Short Stories

Cuts Deep 

Dancing embers rock with the relentless winds. The sounds of crickets and crackling of burning wood surround me. A slight chill runs through my spine, both pleasing and uncomfortable at the same time, and while I wonder how the two coexist, I clench my fists straining the sleeves of my hoodie; a slight pinch from the faint wound that taunts my wrist distracts me. I watch the bonfire in its entire gold and blue fury cutting through the darkness of the night, opening up my soul for me to witness…

My eyes strain in a failed attempt to open, I really couldn’t be bothered, there’s only one more weekend of the summer, rather, one more weekend till I’m back to school. I turn my back on the thought and shift onto my other side, slipping slightly out of my sleeping bag. The tent shakes, trembles even, my eyes no longer struggle with me but open in compliance, they search for a clue as to what is going on, an earthquake? THE APOCALYPSE? My eyes scan the inside of my tent as if that will help, when I notice a shadow outside the tent, poking it with a loose branch I somehow must have dragged into the tent with me. I hear a deafening shriek, and then the shadow gets smaller and smaller; I realize it must have been a monkey from that disturbing sound. I register that I have been holding my breath for the duration of this incident. A sigh leaves my lips, emptying my lungs into the stuffed tent. I decide that it is about time to pack up and head back home to finish my last chapter of summer reading before the big day… my last first day of school. Hello senior year.

The thump can’t be louder when I drop my rucksack onto the floor and, just as expected, my mother, Salaah Ebrahim, the invincible woman in some circles and the overbearing and conceited snake in others, walks in. To me she is mom, just three letters that mean that you owe your life to that being. Yet, for some reason, I flinch when she lays her hand on my wrist that in turn rests on my wooden study. She withdraws realizing what she has touched. In a change of pace and to prevent tears from gushing down her spotty cheeks, she scrambles her mind for a topic of discussion, and then, finally relaxing her furrowed brow, she asks, “How was your camping experience? I know it wasn’t the distance you needed but—” She trails off into her own world for a second before directing her gaze at me. “You know the woods behind the house were even a stretch for us to give permission for. What if something were to happen out there? I don’t know why you insist on doing things on your own, you are a teenager, make friends – the right ones – enjoy your youth. When will you learn to be more sociable, my darling, for your own sake?” She almost sounds whiney. My head remains low and tilted to one side admiring the scratches on my study table. I take a breath and dejectedly look at her. It’s enough, she knows this all she is getting from me today.

When my mom has finished looking for senseless excuses to stay in the room like straightening out my already well done bed, or making sure – for the third time – that my laundry basket is empty, she exits my room. From the gap between the bottom of the door and the carpeted floor I see that she has paused outside my room for what seems like an eternity; she only moves when the creak of the hardwood floors gives my dad away. He comes up the stairs and heads right into his room. Spotting my summer reading and SAT prep books on the floor by my bed I gather my things, make my prayers and then get right to work. At night my dreams are of shady rooms and a little kid frightened in the dark. That kid was me.

My Sunday had flown past what with getting things ready for school and all else. Dad had wanted to go to the beach but the beach irritates me lately so instead we went for a drive. In silence for the most part, exceptions to which were when mom and dad spoke and when Dad’s secretary called giving him some urgent news, I tuned out for most of that conversation after they started bickering over a juror, being distracted by the monogram on dad briefcase, AE it says, standing for Ally Ebrahim no doubt, it’s really quite beautifully done. My dad is a successful lawyer, a partner at some fancy law firm. Now that I’m in the car again I can’t help but notice my bouncing foot and sweaty palms. “Here we go,” I mutter under my breath as we pull into the school.

As I am walking away from mom’s Siena I could swear I hear her say ‘I love you’. I hurry into the school to get away from the pouring rain outside and see the Siena’s break lights before mom pinches onto the road heading, off in the direction of the highway. Now I am all alone in this swarm of people, I am all alone.

My sketchers squeak against the polished hallway floor, startling me. I’m dressed in a pale blue long top that brushes my knees and tights with a completely contrasted neon green headscarf. My weird dressing is my way of rebellion; it is my way of saying that some of the confinements of society are absurd. And God knows everyone needs a little rebellion in their lives. I finally reach the far end of the hallway where my locker is, and I think of the combination sleepily. 49…15… no, 46..15..02.

The sound of a devil echoes in the halls, Alisha McMillan, the devil of all devils. “Why is she at school so early?” I whisper under my breath. I turn around to face her, soccer cleats in my hands and with trembling knees. “Hi,” I say.

“Well hello there,” she snickers back. The silence between us is deafening when she scrabbles in her bag in search of something. Something shiny is at the tip of her fingers—when she reveals the object of her search, it is a shard of glass. She then rolls it onto her palms, testing the sharp edge from a blunt one, and draws out her other hand; I place my hand in hers. With one swift move she has gracefully lifted my sleeve, where the fading scars reside. Her nose crinkles as she examines my arm, and then she lifts the hand with the shard and traces the vein on my arm before putting all her strength and might behind the shard, once, twice, thrice, and during the fourth slice I reflexively wince. Something warm runs against my fingers, and I realise my eyes are closed and my hand is by my side now. Alisha McDevil is nowhere to be seen, she must’ve ducked out, and the red warmth that is birthed from the cut she has left on my arm has stained the floor.

I rummage through my locker and find a loose napkin, wipe the blood off the cream tiled floor, place my cleats in the locker and make my way to the bathroom, backpack on one shoulder and the stained napkin on my bloody hand. I can hear laughing and chatter at a distance, the first few people must be just entering the school. I pick up speed and only breathe when in the safety behind the locked door of the staff bathroom; it is a proper bathroom in contrast to the student bathrooms which are stalls. I drop myself onto the floor and my tears drop with me, once, twice, thrice, the fourth tear is followed by a sob. Welcome to my life.

Homeroom and my five classes after it are quite uneventful, unless you count the stabs a couple people take at me when they see me giving my afternoon prayer. Lunch is slightly more interesting, apparently Kylie and Brad have exchanged promise rings and Jenna and Matt have broken up. All this is useless information I overhear while sitting alone in a corner. If you ask me, I am happy for the restrictions I have; it is better, and safer.

