I CAN'T BELIEVE I ACTUALLY GOT 7K READS SO FAST THANK YOU SO MUCH GUYS I REALLY REALLY APPRECIATE THE SUPPORT LOVE YOU ALL. OH AND 375 VOTES YASS I THINK I AM GOING TO MAKE IT TO 500 BY THE END OF THE BOOK, INSHA ALLAH, THANK YOU SO MUCH, GOD BLESS YOU.
(this is your gift for the 7K reads and sorry it's small but that doesn't matter much, does it?)
dedicated to @vendolpark08 bc of her immense support, thank you so much, love. (also bc i love her comments)
now i am going to sleep it really is three in the morning haha. (sorry 'bout callum's part not being up to standard, gonna change it later, it was just too hard to write, tell me what you think)
16: Why
Farrah Adam.
She was supposed to be a good person, an admirable Muslim, someone who set examples for people, a role model.
She was supposed to be the person who wore the head scarf, the person who followed Islam, the person who was as good as perfect.
She isn’t though.
She isn’t the person she had initially wanted to be, dreamed of being. She isn’t someone admirable. She isn’t respectable.
Instead, she is the girl who lied. The girl who pretended to be broken. The girl who over reacted. The girl who self-pitied.
The girl who doesn’t want to live, anymore.
The girl who selfishly lied.
She is a coward, a bitch – she doesn’t just want to die,she deserves to die because really, who will love her – who will love someone who pretends to be broken, someone who cries all too often and reacts too much and someone who can’t even love herself, let alone get other people to love her.
Who will love her? And yet she wishes that someone will, someone, someone out there, who’s willing to come up and ask,
Are you okay?
I understand.
I understand if you are not.
She wishes and hopes but the thing is hopes are just hopes and wishes are just wishes and they never turn in to something more, they never turn in to reality, not in this cruel, cruel world where everything seems to be going wrong even though it should be going right because there is nothing, absolutely nothing wrong with her life and with her and with everything around her. And she doesn’t even know what to think anymore except that she’s a very bad Muslim and this, this is why she’s unhappy because if she were a good one, she’d just bask in the knowledge that God loves her and she’d know that it’s enough, having God love her is enough.
Sometimes, she wonders if even God will love her. She’s just been an unfaithful servant.
But Allah is merciful, she knows, she knows it and for the first time since everything started going wrong, she turns to Him because He is the master and He is the one who has decided her fate and He, only He is capable of changing anything, of making everything alright, of making everything fine, better, good, excellent.
After weeping like the madwoman she is – but this time, there’s a reason and the reason is that she’s disappointed in herself, she hates herself, she wants to die - she goes to the bathroom to wash her face.
It’s always the same after she cries. Red circles under her eyes. Red nose. Red eyes. Everything red, red, red as if everything is bleeding, bleeding with her, with her heart, as if everything has been cut.
She shouldn’t be bleeding, though because how stupid is that, bleeding over a mistake when she should be learning from it but the tears come and go and she can’t even stop them anymore.
When she gets back in her bed, she snugly hides under her blanket and then takes her phone in her hand.
Stares at it.
Goes through her contacts.
And then, she realizes that she has no one to talk to, that if she did talk to Farhanna or Zaid or anyone else, they’d just end up telling her that she’s stupid, an idiot, an over-reactor, someone who doesn’t even have a story to back her fricking tears up.
She wouldn’t even blame them if they did because that is what she thinks too – that she’s weird and stupid and she just doesn’t belong here, in this world of normal people who cry at normal things.
She starts crying once again and she swears that it is the worst feeling ever because it’s night and she’s alone, so fricking alone and there, in the other room, her parents are watching dramas together, enjoying, laughing while she, she is crying and weeping and she wants to stop, oh my God, she wants to stop.
She doesn’t.
They go on and on, these tears. They trail down her cheek, down to her neck and she wants to just stop breathing in the moment but she’s afraid, too afraid to die.
If she dies, she faces God and she isn’t ready for that, she hasn’t prepared for that and Ya Allah, she doesn’t even know where her thoughts are heading or where her tears are leading her.
