I wrinkle my nose as the stinking metro smell greets me. Sam and Maja are being picked up by their mother, so today it's just me.
It's Wednesday. The third day at my new school is over, and I'm feeling alright. Not better than before, but also not worse.
I know that teenagers are known for having mood swings, but I can't remember the last time I felt a real emotion. Last year was just about making him happy and obeying his orders. I completely forgot what it was like to think of myself and about what I'm feeling. My wishes had no importance anymore. Then, the last couple of months, it was the contrary. The therapists and my parents wanted me to think of me and my emotions all the time. Suddenly, my life solely consisted about me having to talk about what I was thinking, feeling, wanting. Talking, talking, and talking.
The thing was, at that point, I wasn't thinking or feeling anything anymore. So I didn't have anything to say.
The therapists and my parents thought I wasn't opening up about myself because the time with him had given me trust issues. I didn't bother correcting them and continued to let them think they knew what they were talking about. The therapists diagnosed me with some fancy mental disease and my parents paid them a shit load of money for giving my behavior a name.
I don't really understand why adults try to solve our problems. They can't. They don't understand us. Adults from nowadays grew up in another world, in a world where there was no economic crisis, where the EU wasn't blamed for every single issue and most importantly, when Islamism didn't exist yet. They have no freaking clue what it's like to grow up as a post-millennial.
Anyways, lately my life has just been feeling like I'm going through the motions. But at least, no one here knows what I did. No one judges me. So I guess it is better than back in Nice.
Sighing, I step into the metro. It's pretty full, as most pupils are going home now. I start to look around to find anyone I know from school I can sit with (I have made some other friends in my classes today) but sadly, the wagon is only filled with unfamiliar faces.
Looks like it's going to be just me and my music, then. I sigh. I don't like to be alone. The memories come back, and I've been trying so hard to chase them away lately. The therapists say they'll only leave if I accept them, but how I am supposed to accept the monster I became last year?
With closed eyes, I lean my head on the cold train widow and try to imagine a place that's better than here, a place where I am happy, but I can't. All I see is darkness.
When have I ever been happy?
As a child of course, but that doesn't count. Children are ignorant. Ignorance means happiness, always.
Am I too young to know what happiness means? Or too old? Is it impossible for me to be happy, because I know too much and I've seen too much?
I. Need. To. Stop. Thinking.
I bang at my head against the window, hoping it'll make me feel less confused somehow, and I immediately regret it when my head starts to pound. Wincing, I rub it in one hand while I open my eyes to see how far I still am from my stop. Sighing, I realize I still have 10 minutes to go.
I decide to observe the passengers. Kind of creepy, but at least I won't have to think about myself for a while. Besides, I love to imagine what kind of life these people have.
While judging others seems to be man's favorite activity, no one can actually know what's going on in another person's life by just looking at them.
Take this man standing next a couple of meters away from me, for example. He's reading a newspaper –I didn't know these were even printed anymore- and his hair is brown and bushy. He looks smart, like he has a PHD in Physics, or Literature. His life is probably perfect. He's doing what he loves, and he has a wife who's just as smart as he is.
Or maybe not. Maybe his wife just left with him for a younger, sexier man. Or he got fired because the discoveries he's made in his field were proven as invalid. Who knows?
I let my eyes wander around the wagon a bit and that's when I see them.
They're at the other end of the wagon, talking, looking relaxed, and, for once, wearing normal clothes. They look so... innocent. A disgusting taste appears in my mouth. How dare they stand here, like nothing's happened?
What were their names again? Rachid and Amid, was it? I didn't have much to do with them back then. But more importantly, what are they doing here? They are supposed to be back in Nice.
My heart starts beating faster and faster, and suddenly, I'm feeling really hot.
They are supposed to be far away from me.
They are supposed to be back in Nice.
Little sweat drops are running down my forehead. I can feel the stares of other people on me, but I don't care. I don't care about them, I just care about Rachid and Amid.
I'm going to have a panic attack.
I need to get out here. They cannot see me. What the hell am I supposed to do when they see me? What are they going to do to me?
I feel panic rising from deep within me. My whole body is full of fear. I can't think properly anymore. I can't breathe properly anymore. I just know I want to get out.
The panic attack is preparing itself inside of me, and soon, it's going to break out. I need to be outside of this train before that. If I have a panic attack inside of this train, they will notice me for sure. And if they notice me... I whimper at the thought. I can't have them notice me.
And finally, finally, the train stops at the next station. It's not my station, but I don't care, I'd rather walk all the way home than stay in this train a second longer. So I run, I run, I run until I'm out of the train, out of the underground station and back outside, in the real world.
A busy Parisian street greets me. People send me annoyed glances as I don't move, I just stand in the middle of the street, heavily breathing. Suddenly, my panic attack is gone. It didn't get the chance to break out.
I stay like this a couple of minutes, just breathing, calming myself down, ignoring the irritated scowls I get from pedestrians.
It's over. They are gone, and I'm safe. It's over.
I decide that if I'm already here, I could as well sit down in one of the cafés here and try to comprehend what happened in there in the train.
I sit down outside –thankfully, the weather's nice today- and order a coffee.
Why are Rachid and Amid here? I didn't think they travelled very much. No one in their crowd did.
I can only think of two reasons why they were here.