I really hate the fall, I decide I will tell dad not to pick me up, he has better things to do, and besides I didn’t want to have to make conversation, it would be fake and forced, not to forget exhausting. I text him to stay at work and tell him I’m going to sleepover at a friend’s because I need help with something; I think it would be a good opportunity to go sleep under the stars without mom’s and dad’s knowledge. While walking to the park, my destination for the afternoon, I try to restrict my arm movements, they burn through the sleeves of my hoodie with every brush of fabric against my skin. I suddenly feel cold and warm all together, I am on my back floating on something cold flying. I can see the sky through the leaves for a split second and then all of a sudden I am on the tarmac, face first… then nothing…

My eyes haven’t struggled with me as they did in that moment, peering through what little leeway my eyes allow me. I am in a bright room—heaven? Hell? Could it be that all we heard of, roses and gardens, streams and mountains, fire and peril, was all a lie, instead there was an afterlife, in a white room, clean and sterile? I refuse to let my curiosity rest, tilting my head up and to the left. I send a jolt of pain through my body, but I refuse to quit. Focusing intently I notice a frail old man, white head of hair, blue eyes staring at me, fair complexion, and perfect white teeth evident from his smile. Could that be God? Shuddering, I shut my eyes hard, needing to wake up from this nightmare. My world is coming apart at the seams, everything I believe, everything that kept me going, kept me tolerating, was a lie. If this is true, I am a fool, a fool to have faith in something non-existent, a promise never to be fulfilled.

“Hey there, beautiful,” a throaty voice says when I wake up, stirring in pain. “It must be the meds must be wearing off, do yourself a favour and stop moving,” he continues. I ignore the voice and sit up. I shouldn’t have, the moment I do only my voice fills the room and suddenly there’s a bunch of people holding me down, and shouting random measurements of some kind of drug. Then I dream of roses, gardens, streams, mountains, blue eyes, and a bright smile.

The next morning before I make a move I decide to figure out what is going on. From last night’s incident it was a probability that I was in a hospital or some sort of medical facility instead of heaven or hell; that is a relief. Who is the old guy though, maybe a hallucination or a doctor? I found my mission for the day.

I open my eyes slowly this time. Running my tingling hand on my body just to check that I’m intact, then to my face, I feel more contours than normal, “They must be bumps and bruises,” I whisper.

Line break. The voice now chimes in, “You got that right! You look like hell.” I smile at the irony of that statement, remembering the in-mind battle I had about my location. I look for the voice, and there he was, the man I mistook in my confusion for God. I hadn’t noticed that he had pipes going into his nostrils; he’s wearing a dotted hospital gown and is using his IV stand for support. While I examine him, he stays steady on the edge of his bed, legs dangling from the side, fumbling with one of the IVs, head tilted to a side, and gaze fixed at me.

After my examination of The Man, he starts polite conversation, and soon after, polite conversation becomes something more. We talk about his terminal cancer, his life, his service in the army, him being taken as a POW and tortured, pearl harbor, and finally and most heart-breaking is the story about how his family was murdered right in front of him in a robbery gone wrong. He says that he lost his belief in God because of all this. Oddly, I feel sorry for him. The doctor interrupts us a couple of times, eyeing us both with confusion. I am Jane Doe to them. I flashback to a conversation I barely remember, the Doctor told me I didn’t have my ID on me and my bag wasn’t found next to me, he insisted that I should tell him my name and how to reach my parents but I refused to do so, I needed the distance. It was the same conversation in which he explained to me that I had been in a hit and run and had broken several ribs, cracked my skull and fractured my arm. My arm, did they see the scars? The wounds? I assume they think I am harmful to myself, which sure explains the nurse who keeps checking my chart, nevertheless, I am okay with that.

That night after a long time I pray the sincerest of prayers, I pray for the strength that He has given me, and I give thanks for the realization that I had earlier. I have realized that my problems amount to nothing, I have parents, I have a life to live, I have my freedom, and I have my faith, to keep me going, to keep me strong, to keep me hopeful.

In light of all the clusters of realization of the past few days, I decide to give my information to the overcautious nurse chaperoning my every move. She calls my parents and apparently they hurry in, my sense of time was a little shaky. Mom is sobbing and kissing every inch of my face that’s fine, and is expressing how worried they were for the past day, they only got a call from school that afternoon that I hadn’t shown up, and they spent the rest of the day wandering, searching and talking to the police. I am just happy to see them. I quiet them down and give each of them a lengthy hug and a smile to go with it.

Dad is confused and slightly awkward, but the relief in his form is evident when he lets out a sigh as if he has held his breath all day. Mom and I have that unspoken connection that we share, so she looks at me, as if reaching into my torn soul, and knows that I am trying to tell her I am alright, I was trying to tell her I will be better, I was trying to tell her I’m sorry.

A few days later I am checked out from the hospital. In those few days I either spend my time talking to The Man, bickering with mom about her over the top shows of affection for me… in public, admiring my dad in silence since he’s not much of a talker, and praying to God, almost mending my damaged relationship with him.

By the time I come back home after the stay at the hospital, everything about me is different. Full stop. I notice mom has started gardening again, because the front lawn looks beautiful; I cherish the moments together just eating on the dinner table, and I feel new, better, happier.

Dad has picked out a silent film he wants to watch, he too seems to be transformed; the excitement in his eyes is like a child’s when he hears the ice cream truck’s alluring tune. He slips the DVD into the BluRay Player and presses pause. He turns to mom and me. “Alright, anything anyone has on their mind before we start? I don’t want anyone to miss anything in between.” I chuckle at dad’s obliviousness to the fact that mom and I despise silent films. Just then someone pops into my mind.

“You know the old guy on the bed next to mine at the hospital? Did either of you catch his name? I’d really like to give him a call to check on him.” I direct this at them while admiring the black and white film poster on the screen.

“Honey, you were the only one in your room, the bed next to yours wasn’t occupied,” Dad replies, “Nice delaying technique though, I’m onto you.” He smirks and hits play. I have no idea what happened next; I sit still thinking of blue eyes, fair skin, and a perfect smile. Had I met an angel?

THE END

Epilogue:

The familiar twang of Alisha McMillian’s accent makes me freeze by my locker. The last time we encountered each other, she had slit my arm, adding scars to the ones she had given me before that, and the time before that. I turn around to find her less than a foot away from me, rummaging through her neon backpack. The familiar shiny piece of pain catches my eye. As customary with her and I, she checks for the sharp edge and sticks out her hand. This time is different though, this time I hold her one hand, and take the shard from the other. I give her a hug. I think I felt her almost hug me back. As I release her she turns away and I hear a muffled sniff.

