And Then Death Greeted Me

ROSES AND CIGARETTES

I'm curled up in the foetal position, feeling unusually groggy and disoriented. I don't know what time it is – or what day it is – or even where I am. I breathe in raggedly, trying to get my bearings. My knees are tucked up to my stomach, my arms crossed over my chest in an almost protective stance. I've sunk into the mattress. The pillow rubs against my cheek, irritating. The fabric's damp. I can feel my eyelashes strewn all over my cheeks.

My mind's moving at a sluggish pace. Even my blinking is slow. I can't feel my fingertips.

The sunlight streams in through the windows, the curtains thrown back. The warmth lingers on my face, playing with my eyesight, and I squint, wondering drunkenly why I feel so weird. I think back to the night before, but come up with nothing. I can't remember.

A floorboard outside creaks. The door of my bedroom – I must be in my bedroom, where else? – opens with trepidation. I let my eyelids flutter shut. Playing dead, almost literally. Two sets of hesitant footsteps work their way into my bedroom.

'What happened?' my mother asks. Her voice, so soft, so scared. 'It's midday, she should be in school. Ahmed, why haven't you woken her up? She never sleeps this long, why –'

My father shushes her, exhibiting a gentleness I didn't know he had. 'Don't wake her, Asli. She had a rough night.'

Did I? I think. Vaguely I hear the sounds of yelling, crying, and chaos in my head, but not much more.

'What happened?' my mother presses.

He sighs, the floorboards creaking again as he shifts from foot to foot. My blanket covers me fully, pulled over my chin and halfway up my face, so when I open my eyes just a fraction they can't tell I'm awake. They're standing beside the doorway, watching me intently. My father's hand is on my mother's shoulder. Doubtless if he let go she'd run to my side.

'Something wasn't right the whole day,' my father answers finally. 'Soon after you left she went upstairs, and just didn't come back down. Eventually I called her down to have lunch, and she didn't answer. She was in bed. Said she was too tired to do anything. Just... she looked like she was about to go to sleep. Peaceful.'

I shut my eyes again as my mother walks towards me. She kneels by the bed, her eyes trained on my face. I don't move. I almost forget to breathe.

Why can't I remember?

'But she should still be awake by now,' she breathes, and I feel as though she's about to snap. 'Ahmed?'

He stays by the door. 'Then Hasan came home.' His voice is heavy. 'You know how they are together. He came tramping up the stairs to wake her up for dinner, she yelled at him, he cursed her out, and... I don't know what he said. Or if he said anything at all. By the time I got upstairs to twist both their ears, Hasan had retreated to his bedroom and Vernice was crying.'

'Badly?' my mother asks, twisting a lock of my hair between her fingers.

'Badly. She was... unintelligible. I tried to calm her down, I hugged her and told her I'd talk to Hasan later, but – she was pulling her hair out, scratching at her wrists, wringing her hands. I didn't know what to do. So I gave her some Nytol –'

'She's not old enough for those meds,' my mother hisses. 'She's not sixteen yet!'

'Well what was I supposed to do?' my father replies, his voice steadily rising. He tries to calm himself down, inhaling deeply. 'She was absolutely hysterical, how else was I supposed to calm her down? I just needed her to – to recharge –'

'Our daughter is not a computer, Ahmed! You should've sat with her, talked with her, tried to understand why she felt so terrible – I mean, it can't've been just because of Hasan. A one-time incident, a small argument, doesn't make you lose the plot that quickly!'