Inevitable Flaw

Chapter 4: Distress

My foot repetitively befriends the ceramic floor. I confide in the sound in hopes that it will distance my mind from insanity. The pounding against my head, the aching pain my back nags, my burning eyes; they are all escape vents from reality, things I had control over. And so I feed them well.

I sit with my head guarded by my palms and focus on the depth my elbows etch into my thighs. The position is never comfortable, but like the others, I inhale the unease.

"Here," Aasif's voice launches from above me.

I glance at the paper cup and deny the offer.

"You need to break your fast," he mutters, not sure how to respond.

I shake my head again. My stomach needed this hollowness, it couldn't be set free.

I rest my head against Aasif's shoulder. His slow breathing temporarily relaxes me. The warmth radiating from his body blankets my clattering teeth.

"He'll be okay," he whispers with hesitance.

Within seconds, the words perform their effect. My tears soak his shirt but I continue flooding my open walls. For a forever of time.

I am not alone.

I chant this over and over until my eyes drowse into hypnosis; but they never find peace. I listen to mama sharing her concern for me. Her rising sadness pulls me up. I stare at her swollen glossy eyes before forcing a smile.

I propose we eat, only to reassure her.

We all walk into the hospital cafeteria, gather food, and then eat in silence. I allow the hot chocolate to burn my throat, but my stomach argues with food, even with force.

I glance at the people around us. Some of them laugh with their mouths full; their bodies burst in content.

Regardless of my father's diagnosis just being confirmed, an entire lifetime of sadness preys on me. The overwhelming fumes entertain themselves, drowning me deeper into a steep pit.

Nostalgia runs fresh as I recall this familiar feeling. But I knew that this time was going to be different, much more different. I panic at the extinct optimism I never truly savoured before being held hostage to expired innocence.

We finally overcame the past, all of us. And so it has become clear to me that life is unjustly stingy with happiness. It feeds you a taste of euphoria but then robs you without notice and leaves you miserable and winded. What's worse is that the addiction still streams in your blood so you work to obtain a higher high than you had the last time. For many, the feeling never comes. Maybe sometimes it does. But the cycle repeats and you never seem to win it's battle. Or in our case, not for long.

"You alright?" Aasif mumbles.

I nod my head before enhancing my posture.

"Should I pack this for you?" mama concerns while they both discard their waste.

"Yeah, thanks," I rub the sweat from my hands over my knees.

As they both tower above me, I smile, the widest I can stutter.

After wudu, we pray. I sit in seclusion for hours at a time and cry for divine assistance.

Eventually, a nurse notifies us of the doctor's arrival. This forces me into violent back and forth laps, the anxiety rush gaining strength with each one. The clock on one side of the wall continues ticking, the minutes resisting movement. The loudness of its performance mutes the world and for a comforting period, it's just time and I.

The shadow of a man in a doctor's uniform emigrates me out of my mind. He quickens his pace when he sees us. My heart thuds louder with his every step. He stops right where we are huddled, introducing himself in a deep voice. He transitions quickly into talking about the success of my father's stabilization, before going on to emphasize his lack of immunity and his place in a sterilized room.

The good news, bad news.

I don't know what compels me most- the strong smell of sanitization, the dark lonely hospital walls, or the cold air that chokes my neck- but my feet run for the door.

I open mama's car and lay flat on my back to voice my pain to the ceiling.

After a second, mama and Aasif enter the car without interrogation. It's a long and dark ride full of silent tears running their race.

The entire night invites my tossing and turning. When sleep doesn't arrive, I block my thoughts and focus on smaller things.

Oddly enough, I think of Adam- his face, his laugh, his pretentious sayings.

I blur to the time he sat me down on a bench after my leg broke in fifth grade. I find myself smiling at the way his eyebrows had wrinkled to remember a quote we had thoroughly discussed in english class.

"Pain is temporary," he had said.

I let the words sink in, repeating the phrase over and over again, so many times that it instills hope at the same time that it brings back our memories; the warm connection I find myself envying now.