And then she thinks, why her, why her, why not somebody else, why not nobody and she’s dying and crying and screaming except that she isn’t screaming and she isn’t dying – they are all in her head.
There are tears, sure, but these screams – they exist only in her head. They are silent and they shout at her to stop, stop destroying herself, stop being a fricking mental patient.
She can’t stop.
Can’t.
SHE CAN’T.
Why? She screams in her mind, at it, why don’t you shut up? Why don’t you stop thinking so much for once? Why do you always keep overreacting?
But she doesn’t get an answer, she never does.
And so there she is, lying in her bed, shivering, screaming at her mind, weeping, trying to stop, trying to die, trying not to die, trying to live, trying not to live, trying to somehow, change herself, trying not to think, trying to get answers, just trying, trying, trying.
You know what, though?
She fails each time.
.
The first thing Emma notices when she enters the house is the ridiculously strong smell of cigarette. The next thing she sees is her father, with his bloodshot eyes, lying on the floor, taking drags of the cigarette.
“Mom?” She shouts, her voice wavering.
Her father looks at her. His face is tear-stained.
His smile is strained, “Hello, dear.”
“Hey, Daddy,” She whispers and then she kneels down next to him and just looks at him, the man who’s always been strong, always been two steps ahead of life and it breaks her but she doesn’t cry.
She is stronger than that.
“Emma-“ Her mother walks in to the room, just starting to say her name when she catches sight of her daughter and husband, there on the floor.
“Oh,” Mrs. Walters says, “He’s been that way since morning. He didn’t go to work today.”
Emma bites her lips and nods.
Despite her mother’s permanent lively nature, Emma catches signs of distress on her face, like her slightly red nose that shows that she has been crying or the wrinkles on her forehead that had never been there before.
She looks back to her father. When did her family turn in to his broken mess?
Emma takes her father’s hand and stares at him. He is staring at the ceiling.
“Hey, Daddy,” She repeats, “Why don’t you take a break?”
“Break from what?” Her father asks, squeezing her hand tightly.
“From work,” She says slowly, “We’ll run the family – my mother and I. You don’t need to worry. You just need to be okay, you need to stop killing yourself.”
“Emma,” Her father says and he looks so desperate, so helpless that Emma almost runs because well, as she’s said many times before – her father is her rock and her rock is breaking, her foundation crumbling and she doesn’t know how long she’ll be able to carry on with the tattered foundation.
“Rest a little, Daddy,” She runs a hand through his hair, lovingly and her father closes her eyes and lets out a small sigh of content. Emma makes a mental note to show him that despite all their differences, she still loves him, loves him so much that it hurts.
“But my brothers, Emma,” Her father says, his voice still desperate, “My brothers…they’ll die of poverty. My sisters…they can’t stand up on their own feet.”
“I don’t give two shits about them,” Emma says confidently, “They can stand up on their own feet, if only, they try. Daddy, you need to rest. You need to stop being the hero.”
“You don’t understand, princess,” Her father chokes out, tears in his eyes.
Her heart warms at hearing that little endearing word and she breathes a little.
“But I do, Daddy,” She smiles down at him, “I am your daughter.”
“What would you understand?”
“I understand what it’s like, trying to please everyone. I understand that it’s hard to stop helping people once you’ve started it. I can’t even imagine it. I know what it’s like, getting an urge to be the hero and then believing that you can do, you can when really, it’s in all honesty, just impossible. Because in reality, you’ll kill yourself trying to do it – trying to please everyone and be the hero and stand up on your own feet.”
Her father just looks up at her in wonder and he cracks it then, a little smile, her salvation, her hope, her light, as he says, “You really are my daughter.”
Her mother bursts out sobbing in the middle of it all. Emma looks up, shocked, that her mother is still standing there and then, goes up and hugs her mother a little, just a little because she doesn’t want to cry herself.
“Will you do it, then?” Emma asks her father, her eyes pleading him, begging him, telling him to please give up for once.
Her father nods sadly, “Only for you, princess.”