Five years later she took her own life. They said she was “disturbed”. I knew she just craved kindness, it was what she wrote in the note she left for me…

“Nadiya,

Thank you, that one day,

That one kind thing you did for me kept me going for five years.

Know that. I’m sorry,

-Alisha”

A Star 

Blurs. Blurs of green, yellow, blue, was what I seeing. Just then, a spark of a purple or was it violet? I couldn’t seem to be too sure, sprung from the dumpster under the flickering bent street light. The colors started giving birth to other shades, shades I had never seen before. I started wondering if this was really happening. Could it be that there really was a sudden warp of colors in this dark alley down here in Nonhattan? Oh I thought to myself, whatever was in that orange bottle of pills, it is probably working. I batted my eyes, again, and again, and again. I couldn’t see well. It was like somebody had taped clear foil around my eyes. I then heard a thump; it was me, I had just hit the ground flat on my back. I noticed, there were no stars in the sky, at least none around the little part of the sky that I could see. Where were all the stars? I had always wondered if stars in their solace, ever felt lonely. With no one to tell them how radiant and beautiful they were… would the stars feel the way I feel now? Not good enough, not… a star?
 I sighed, once, twice, thrice, four times… but the hole in my heart and burden on my shoulders held strong and unwaveringly. “I see all this color how is it that I can’t be filled with it?”  I questioned. I thought to reach out for it, I caught a wave of green, but my hand just passed through it. I got up and went for the blue and the yellow, but they seemed to be conspiring with the green against me. Infuriated, I started chasing them but none seemed to be on my side. I then saw a figure, it was black, not very interesting, but it had eyes, eyes that pierced straight into my soul. Afraid of what it would see I turned away, I felt it encompass me, sooth me, I fell into a trance, and then into the calm comforting hands of sleep.
 A pounding in my head was all I felt when I tried to open my eyes. I could feel the warm rays of light on my greasy skin. But there was something different from the way I usually wake up… I was on a bed. With a soft pillow and I am guessing one of those therapeutic mattresses. I opened my eyes while I clutched the blanket in pain. I started to register everything that was around me. I tried to put it all together; it was a bedroom, from the furniture, a teenager’s, someone my age perhaps.
 
I found the strength to sit up, drag my feet out from the bed and into the bathroom across the room. There was a wreck of a 17 year old on the other side of the bathroom looking back at me, her hair undone, bags under her eyes, a bad excuse for makeup and clothes that could pass for a homeless guy’s attire. Oh wait, that’s me. Me, the average 17 year old except for the fact that I am a junkie, I live off of my car that is out of gas, I have no money, my parents kicked me out and my school did too. Through the corner of my eye on the side of the sink in this beautiful home, I saw a note.

Here is some aspirin, for the headache, you will start to vomit in a bit, stay hydrated. Clean up, grab some sweats from the closet and get comfortable. If anything else comes up my number is on the back of the telephone.

Take care,

Aaliyaah

P.S. The medicine cabinets are locked. Guess you’ll just have to wait for me to come back home :)

Showers seemed like an alien thought but I embraced the opportunity, it’s not like its everyday that people let you use their bedrooms and bathrooms. I took to the shower quickly. After an hour of scrubbing, the scent of being clean was refreshing and worth the effort. I grabbed pink sweats and a burgundy shirt from the closet. And stuffed a few other clothes into a gym bag I found under the bed. After I had made arrangements for my departure, I figured since normal people didn’t get off work till 6 p.m. that I had about 4 more hours -give or take- before I had to bolt. So I went down the stairs and made for the kitchen where the pantry was a gift from heaven. I ate to the point that I felt my belly at the brink of explosion. The clock struck 3…
 I walked over to the 32-inch flat screen on the wall of the living room. Clicked the power button, and flipped through channels in search for something to pass the time with, after flipping through about 60 channels, I gave up, and walked over to the stack of DVDs on the coffee table. A majority of them were in a script I didn’t know how to read, and then I found one in English. “Doo-a Kue-mail” I read from the brown label. I slipped it into the DVD player and sat on the corner sofa with my legs on the coffee table. It started, I heard a sweet melodic voice sing, and like karaoke what he sang appeared on the screen with its translation on the bottom and that unfamiliar script at the top. There was something about the lyrics that humbled me. I slowly started to realize it was a worship song. A song at first for, strength and praise, then, repentance, forgiveness, and the acceptance of how fickle and lowly we humans are, and how merciful this lord is that he conceals the absolute distasteful things his followers do, and the protection they require from the sins they commit, then something was cried:

“I shall keep on calling unto You, Where are you o' Friend of the believers! O' the last hope and resort of those who acknowledge you and have faith in your clemency and kindness; o' you who are the helper of those seeking help! O' you who are dear to the hearts of those who truly believe in you!”

 I found myself on the floor in tears, I wiped my tears, and I was on the edge of hysteria when I read the lyrics the sweet voice sang:

“Have mercy upon him whose capital is hope, and whose weapon is tears. O’ fountain of blessings! O’ repeller of adversities! O’ light of those who are lonely in the darkness!”

 
And then I could not stop my tears from flowing, I did not know who I was crying to, I did not know what it was that I was crying about, I just cried and stared at the ceiling at who or what I didn’t know. Just when I had cried enough to feel light headed there it was, the blackness, it encompassed me, soothed me and I fell into that trance again. We had probably sat there for an hour before I moved, in the whole hour this generous woman named Aaliyaah didn’t even flinch, she just held me and rocked me.
 
Now we sat across from one another on the dinner table over a meal of mac and cheese. We ate in silence; I was anxious, while she stayed calm and collected. When I couldn’t take it anymore I blurted out, “why did you take me in? Is this a kidnapping because you can give up, there is no one who will pay for me to come back into their lives”. She looked at me with those same eyes that glimpsed into my soul that first night, and said, “I took you in not so that I can ransom you, I saw that you were in no state to be left alone, since I found no ID on you I didn’t know where to drop you off, I had an extra room and you needed a room. The pieces fell aligned and here we are” she ended with a smile.
 
