From under the heels of men rose a woman with a thirst for revenge. A slow-burn vampire fantasy with a difference. Perhaps it is because I had tasted more freedom in my short nine years of life than most girls ever would, given my past three years as a bacha posh, an honorary boy. Or perhaps it is because I cannot be a pious, obedient wife – perhaps the mullah is right, perhaps the devil resides inside me. All I know is that now I am forced to become a girl again, a wife, a mother, all things I do not wish to become. I know that from the moment I enter my new husband’s home, the only faces I am likely to see are those of my husband, my sister-wives and my children. There is no guarantee I will ever see the hillsides, my mother or my little sisters, again. And I shall now only dream of what I once had as a bacha posh – the warmth of the sun on my face and hair, the power of kicking a ball, the freedom to walk the streets without fear, laugh and jostle with the boys. For I am now forced to don the burqa and live the life of the subjugated. How shall I bear it? And how is it the swords on my husband’s wall sing to me?