And then, Emma almost bursts from joy. She goes over and hugs her father too and she ignores the horrible smell of cigarette and when everything’s over and her parents are in her room, she starts searching for another job to go along with The Roger’s Clothes.
But before she does that, before she browses through hope with that little smile on her face, she cracks down, she cries a little and laughs a bit because a person has to break down once in a while.
.
Callum isn’t even sure what he is doing here, standing there, on an isolated bridge.
He doesn’t even know how he got here – the only thing that he knows is that his heart is telling him to get it over with, jump, jump, just jump because no one can ever love him.
No one ever will.
Because he is just this “asshole” of a son, a “dickhead” of a brother, a guilty person, someone who deserves to die, die, die.
He stands there for a while, motionless. His heart is beating faster. His mind is forming all sorts of images, flashes from the past, of his brother and him, of his whole family and him.
He sighs.
He’s been so selfish that just because he was broken, he destroyed the whole fricking family because he wanted them all to feel his pain.
He should die.
Taking in a little breath, he takes position. His knees are crouched. He can’t even make sense of his thoughts anymore.
All he knows is that, he needs to get it over it, he needs to die but then, this little part of him, it goes on and tells him how stupid he is, how stupid he is to ignore what he’s got and focus on what he hasn’t got.
What has he got?
He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what his mind is trying to tell him. He doesn’t know what people speak about when they tell them that they can’t possibly count their blessings.
He remembers Abraham’s words.
And then, it hits him.
He is standing here, in this world. There is a light breeze around him. Both the moon and the Sun are visible in the evening sky. The greenery around him is beautiful. His silky black hair rest on his forehead. He has chocolate brown eyes. His nose is perfect. His lips are perfect. His appearance – it’s perfect, except for those bruises that mark his body.
He can walk.
He can talk.
He has talent.
Everything, every single one of those things is a blessing.
He straightens up and thinks to himself, I am not going to kill myself, I’ll be strong and then he promises himself to thank Abraham because he owes the guy who taught him that blessings could be countless.
He retreats from the bridge, giving it one last, longing look. He is beyond suicide. He is better. He is stronger.
He has a world around him to look for.
He won’t die.
Yet, some part of him still wants to.
He doesn’t know what to do. One foot is on the bridge, the other on the ground. He whips out his phone and calls the first number he sees here.
It is Emma’s.
She picks up on the third ring, “Hello?”
He swallows nervously, “Hi.”
“Who is this?”
“You don’t recognize me?” He asks, trying to control his trembling voice.
“Callum?” Emma asks incredulously.
“Yeah,” He clears his throat, “I…I just tried to kill myself.”
“Okay,”
“I backed off, though…decided I was stronger.”
“Good for you.”
He looks down at his feet, “Only for me?”
“What am I supposed to say?” She sounds exhausted.
“Are you okay?” He asks.
“I am more than okay,” Emma says and she does sound the part, “I am just tired.”
“Okay,” He says.
“Why did you do it?” She blurts out.
He has started walking towards his car already, “I didn’t do it, Emma. No need to get your hopes up.”
She chuckles a little, taking him surprise, “Aw, shucks, man, I thought you’d died.”
She sounds ridiculous and he has to bite his cheeks to keep from smiling like an idiot, “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I would be better if you weren’t talking to me,” She says but he can hear the mischief in her voice and he relaxes back in his seat.
“Nah,” He says, “I am pretty sure I make you feel a thousand times better.”
“Nah,” She mimics, “I am pretty sure you don’t.”
He smiles and he wants to say something, just to hear her like that, happy and carefree, teasing him, insulting him but he doesn’t know what to say.
There is silence.
“Callum,” Emma asks, “You still there?”
“Yeah,” He says, “I um…need to get home.”
“Oh,” She replies, sounding almost disappointed but that’s just his wishful thinking, “Well, talk to you later, yeah?”
“Hopefully,” He breathes, “Thank you.”
“You don’t need to thank me,” She says.
“Yeah, okay,” He answers, probably sounding like an idiot.
After a few minutes of absolute silence, in which both of them refuse to hang up the phone, he finally cuts the call.
When he looks in the rearview mirror, he catches sight of his own goofy smile and shakes his head.