We finished dinner. I picked up the dishes from the table while she rinsed them and loaded the dish washer. The clock struck 9…
 I woke up the next morning confused. And that gym bag packed and ready to go taunting me wasn’t helping. The previous night we washed the dishes and then watched an episode of a series in the language from the song that had sent me into a hysteria, I think it was about his little boy named Yusef. In the episode he had been dropped into a well by his very own brothers, and in his time of need an angel came to his rescue. I wondered whether an angel would come for me if I was ever in need. Or had my angel already come to my rescue? The clock struck 7…
 
I got out of bed quicker than the last time I had left the bed. I was jumpy, in need of a high. I needed that push, that buzz, that exhilarating second that you lose everything in. Today my goal was that key to the medicine cabinet. As soon as I raided her of the medicines to keep me going, I would leave. So I hit the shower, put on a good pair of skinny jeans and a snug hoody, comfortable yet not lazy. I ran down the stairs into the kitchen. Before I could reach it, a cocktail of smells clogged my nose. There was the sweet taste of pancakes in the air, what smelled like some fruits and the strongest… COFFEE. A smile crept into my face. I made my way to the kitchen counter with that smile plastered to my face, picked up the dishes and made the table for two. We dug into our breakfast quickly, and quietly, until Aaliyaah broke the ice, “So tell me about you”. I choked. Composed myself, and to my surprise started being honest. I told her “ Umm… well I am a 17 year old, I own a car but I don’t drive it partly ‘cuz it’s a piece of junk and partly ‘cuz I can’t afford gas. My parents kicked me out because I stole a bottle of pills from them. My friends, they deserted me. And I was addicted but I have made it 31 hours clean so I am all better now” I saw her beautiful smile change to her wrinkly frown during my last statement. I blushed not knowing what I had said wrong, or if I had done something to tip her off about my agenda for the day. She pushed the frown away and asked, “yes, yes, I get that but what is there to you? What do you love to do? What are you good at? When everything else lets you down what do you have that you can undoubtedly count on?” For a moment all these thoughts swarmed into my head like a hive of bees attacking their disturber. I shook it off and picked the most distinct thought, and softly whispered, “I sing…” A huge smirk appeared on her face. I started to notice how beautiful she was. It’s a shame she hides her beauty under a scarf and a black dress she constantly wears when she leaves the house. Her smile came back while she nodded. I continued... “I write, and draw too… but I’m not all that good at either” .her smile got wider. She paused, sighed, looked at the ceiling and looked back at me, and then she said… “You know what? It’s a Saturday, how about we plug in the karaoke, you can do your thing and we’ll see if I can get close? What do you think? Sounds like a plan?” I smiled, the thought of belonging clawed its way into my head, I tossed it down the dark hole it came from and nodded. The clock struck 11…
 
The whole day we cleaned and acted like retards while doing it. From the broom as a mike stand to the spray detergent as a gun we did it all. And then it was time for karaoke, she started with a song by some artist called Maher Zain, She sang like an angel. Humbling was a recurring feeling in this living room. I went with the instrumental renditions of some Michael Jackson. Then she sang a song about her God ‘Allah’ in 4 languages and I returned some of the songs I heard at church LONG ago. We finally stopped after 3 songs each because her vocal chords gave out. “I am not as young as I once was she said. My throat is not a smooth at 35 as it once was” I reciprocated “If that’s how you sing now, I wonder how you once sang!” she smiled and got lost in a memory. I got curious and asked her what it was that she was thinking about while I grabbed some Poke from the fridge. And that was the first time I was shocked in a long time.
 I avoided thinking about everything she said to me and as soon as she finished talking, I asked to be excused and made my way up the stairs to the room that has been mine for the past two nights but never really was mine. How could it be? I shut the door behind me and looked at every detail in the room. The purple and blue bed sheet, the paintings on the walls that seemed to get better from left to right, the one farthest to the right had a swirly line, it was clothed with passionate, calm and nurturing colors, it was stunning. The clothes in the closet, the ones I was wearing, the markings on the closet door, 3ft… 4… 4’5… 5… and the last marking 5 foot 7. This was never going to be my room; this was the room of an only daughter, an only daughter who would now be 19… if she was alive. I slept on the bed thinking what it was that was going through the mind of Aaliyaah’s daughter, Hannah, when she last slept on this bed. How did she die? What kind of person was she? Why is Aaliyaah so comfortable with me being here, tarnishing the memories this cubicle of a room holds?
 I was creeping down the stairs when I saw Aaliyaah in the living room. She appeared to be praying, she stood, and then cradled her hands, bent to her knees, and then prostrated. She did this over and over, with so much conviction it was intriguing. She finished and was rocking to another melody similar to that one I had heard a couple days back. I sat myself on the step I stood on as I watched her. Earlier I had thought what a shame it was for her to mask her beauty but maybe I was wrong. Maybe she wasn’t masking her beauty she was guarding it. And there is a whole other level to the beauty that she held in that cocoon. It is one thing to have beauty and flaunt it; it is another to hold beauty. The redness of a hidden sun started to show from the cracks in the blinds. And then there was the hole in my heart yearning to be filled, but this time it was telling me how to fill it. The clock struck 6…
 The sound of water spurting out from the tap startled me. I had fallen asleep on the steps. It was Aaliyaah she splashed water on her face, then her hands, wiped it with her palms, rubbed her scalp and then the top of her feet. I didn’t get it. So I asked. She explained to me that these were ways of purification before turning to her God, where by not only are they physically purified but also spiritually. I asked her to show me how. I performed this ritual. She then walked over to her prayer mat the one she had used in the morning when I had watched. She passed it to me and directed it in a precise direction. I assumed it was something like Feng Shui. She corrected me letting me know that it was the direction of their holy grounds, Mecca. I listened intently as she told me the theology behind prayer. The reason they pray, so as remind themselves of their loyalty to their God. But what was most profound was when she said “You might wonder why we do these actions, why we do them in the same format, but the most questioned thing is why we do it five times a day EVERY DAY. Well, the reason is, you can pray as much as you want with your limbs and your speech but it is very rare to pray from the pits of your heart, and we hope that MAYBE one day, one time, the prayer we let leave our lips, leaves our soul and soars for the heavens”. It made sense, it was no ritual, it was a way of life and a hope for illumination. I asked her to teach me how to pray, she did. She taught me what to say when I prostrate, to feel my minuteness in comparison to that mighty being. When I stood she taught me to feel the strength it took, and to realize that strength is nothing but a blessing from the strongest. She told me to cradle my hands and looks to the skies as I wish well for the parents who bore me, not the parents who left me out to dry. And when I finished with the three touches of my ear, there was no hole in my heart, no burden on my shoulders. Just tears in my eyes and a sigh of relief. I walked over to the bathroom to wash my puffy face only to see an orange bottle of pills looking back. I stared as it stared back.


