I pulled back my raven colored hair with the red ribbon, but left most of it hanging down my back. It was down past my waist. I had never cut my hair in all my life, and I didn’t plan to. At times it was difficult to care for, okay, all of the time it was trouble, but it was worth it. It made me who I am: Layla, the dark beauty.
I smoothed down my flowing dress that only went to my knees. Scandalous, I thought with a smile. I slipped off my shoes, deciding that I wanted to feel the warm ground on my bare skin one last time. I grabbed a shawl and a scarf and stuffed them in a bag, just in case something went wrong. I had played the scenario in my head a dozen times and they all ended badly. This was practically a suicide mission but I was willing to be a martyr for the cause, but I was still scared out of my mind. But, I threw the bag over my shoulder, and crouched down to look under my bed. Underneath was a rock, about twice the size of my hand, a shiny gray smoothed over with time. It had been there since I was a little girl, had found it, thought it was pretty, and kept. Ten years later I was glad I had.
Scooping up the rock, I walked over to my bolted window. I searched the lock for weak spots. I didn’t have much time. After the first few swings my parents would hear me. Excitement was with my every breath. Fear was with my every heartbeat. My blood was racing through my veins. I was going to do it. I was going to go through with it. Raising my arm, I swung at the lock. A large dent formed on the side. The noise was loud and I kept worrying that my parents would burst through the door at any moment. I heard a commotion downstairs, the scraping of furniture moving on the wood floor, the hustle of footsteps. But they were too late. The lock broke into pieces scattering on the floor.
I threw the lock away from the window and threw it open. I didn’t dare take any of my precious time to smell the air. The key turned in the lock at my door and I heard a click, but I was already climbing down the side of our house. Footsteps thundered above me and my mother’s face appeared in the window, looking down on me, horror in her eyes. Jumping the remainder of the two feet to the ground I heard her cry my name, but I ignored her. I was off.
Looking back, I spied my father bursting out the front door, but soon stopping in his tracks. I was too far ahead. It was useless to chase me now.
I felt bad for them. In normal times they would call the police to report a runaway child. Now they couldn’t because the police would kill the child they were trying to get back. These were not normal times. I hated these times.
Running as fast as I could, I found my way to the alley where I would usually meet Kamal every morning. He wasn’t there. I checked all of the alleys nearby but he was nowhere to found. I kept searching frantically while still trying to stay in the shadows. There was no point in being caught before I found Kamal.
Then I heard shouting. As quickly and quietly as I could I slunk over to the cause of the noise. There, in the middle of the street was a Taliban policeman beating a poor boy to a pulp. I stepped closer, still in the shadows. I peered into the boy’s sunken eyes, his hair matted with sweat and blood, more blood dripping down his back. His shirt lay in shreds on the pavement. The boy’s arms were limp. Soon he would be knocked out. Then it would only be a matter of minutes before he was dead. I was used to this treatment. It made me sick inside, but it was out life now, our bloody, strict, rule-filled life. I leaned over to a bystander and asked what he had done.
“He stole an apple. They’re killing this boy because he stole an apple from my stand. The kid was starving, I would have let him have the apple, but the Taliban’s goons saw him,” the man responded. Then he looked at me. Shock and horror filled his eyes.
“What are you…what am I doing…? I shouldn’t be talking to you! You’re a girl…no burqa…no escort… what are you doing here?!”
“It’s okay,” I answered his shock calmly. I looked back towards the boy being beaten to death. He looked familiar. “I won’t tell anyone you talked to me.”
Then it struck me, the boy was Kamal! I just hadn’t recognized him covered in blood and almost unconscious. I nearly screamed. But I must have made at least a slight noise because the man looked at me, startled.
“Will you do me a favor?” I was breathing fast and heavy all of a sudden. “Get that boy out of there.”
The man looked at me like I was insane, but perhaps I was. “Are you crazy? They’ll put me on their “Execution List”!”
“Sir, I will get them away from him, please just get him out of the middle of the street for me when they leave. I’m begging you, sir, please!”
The man looked at me and nodded almost mechanically. I thanked him in a hurry then stopped at the edge of the shadow I was standing in. Once I stepped into the light there was no going back. I took a deep breath and rolled my shoulders back twice. Each heartbeat was loud in my ears. My blood was pumping. Time seemed to slow as I was in my own little world. Every breath I took seemed to calm me. I was going to save Kamal. I was going to save him. But then I stepped out of my wholesome little world and into the terror of reality.