Who smiles like that after they’d just attempted suicide?
Apparently, the little voice in his head says, Someone who’d just talked to someone they like a lot.
He refuses to believe it, though.
He just blames it on the fact that he’s just figured out that he is stronger than suicide.
And he is.
.
“Are you okay?” Asks No One.
“How do you feel today?” Asks No One.
“I understand how you feel,” Says No one.
“Don’t worry, it’ll end,” Assures No One.
“I am by your side. It’s okay to be weak. I’ll be the stronger one for now,” Says No One.
No One.
Two words. They keep destroying Abraham’s life. Because he doesn’t need “No One” with him, now. He needs everyone he can get. He needs anyone who’d understand.
He needs someone. Someone other than Max, other than his mother, other than his family; someone who’ll understand what he’s going through, someone who’ll understand without him having to say anything, someone who’ll get it.
Someone who’ll get why he always feels the need to kill Callum, why the betrayal hurts so much, why he over reacts even more than Max, why he’s started skipping dinner now, someone who’ll just get him and make him feel better and take away his pain and just understand that he’s not okay.
Because he is not; not by a long shot.
He takes a deep breathe to keep from breaking down. The last thing he wants to do is cry. He has been holding it in for the past few months – he won’t let go off it, now.
And, anyways, it’s time for dinner.
If his mother sees him crying and somehow, gets knowledge of his thoughts, then she’ll probably kill herself with guilt and worry.
And the nails – she’ll bite all her nails away.
As if on cue, as if his mother knows that he’s thinking about her, she peeks in to his room, “Abraham?”
He sits up and yawns, “Yeah?”
“It’s time for dinner, sweetheart,” She says.
He looks down at his stomach and then at his hand and at his legs, “I don’t feel like eating anything.”
He just hopes that his stomach doesn’t growl and give him away.
“But you’ve been skipping dinner for the past week,” She says, frowning, concerned, “Are you sure you feel okay? Your Dad could take you to the doctor if you want?”
He closes his eyes and lies down on his bed again, “No need to worry, mother. I’ll be fine.”
“No, you won’t,” She says a little shrilly and he almost stops breathing because his mother seems to be losing hope too, even if she doesn’t know anything and somehow, that kills him more than the tears do, “You’ve been saying that since Day one. What if you’ve got cancer?”
“Mom,” He croons, “Calm down.”
“Did I ever tell you?” She starts, “That your grandmother died of cancer?”
“No, you didn’t, Mama,” He says softly.
“Well, she did,” His mother replies, “And I am not gonna let you die of cancer, too.”
“I am not dying, Mother,” His voice is gentle, “Where is the optimistic side of you?”
“It’s gone because my son hasn’t been eating dinner,” His mother shouts.
“Mama…”
“Don’t you Mama me,” His mother says, “You are going to the doctor tomorrow and that’s final. No excuses of any sort.”
“But I am fine, Mama,” He almost pleads, “Don’t take me to the doctor.”
“Why not?” She challenges, “Do you have some sort of hospital phobia or something?”
He grips on to the excuse as soon as she offers it – that’s the only thing to do to keep her from finding out, “Y-yeah.”
She looks at him suspiciously, “You never had it before.”
“But I do, now,” He rubs his arms, his eyes downcast, “I have had it for the past few months.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” She narrows her eyes and Abraham is afraid that she won’t buy it.
“Didn’t want to worry you,” He shrugs, trying to act cool about it when really, his stomach churns and his heart is beating ten times as fast because his mother can’t know.
“Oh, Abraham,” She says, not unkindly, “You need to face your fears, one day.”
“But I don’t want to do it, now,” He whispers, half-talking to himself.
Right now, dinner is his biggest fear.
“Look,” His mother says, sitting next to him, “You need to go to the doctor. What if you end up dying?”
I wouldn’t mind then, he thinks.
“Don’t go to the extremes, Mother,” He says, “I’ll be fine. Just…trust Allah.”
“I do trust Allah,” She answers indignantly, “But the thing is, we need to do something. Allah won’t help us if we don’t work towards it, too.”