 4 years Later…

 “Maher, lets go one more time, this time how about you hit a high C on the bridge”. Maher nodded and said something through the sound proof glass. I didn’t hear him. After two takes I decided to call it a day, besides Maher Zain didn’t need more than that I thought. I walked over to the chair picked up my bag and walked out the studio after saying my goodbyes. Just as I reached the door the infamous Maher caught up to me “ You’re a star, that’s what I said”. I smiled. I closed the door behind me and there it was… a mirror, just what I needed, I was still getting the hang of Shellas and so I’ll admit it needed a little fixing. When I decided I look gorgeous enough no matter how perfectly or rather imperfectly my Shella looped I walked over to the little coffee shop down the street, got my normal order, “a latte with extra foam and 8 sugars” I said to the barista. After that worried look I get every time, she handed me my tall cup and I made my way to my corner table overlooking the street. It was a good day to write lyrics, I had a day to my deadline, “Nasheed and Latmiyat don’t write themselves” I told myself.
 The back figure was back, this time I didn’t look away, I look straight into Aaliyaah’s eyes and smiled. “Salaamun Alayki” she said. I smiled and answered. She walked over and hugged me. Some things change, I did. But some things don’t. Her embrace, it encompassed me, still soothed me, and still sent me in a trance. Then the clock struck 12….

Mukhtaar: A Legacy

A story written as a tribute to the Bahraini's and all those striving for freedom

