasn’t a medicine that could fix my abusive father or mend the aches he’d caused to my flesh. But the remedy given to me by the mother of the person I cared for more than anyone else in the world did wonders for my soul.

“You should rest, Ze-ek,” Mrs. Baran said. “Sleep in Azadeh’s room. She can bunk with Mona tonight.” She nudged Azadeh with her arm. “Take the boy upstairs.”

I grabbed my tea, and Azadeh and I walked down the narrow hallway. The walls were pretty barren compared to my house. A few family photos taken in Iran were strung up on them, one with Azadeh on the shoulders of a man with a soft smile and warm eyes like hers. Her father. A small Persian rug hung on the wall. That was another thing I found fascinating: Persians didn’t walk on their rugs; they displayed them like art. Right by Azadeh’s door was another piece of art with a page torn from a book detailing a photo of Persepolis and a quote:


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