Abraham sighs in defeat, afraid that if he’ll push her more, she’ll break down, “Fine.”
She nods happily.
Now, he’ll just have to figure out some excuse to untangle him out of the situation. And he’ll probably have to find out some other excuse to skip dinner.
After all, he doesn’t want to get fatter than he already is.
Also, he doesn’t want to deserve to die.
(But he doesn’t want to live, either)
.
“Hello?” Sara says in to her skype. She doesn’t know who’s calling in the middle of the fricking night.
“Hey,” It’s a deep voice – a guy’s and she is ready to tell him off when the guy says, “It’s Max.”
She looks at the time. It is 3 A.M.
She switches on the lights then and opens up her video – not caring if she looks worse than a dead rat - so he can read her lips, “Are you out of your fricking mind? What kind of creep goes about calling girls at three in the morning?”
“I do,” He answers.
Sara closes her eyes for a moment, “What do you want?”
“Do you remember that website company I talked about in an email to you?” He asks and Sara remembers it, the email, and how she had burst with joy in that moment.
She can’t believe she forgot about it. But in her defense, so much has happened ever since that she hasn’t been able to function properly at all.
“Yeah, I remember,” She says slowly, “I am sorry, I didn’t respond sooner. I just, kind of, forgot.”
“So you are not interested?” Max asks bluntly.
“No, no, no,” Sara says quickly, “That’s not it. It’s just that I’ve been stressed lately and well…”
She trails off, making a fool of herself and blames it on the time.
“Oh yeah,” Max grunts, “I heard about the betrayal and all that shit.”
“It’s not shit in my dictionary, sorry to say,” She says a little shrilly and then almost throws her phone on the wall, regretting it, because she is making a fool out of herself.
“Sorry,” He answers, not sounding sorry at all, “So do you wanna help me? Or you gonna keep goin’ after my brother like a lost puppy?”
“What do you mean?” She asks, incredulous, “I am no lost puppy.”
“You may as well have been one,” He mutters.
“What the hell do you mean?”
“I mean that you keep defending my brother in everything as if he is the victim,” He draws out the words slowly, irritating the crap out of Sara, who wants to quickly end this conversation and go back to sleep.
“Maybe he is,” She retorts.
“What the fuck do you mean?” He fires up, “He wasn’t the one who lost his ears.”
Sara purses her lips, “I don’t know. You’ve punished him far too much. He is depressed, Max.”
“He was born to be a depressed man, then,” Max says irritably and Sara can see him clenching and unclenching his fists, “He hasn’t stop being depressed since he was eight.”
“He’s always had a reason,” She reprimands.
“I have more reason than him and I smile more often,” He points out, “He can’t take shit like a man and that’s not my fricking problem.”
Sara sighs, “If you say so.”
“I know so,” He insists, “So are you up for it?”
She looks at the time, “It is 3 in the morning.”
“So what?” He asks.
“So I act like a drunk at three in the morning. I’ll get back to you on that topic when I am sane enough to do so.”
He raises his eyebrows, “You don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“You don’t get back to me. You ignored my huge ass email and left me feeling like an idiot. So excuse me, if I want you to answer me now, thankyouverymuch,” He shrugs.
Sara sighs yet again, “Fine. I’ll most probably agree. But I am still confirming it to you, tomorrow.”
He narrows his eyes at her, “I don’t trust you.”
“Well, you know what?” She asks, “I don’t trust you either.”
“Good,” He sounds annoyed, “Now I am going to sleep.”
“Stop acting like I was the one who woke-” She starts to say but is met with the ringing of the phone.
She looks at the screen in disbelief – the stupid idiot actually hung up on her while she was speaking.
Pissed, she stuffs the phone under her pillow and lies back on her bed with a thud, her heart beating faster. It always happens to her – when something bothers her, her heart suddenly decides to pump more blood.
She has no idea why.
But then, she has no idea why she decided to answer that call or why she agreed to do a project with that asshole or why she thought that the potato nation would work.
When she looks at it that way, she doesn’t really know anything.
Even so, it’s the middle of the night.
And she hardly cares about these things when her eyes are closing of their own accord.
.