     It was pitch black and quiet as a mosque before the Morning Prayer. I had always wondered what heaven was like or even if there was a heaven. I had always wondered, Life as we know it, when comes to a halt, feels like a warm summer breeze or steaming heat wave? And after either, was it true that one’s actions play so much of a huge role so as to determine an eternal doom or bliss respectively?Actions, who is to say our moral code, disciplinary norms, the basis of our day to day ‘good behavior’ is all spot on; that if someone were to, would bet on its authenticity? Could it not be a misconception that developed centuries ago and was inherited down each and every family tree- for the most part? Was the cycle of life much more than Life then death? If no, then why is it that consequences bear so much weight so as to stop us from faulting? If yes, then what is it?            
     All my life I had been raised hearing the words of a Muslim kid’s role model; words that any average 13 year old boy who isn’t the descendent of the Holy prophet Mohamed would never come close to saying. “Death to me is sweeter than honey”; these were the words that Qasim, told his Uncle, Husayn, before he rode off to the battlefield in search of martyrdom for the sake of what he believed in. For someone who was a good Muslim, death to me was tasting a lot like the dirt I had eaten when I would fall flat on my face while playing with my peers instead of anything close to sweet. Within this dilemma I heard a hush voice, all I could hear was “Mukhtar...” assuming this soothing voice was an angel’s who was saying my name, I let a smile creep into my face.     Slowly I started hearing things, from what I can recollect, An ambulance siren wailing, a baby crying, and about a half dozen different panicking voices of my fellow Bahrainis. Gradually, as I started regaining my sight and sensation, I felt what seemed like concrete pushing me against another block of concrete. All but my left leg was covered by these impositions. All but my left leg was rigid and numb. As the voices grew louder, I started hearing a beeping sound too; I couldn’t tell whether it was a vehicle reversing or a heart rate monitor in a hospital. The beeping stopped and a jolt of pain spread throughout my body, I could no more feel the concrete above me, just pain on every inch of my body on which it laid. Then, again, pitch black.
           The smell of a mixture iodine, blood and soil had clogged my nose. The beeping sound was back only this time it was more high pitch and the beeps were shorter, I figured that this, now, was a heart rate monitor. My hatred for hospitals didn’t matter at this point but I found that my curiosity took the best of me. I found myself trying to find out if I in fact was in a hospital, but that was in vain. My eyes seemed as though they were taped shut, my eyelids felt as though they weighed a ton and my eye balls burned as though a fire had been started within them. The next best option was to feel my place, but my hands wouldn’t respond. I tried harder and harder, on my third try I managed to twitch a finger at the cost of excruciating pain.And again, pitch black.
     I was back in my backyard; it was back to the way it was before it was wrecked by demolitions close by. I was amongst the well mowed grass and the beautiful flowers mother had planted. Just as I sat down to feel the grass on my palms, I saw a familiar young boy. He ran around like a kid who just had a ton of sweets, then I noticed, it wasn’t just the kid running, there was another familiar face, the words “mother” left me as a whisper. It was a young version of my mother, one I just barely remembered.I missed those days; I missed when mothers could breathe when their children were playing in the backyard, as opposed to getting a heart attack if children would step out of the house. Bahrain had become hell opposed to the heaven that I grew up in. Bahrain had become blanketed with death and tyranny as opposed to smiles and joy. Bahrain had evolved into a very dark place. But Bahrain is… Home.My eyes fixed on the kid again. Then I realized, I knew what the kid would do next, because I vaguely remember myself being in this exact scenario, although I could swear something was different. And then it clicked. I WAS the boy.Then… more blackness…
      I woke up to the Friday call to prayer being sounded. Together with that melodious voice of theMuadhin were two voices whispering; “yateem” was all of the conversation I heard before I shot my eyes open. I had been on a bed like this before, sick of a thyroid infection, but this time something was missing, something that made me feel fine no matter how much pain I felt. “My mother!” I yelled. “Where is my mother?” The missing object was my mother’s soft touch and warmth.
           My dad had never been around; he died when I was a couple of months old. My mom always told me that he was this warrior-like dude. I am 21 but I still live at home with my mother, I would have moved out, close-by, but in a different house, if it weren’t for my dad’s death. With no man in the house my mom would be rather handicapped especially because of our religious beliefs. In Islam, women are jewels, fragile jewels to be guarded and hidden, not for everyone to enjoy the beauty of. Some call us extremists, me, I prefer cautious.     As a lawyer, every day I have fathers walking in, in tears, because their daughters have been violated, Mothers walking in because their daughter’s marriages are a mess because the husband isn’t okay with the wife’s “friendliness”, Men walking in because they landed a score but that score ended up making them miserable and jealous more than happy and lucky. Women walking in looking for justice because their chances of marriage or a happy life are slim to none because a man couldn’t control his urges enough, and couldn’t think of the consequences for the person he would wrong. Hence, when our women look at the stats they become grateful for their covering and form of modesty as opposed to looking at it as a burden. Facts definitely do not lie and they do a pretty good job at convincing.
           The last sight of my mother I remembered was her yelling “Mukhtar, Fiamanillah!” while I rushed into the mosque on Wednesday for the congregational prayer. That day, I turned around and startled by her beauty at forty, I yelled back “anti habeebati ya ummi”, she really was my sweet heart. I grew up without a father because he passed away when I was young hence; my mother played the role of both parents in my life. That Wednesday afternoon after the congregational prayer I decided that I would help clean up while my mother did her doa. I remember being in the center of the prayer room and staring up at the sky through the window on the roof, split seconds later I felt myself being pushed down into the ground by the concrete walls of the mosque; which, according to my uncles lawyers, was caused by a heavy part of the roof falling on me due to the Saudi troop attack on our mosque. A similarly big concrete wall fell on my mother hitting her head first, leaving her to die of either skull damage or blood loss. The doctor had said that thinking about my mother and what would have been, was unhealthy, but walking out of that hospital with a few bruises, all our property – the little that it was– and no parents… just felt wrong.           Six hours is how long I walked on the streets watching the pavement, six hours of not bothering what was going on around me, and just walking. That was until a group of protesters blocked my way, forcing me into the protest. I had been in many protests, I had even helped organize a few of them, but this one merely filled me with distaste even though it was the same concept – freedom being demanded. That is when it dawned upon me that these expressions of rebellion were the reason I stood by myself, an orphan, with no one to go home to and worse yet, no one who loved me irrevocably and unconditionally. If it weren’t for these protests there would be no Saudi army, no mosque demolitions among other things and last but in no way least, there would be at least one less orphaned person. It was that moment when I realized that all I wanted was for the cause of my mother’s death to be given its due.
