The beads slipped between her thumb and index finger, smoothly hesitant. Cool, perfectly rounded, they looked exactly like grains of corn from a fresh cob - except that they were a bright, light blue.
Her eyes were closed and her lips kept moving, silently whispering chosen words, choice words that held power. She frequently cracked open an eyelid to peer at the string that marked her progress; sometimes it was involuntarily to see when her fingers couldn't quite slip the next bead over the bridge that her index finger created. It was mildly frustrating, and she wondered at the distracting quality of it, and perhaps her own focus was then brought into question.
One rotation over, she began the next, with cautious care and a slower pace. This time, her mind was being brought under control by the words she whispered, and it tried to cringe away. Instead, she reeled it back in, and made it shift into recall mode, pulling out memory of sin after sin. Her eyes were sometimes screwed tight now, and sometimes they would pop open and stare blankly, wide-eyed, at nothing; it was her mind's eye which saw and wished to recoil.
The beads continued to roll over her fingers, slowly, rhythmically. Sometimes her fingers faltered, losing the strength to push one after the other, for she had brought to trial a heavy sin and it weighed upon her mind. She was only halfway done, but was trembling all over and gasping slightly through her breaths.
A hundred counts done, and she unclenched her hand from around the tasbih, slipping it next to her pillow, and herself slumped back into bed. The weight was gone, and she quickly drifted into even breathing and relaxed muscles; she had fallen asleep.
Her fingers were unmoving, her tongue silent, but her heart continued to sing "Astagfirullah, Astagfirullah, Astagfirullah..."