The first one is business. They might be planning something else for Paris, or meeting with the ones wanting to organize one of the other cities. Sadly, I look at the other Parisians sitting at the tables around me, smoking, drinking, laughing, thinking that the hell they were put through last November is over. If only they knew... It is far from over. It has only begun.
The second one is me. They might be wanting to get revenge for what I did to him. I gulp. I've never been so afraid of a thought before.
Because if that's true, if Rachid and Amid are really here for me, then I'm already lost.
It takes me almost half an hour to walk home, and once I finally reach my apartment, I'm in a pretty bad mood. It's almost dinner time now, and I haven't done any of my homework.
And more importantly, my life might be in danger. Again.
"Hey." My mom looks up as I enter the apartment.
"You're already home?" I ask, yawning and taking my shoes off.
"Yeah. It's kind of late, if you hadn't noticed. Where were you?"
"I had a problem with the metro," I answer. That's not a lie. It's just a very vague explanation.
She nods. "It happens. You okay with pasta for dinner?"
"Sure."
"Alright. I'll call you when dinner's ready."
I make my way to my room, let myself fall on my bed and exhale a relieved breath I didn't know I was holding.
My mom has gone through so much shit for me, and I'm still being dishonest with her. My dad left her because of me, for god's sake, and she hasn't complained one single time. I owe her so much. I owe it to her to tell the truth, I know that, but I can't.
My mom thinks we've made progress by moving here, starting fresh. She was born and raised in Paris, and since Nice is the city where her life fell apart, I can't blame her for wanting to move here, and I can't blame her for slowly starting to feel happier.
She's the happiest she's been in months. She hasn't told me, but I've noticed it. The way she listens to music again. How she talks for hours on the phone with her best friends back from lycée, and how she attempts cooking complicated recipes, failing every time and laughing at it.
My mother thinks everything's going back to the way it used to be, the way it should be, and I love her too much to burst her little bubble.
She doesn't need to know that I'm still suffering. That I still hate myself. That I'm never going to heal.
That my past is catching up with me, no matter how hard I try to from escape it.
Absentmindedly, I reach under my bed, pulling out my old backpack that drastically changed the course of my life and a copy of the Koran he gave me a long time ago. With sadness overpowering me, I stare at the book. This book, this religion used to be my safe place. Now, because of this book and all of the problems it has caused me, I don't have a safe place anymore.
I don't have anything, or anyone anymore.
I betrayed the Islam, and after everything I've done, I'm certainly not God's child anymore. Unlike the bible says, there are some things even He can't forgive.
His friends want to kill me.
The therapists don't truly care about me, they only care about the money.
My new friends would hate me if they knew who I really am.
My dad doesn't even want look at me.
My mom has already suffered too much.
And that's when I start crying, because I realize I'm all alone.
I've always loved art. When I was little, I used to draw on everything I could find with everything I could find. The art itself didn't matter to me, what mattered was that I had created something.
Something that could never be erased and that was all mine, forever.
What I like so much about art is its consistency. Humans have always drawn, painted, sculpted or formed something. It started in prehistory and it has never stopped. Art is the mirror of society: through art, we can see how humans have developed over time.
My love for art is the reason I'm excited to be sitting in Arts class right now. It's only the class I'm actually genuinely interested in. The teacher hasn't arrived yet, so the other kids are sitting on tables in small groups and talking to each other. I don't know anyone, and I'm not interested in making any other acquaintances. I want to focus on Sam, Lisa and the others and try to build a serious friendship with them.
If everything goes well, I'm here to stay, and I do not intend to spend the next one and a half years here with fake friends. It's better to have one real friend than ten fake ones, as they say.
I see Lisa walking into the classroom with a girl I don't know. When she spots me, she waves and smiles at me before taking her seat next to the other girl.
Someone plops on the chair next to me. Sam. Of course.
"Didn't take you for the arts type," I greet him.
He raises an eyebrow at me, the green of his eyes as intense as ever. "Why not?"
I just shrug. "Dunno. It doesn't really go with the whole bad boy cliché you've got going on."
As soon as I close my mouth, I regret that I even opened it in the first place. Why the heck did I say that? I've definitely read too many Wattpad books.
Sam laughs, and I can only hope he's laughing with me and not at me. "Oh, Roxane. You've still got so much learn."
Um, excuse you? "What exactly do I still have to learn?"
"Well, for starters", he stretches his arms before resting them on the table, chin in his hands, "clichés only exist if you want them to."
I lean back, staring at him questioningly. "What do you mean by that?"
"A bad boy can also be a nerd, or a coward. A person is not only this or that, Roxane. We consist of so many different layers, so many different aspects. It's impossible to ever completely know another human being. So don't categorize us, Roxane."
His voice is so deep, and so calm. Sexy. I could listen to him for ages.
I love how Sam can get serious all at once. Teenagers always want to have fun and stay superficial. When shit gets deep, they chicken out and leave. Not Sam. Sam isn't afraid of serious, or difficult, or heavy. He sees the world as it truly is and understands that there are more important things than clothes, food, or school grades.
"I don't mean to categorize people," I tell him, "it's just automatic."
My friend doesn't seem surprised by my answer. "Of course you don't mean to. It's society that taught you to think that way, and it's nearly impossible to escape a way of thinking you were born into."
That's not true. I've already managed to escape society's way of thinking once, but I was stopped in the very last second before I would have truly become one of them.