           From that moment on, it became my life’s purpose to retaliate against the protesters. I started out by gathering, convincing and influencing people I knew to boycott the protest. Anger and threatening usually did the trick. Not to mention, A friend of my uncle’s who had crossed over to work with the Saudis, set me up as their ammunition manager which gave me solitude in my own house away from the havoc. I drowned myself in oppression up to the point where I could FEEL my humanity at its brink. But still I let myself drown deeper and deeper into numbness.I had done well for myself; with only one person to sustain I was one of the richest people in Bahrain, eventually. Then came the day that shall remain engraved in my mind as a scar, a testament to my wrong doing; the day that I had to instruct a mosque demolition; that was the day I lost my humanity to passion and the desire for revenge.Or so I thought…           Room 414, it was the room I was admitted in, not too long before that day. It looked the same, only this time I was visiting and instead of me, and my crushed bones on the bed was my mother’s dear friend, Umm Hassan.
           A day before my visit to the hospital was the day I instructed and managed the mosque demolition. This was the mosque my mother insisted that we go to, but I always decided against her because my friends visited the mosque I preferred, the mosque that was now not more than blocks of concrete scattered, the mosque which was the place of death to the most important person in my life, the mosque in which my mother died. For a second there I found myself second guessing the cause of my mother’s death, was it the protests and the massacre they brought on, or was it my persistence? I shook off that thought and pulled myself back to room 414. This sent me on another detour down memory lane…
            During the demolition although I took the effort of announcing that the mosque will be attacked, most people didn’t make it on time; one in specific that I saw through the rubble, Umm Hassan.My mother and Umm Hassan were very close, partly because they grew up together, and partly because they were too similar, to the extent that numerous people, including me, had mistaken them for sisters throughout their lives. For a second under all the pandemonium, when I saw her in pain calling out for help, I thought god had given me a second chance at saving my mother.It was almost Saturday now; it had been two days since Umm Hassan had lost consciousness while I pulled her out from under a roof top at the scene of, what two days ago was a mosque. I was legitimately worried which made me question my steadfastness upon my revolution against the revolution, I quickly shook that thought off too and went back to the seat next to the bed, and then I just stared.
           The next morning I was startled to find myself enjoying the caress of my motherly Umm Hassan. It was the first time we actually talked beyond the usual “Salaamun Alayk, kayfal haal”, although she started with that greeting. I couldn’t help myself but laugh, there was something wrong with this scenario, there was an old lady who was pulled out from under debris, who was unconscious for the past two days, asking the person- who was the cause of her agony in the first place- how he was. I chuckled, put my hand on her hand which was on my head, lifted my head from where it lay, on the bed close to her, to ask, “How are YOU, Umm Hassan?” when her expression transformed from the look of joy that I had ever so often seen during her visits home, to a look of worry that made her scars apparent. She took her hand out of my hand put it on my face and rubbed off a cold liquid, I was crying, crying for the first time since my mother passed. For a long time I sobbed into her arms while she listened, waited, comforted, cried along with me and comforted me more.           Umm Hassan was a very easy person to talk to. That’s also one of the things my mother and her had in common. Maybe that’s why I cried to her and eventually, told her why. That I had lost my one true guide through life, that because of my loss I had crossed over to the dark side, where I knew I didn’t belong. I wasn’t a cruel person. I had never in my life- even as a kid- picked a fight, and now I have become a part of the bad guys in a WAR! I told her my theory that I was filling myself with pain so that it would all just go numb. That’s when she spoke, “and did it work?” and that’s when I got up, and walked away.           I had done this before, I had walked the same streets, stared at the same pavement while I walked, I had been as distressed only about a different matter, before it was about my mother’s death, now; what I did to make it not matter and if it was working or not.
           I stormed in to room 414 just as I had stormed out 6 hours earlier. I looked at Umm Hassan, she looked back. I waited for her to say something, anything so that I could twist it enough to make myself walk out and never look back but, all she did was look. I let out a huge sigh, a sigh as though the world’s problems had been lifted off my shoulders. I walked over to the chair by the bed on which I had cried to her, I sat down, and continued looking. After she saw that I had calmed down and that the notion that she would give me a reason to hate her had left my thoughts, she said “oh Mukhtar, my son, pain is like the Devils Snare, the more you fight it, the more it harms you, but if you let it be, it will encompass you and eventually let you go. Mukhtar, welcome it. Mukhtar… what a lovely name, you know I was there when your mother named you? Yes, I remember the glint of light in her eyes that day. She named you Mukhtar after the avenger of Husayn, who was the prophets grandson and the man who stood for what was right against what was evil. She wanted you to be one of those who acknowledge the call of help that Husayn shouted before his battle, the call that even though hadn’t struck ears of anyone who wished to help him in the fight against oppression at the time, struck the ears of thousands today, thousands, millions even, one of whom was Mukhtar. She saw that thirst for good in you; she saw that with you truth was in reality apparent from falsehood. She saw a soldier in you, one in the army of the thousands who are in combat against evil to answer the call of Husayn, the cry of “Hal min Nasirin Yansurna, Hal min mugheethin yougeethuna” She stopped. Looked at me, smiled and continued saying, “I still see all that in you today, only that now you have suppressed it to the deepest center of your being”. Stunned I leaned back on my chair, rubbed my temples and lost myself to thought.
           I ran, ran like a predator runs for its prey. I had been looking outside a window, thinking, when I saw a protest marching and chanting. “This is my chance” I thought before I started running, “if I don’t act on this remorse I feel today, and right now, I might lose myself to tyranny forever” the thought of disappointing my mother even though dead was too repulsive for me. I made it in time to join in a chant that I vaguely remembered from the time I was the organizer of protests. A few blocks later all I felt was a hard shrug that pushed me into the epicenter of the crowd, I found myself by the podium from which the chants were being initiated. In the spur of the moment as soon as the chant ended I started a chant of my own, “Inna Lilllahi wa inna ilayhi rajeeo-” I felt another shrug pushing me on the podium. I went on it grabbed the microphone, turned around and faced the building filled with the corrupt political system and continued, “Yes! Truly we are from God and to him we shall return. With such ease, you pulled the trigger, with such horrid grace you rid this Earth of a soul which was not yours to disencumber, I ask...Is there any compassion left, behind your icily glazed eyes? Underneath the smirk plastered onto your face? I wonder...Where do you find satisfaction in watching as the life flickers innocently out of the blood-stained body? My satisfaction lies within the words that are whispered as energy drains from the mass-murdered individuals. InnAllaha Samee'un Baseer. Surely! God does see and hear all.” Filled with rage I went on to scream, “Their dry throats and craving thirst are no longer of any importance as they ascend towards their Lord. The Lord that they remained loyal to despite the corruption in their once-peaceful lives for Him they were patient, for Him they involuntarily observed continuous and harsh fasts in unfavorable conditions for His sake they tolerated the dirt that embedded on their bodies from lack of access to cleansing utilities, Their families were torn apart, But they know Allah (swt) has everything planned with purpose; Inna lillAhi wainaa ilayhi raajeoon.” I ended with tears running down my eyes. I dismounted the podium, wiped the tears off my face, looked to the sky and said something. “anti habeebati ya ummi” were the words I let leave my lips...