At first no one noticed me, but then I turned heads. I began to sing: “Through times of trouble.” The other townspeople looked at me in surprise and horror-they knew what would become of me. The faces of angry Taliban police turned and glared at me. I sang louder. “Hope will be there for you. Peace will overcome you.” They began advancing. “I will be there for you.” I was scared out of my mind but I forced myself to keep going. I might die, but Kamal would live. I might die...
I would die with dignity. I would die rebelling, standing up for what I believed in. I didn’t want to die. I watched as the men beating Kamal dropped him to the ground, his face smashed to the ground with a sickening thud. I cringed. The man with the whip began coming towards me now. I looked at the man who had promised to take care of Kamal. He looked back at me, worry in his eyes. I dropped my bag next to the stranger whom I had entrusted Kamal’s life with. No time to worry. I ran.
I sprinted down the streets like all hell had broken loose and it was hot on my trail, which, technically you could say it was. The most brutal police force our country had ever come to know was chasing me through the streets of my town, closing in on me and my death.
Ahead of me were the crowded market streets. Behind me were the Taliban’s police. This was going to get messy.
My dress flapped in the breeze I created and dirt and dust were flying, grit sticking in my hair and to my teeth. I whispered a sorry to the market stands that were about to be ruined, either by myself or the police, and plunged into the mass of people. I ducked into a shop selling elaborate, woven rugs and huddled between the plush yarns, breathing hard. Outside of my cacoon, I heard shouts, crashing, yelling, and the pounding of feet running by. I peeked my head out and the police had passed by but were still in the market. With as much stealth as I could muster, I snuck my way out of the market back the way I had come.
Soon I reached an alley way and hid in the shadows, jogging along back to the place where Kamal was hopefully out of harm’s way. I then found myself behind the very stand I was looking for. The owner’s stand was covered with brightly colored fruits. Many seemed exotic to me with bright yellows, oranges, purples, greens, and reds. But I was not here for fruit; I was here for, for, my love.
Yes, I had just realized I loved Kamal. In the midst of all this chaos I had found romance for the first time in all my 16 years.
I crept up to the stand and tapped the man on the back. He jumped slightly and turned around to face me. He sighed in relief. I looked around; Kamal was nowhere in sight. I began to panic.
“Where is he?” I whispered fiercely, the anxiety rising in my voice with each word.
The man shuffled over to the side of his fruit stand and rolled a wheelbarrow with a lumpy tarp strewn over top it. Noticing the edge of the crumpled dirty tarp left the wheelbarrow slightly ajar, a toe was peeking out from underneath it. I let out a yelp. Then I calmed myself, just enough to ask:
“Is he alive?” my voice shaky and uneven.
The man saw my fear and smiled, “Just barely. I got a little bit of water in him before he passed out. He should be fine soon enough. Little lady, I just wanted to tell you, I have never seen so much courage from anyone ever since the Taliban. They have been needing someone to give them a run for their money, and I say you did a fine job.”
My cheeks flushed a bright red, I looked down at the ground, embarrassed, mumbling a means of thanks. The man just smiled at me.
“Here,” he said, handing me the wheelbarrow’s handles. “Take this with you. And don’t worry about getting it back to me, just keep yourself safe.”
“Thank you!” I gasped, overflowing with gratitude. I picked up my bag from where I had left it and pulled out the scarf, wrapping it around my head, covering my head and most of my face. Then I draped the shawl over my shoulders, coving up the bright dress as best I could. Hopefully I wouldn’t draw quite as much attention this way.
As I began my journey back I realized I hadn’t asked the kind man for his name. I frowned internally; I guess I needed to work on my manners. But after being locked in my roon for so long, who could blame me?
But, I took Kamal the back-ways through alleys and unpopulated streets all the way back to my house and I stopped at the back door. I heard my mother and father shouting at each other from inside. Then I heard crying. I knocked on the door. All noise in side stopped for a moment. I knocked again. Then I heard my mother whisper something along the lines of: “They are here.”
Slowly the door creaked open and when she saw it was me she gasped and threw open the door. “Layla! How did you make it home alive? Layla, you should be dead…oh we were so worried…”
“Mother, just help me get Kamal inside.”
“Kamal?” she peered around me and nearly fainted when she saw the wheelbarrow, a body splayed out on the frame. “Oh Layla, what have you done?”
“This is Kamal and we need to help him,” I answered her distress calmly. “Now help me get him inside.”