By Kulsum Kermali and Sayyeda Fazel

A Sea of Tears

a fictional short-ish story. Meant to have a myth-y kind of feel to it.
This is an anecdote from long ago, in a land of peace and time of magic. Back then, the world wasn’t a corrupt place; which allowed the gods to roam freely on the earth. The meeting of the god of fire Xavi, and a normal town girl Alixara, amazingly resulted into the formation of what we now call the ‘sea’, before which, the only source of water was the excavation and holes on the earth, dug by the inhabitants of the areas themselves.
 
It was a beautiful summer day in the land of Crowpell, when the god Xavi was riding toward his home in Nestletown for his yearly visits to his mother, Carla, who wasn’t a goddess.  As to how he became a god, the answer is that, he inherited it from his father whom he had never known, for some reason or another, and Carla was never comfortable speaking about him. Throughout his journey he met all kinds of people: dwarfs, who were so loyal that they offered to ride with him just to keep him safe; centaurs, who offered he ride on them instead of a horse with reins to worry about; and normal humans, who offered their merchandise for free. Xavi obviously didn’t accept; he was very modest for a fire god. That is not to say he wasn’t used to being royalty; he did have a touch of pride in him.
 
In the dark of night, just when he reached the borders of Crowpell, and when the bare land started transforming into thick bushes with every step, he lost the reins of his horse and it threw him off its back. As soon as Xavi came back to his senses, he heard the noise of water being poured and felt his head pound, but also a cool sensation on his forehead. As he tried to gather everything together, he realized he was standing with his sword unsheathed facing directly at a beautiful stranger. But this stranger, her beauty wasn’t like anything he had ever seen. True, she was gorgeous to look at, but no, there was something else he couldn’t put his finger on. Judging from her clothes, she wasn’t a goddess, so what was it about her?  To his amazement, he saw quick movements and it was his own sword facing directly at him now.
“What in the name of Zureuz, may he live a thousand years and longer, are you doing? Do you know who it is you have a sword pointed at?” exclaimed Xavi with his hands held above his head.  Zureuz was the most reputable god; he was the god of earth. She rolled her eyes at him, at first being subtle about it, then making her distaste obvious. “Are you going to go running to your godfather telling him a girl pointed a sword at you?  All because you are unable to handle a horse? I can’t believe you pointed a sword at me when I’ve nursed you when your horse could have torn you into pieces. And surprisingly, people go on and on about how gods are gentlemen together with being exceptional swordsmen”, she ranted in anger.
After they stared at each other and breathed heavily for a few minutes, the girl dropped his sword and sat herself next to the fire; on the walk there she picked up the now soiled wet cloth that she had placed on his head. Xavi stared at her doing this. She wasn’t very graceful either; what was it about her then? He walked over to his sword, picked it up and went next to the fire where his sheath was, and placed it where it belonged in his belt. He sat himself across from her, the fire separating them. He looked up at the sky and said “you should best get your rest, its late; we don’t want either of us to be tired out”. She looked straight at him for a moment; he started wondering what that glint of extra beauty was? She got up and walked off. Just as she was a few feet away, he called out, “My lady, if you would please tell me your name so I can reward you for your hospitality as soon as possible”. She turned around, looked him straight in the eye. - No one does that, they always look down-. And said, “Reward from you would be a burden; my name you ask out of pity, and I won’t abide”.  She walked straight into the bushes, and he was left there in awe. The rest of the night she was all he thought about. Even in his dreams, he found himself making her a fire so she would be warm.
Xavi woke up to the birds chirping and the breeze blowing. Sitting up he realized the fire was out; the place was cleared out except for his things. He ran to his bag to check for his belongings. They were all intact; the only thing missing was the beautiful stranger from last night. He considered if it was a dream, and then blew that thought away because it was too real to be a dream and his head was hurt, his horse was nowhere to be found and he could swear he saw a foot print in the mud a yard away. If there was one thing he knew well, it was tracking. He was one of the best, so he set out in search of this young lady. He didn’t know why or what he would say to her; he just knew he needed to find her. A few times when he practiced what he would say to her, he mentioned “You’re what make me whole, the reason that I’m feeling more alive than ever, those few moments which ended with my own sword pointed at me, they changed my life, they changed ME. I needed to find you”.
 It took him two days till he caught sight of a familiar cloth on the soil, the soiled cloth that his mystery woman had nursed him with. He set out a bit further when he found her lying on the ground in her sleep. He noticed she was shivering as the fire was out, so he walked over and, with a flick of his wrist, he lit a fire just enough to keep the two of them warm. He stayed there looking at her for the next few hours and surprisingly sleep felt like a horrible idea.
 Next morning at first light he was up from the sleep that he fell into by mistake. He was still exactly where he sat last night, next to a tree trunk, across from her with the died out fire separating them, only this time she wasn’t shivering, she was getting up.
After a whole lot of explaining and convincing, he managed to get her seated next to him. Now was the part where he was supposed to tell her what he felt about her. The silence was getting creepy so she started saying, “You didn’t say when you found me, and what you were doing all night, because I can tell you haven’t slept”. He cleared his throat and said, “I found you just before midnight; I couldn’t have woken you up because you seemed composed after I lit a fire to keep you warm. I’m sorry to have been imposing if I was or am in any way”. It was like she had been hit with a lightning bolt, she was shocked! “Wait, am I hearing you right? Are YOU saying sorry?” He looked taken aback, “Yes, I suppose I am. Is it so hard to believe?” “No, no because gods always say sorry”, she said with heaps of hints of sarcasm. His face reddened with shame. He got up to go. This time she called out, “Listen, and where are you off to? You have no horse and have a lot of load. I have two horses and my load is not great. You can ride with me, and your load can follow us with my other horse. I just have to go to a town not far from here, and then you can take my horses from there on”.  For some reason that pierced his heart.  The thought of having her for only a day or two, then he may never see her again, even though, he accepted, there was only so far he could go on foot. “Oh and my name… it’s, Alixara.”
 The journey was very awkward at the start. He was sitting behind her while she held the reins. A few hours later, she couldn’t handle the fact that he had to hold her waist, mainly because she did find him attractive and his grip was dazzling, and she couldn’t help but blush. She didn’t want him to notice that. So, when they stopped for lunch they switched and a few times she found herself staring at his perfect profile while he concentrated on keeping the horse steady. The only reason he had to concentrate was because her arms around him made him dizzy and jittery.
 In two and a half days, they were at Alixara’s destination. Within the journey, the two got over each other’s differences and started enjoying each other’s company, while Xavi was open about his life. Alixara, on the other hand, was very reserved and tense.  On the day of their arrival, Alixara told Xavi that this was her home town, and that she lived in the countryside. She mentioned that as soon as she was dropped off, he would be free to go wherever he wished. The whole way to the countryside, Xavi was disheartened and miserable. He knew he should find the courage in him to tell her his feelings, but the coward that he was, he dropped her off, watched her go into the stables, reappear, and walk into her home without even one look at him.
 After less than a few yards, he found himself in tears and heartbroken. It was a feeling he had never had before, a feeling which was so strong that he turned around and raced back to where he dropped Alixara off. He stormed into her house. To his shock, he found an old lady in bed and those familiar brown hairs all over in a mess. He loved her hair that way, but seeing her like this tore his heart and shredded it. Just then, Alixara turned around, got up and ran straight into his arms. She cried till she was so weak that he had to carry her into her bed. He left her there to sleep and went to sit with the lady who broke his love’s heart.
 The sun was about to set when Alixara woke up. She abruptly jumped out of bed and made for her mother’s bed. To her amazement, her mother was laughing with her head on Xavi’s chest while he told her funny stories from his trip to Nitwit. “Ah! There’s the sleeping beauty”. He looked up and said, “Your mother, or may I say, Aspitania and I were just bonding. You didn’t tell me you were a pig on your annual ball because you thought it was Halloween. I’ve got to say, you looked like one skinny pig”, he grinned; pointing at the picture Alixara’s mom had showed him. “You, outside” She pointed at him then to the door, “And you need to rest ma! This Xavi will go on and on about himself, I think that’s all he does” she grinned back at him. As he turned, he considered looking taken aback, but her smirk was too flawless to let him even try. He just looked at her, smiled and walked out.
 After a few minutes, Alixara emerged from her house. She looked even more beautiful in the moonlight, he thought. She motioned toward the stables. No one knows what happened then; all people know is that the next morning the three of them, Xavi, Alixara and Aspitania set out for Nestletown. Some say Xavi wanted to take her for treatment. But Aspitania was so sick; she died on the way, a few days before they arrived at Nestletown. Xavi and the inhabitants of a town near the area where she passed away, arranged for the funeral. Alixara was devastated for the next few months, so Xavi was there for her, until one day, 5 months after they had been living in the same castle, Xavi proposed to Alixara for her hand in marriage.
 Their wedding was the most well celebrated one in history. There was feasts all around the kingdom, and joy amongst all. Just a few days later, tragedy struck. The god Zureuz and his step brother went to war, and all the gods had to go for battle. That night, Alixara cried and cried as she watched her newly wedded husband walk toward his probable death.
 Alixara cried so much that the weight of her tears was too much for the earth to handle and so it sunk into its crust and turned into what is now called a sea bed. This was the birth of the sea, Alixara’s salty tears. She went on crying until she would fall unconscious and when she would rise, she would do the same and fall into sleep yet again. She wept hundreds of seas before the god Zureuz ordered that she be raised into the skies. Even today she sobs, and her tears come down as rain, even today she falls unconscious, even today she yearns for her only true love…