A Latte of Love

【☕】11

Salwa Islam's POV

There was something so cruel about memories. Some hurt more than others, almost mercilessly, as it replayed over and over in our heads. And everytime it brought back the pain we longed to forget, that we thought we got over. We took one step forward, trying to escape the melancholy, but got tugged back by an invisible rope of negativity. The truth was, it never left our minds. There was a part of us that re-lived it everyday, and everytime it proved how weak we were as humans and how much we needed God.

Only He could help us in desperate situations, in places we'd never think anyone could reach. Having never told anyone, displaying a smile on our faces as we went about our day, only to return to that same place the very next day. Human beings were so dependent on worldly attributes, that forgetting God became normal.

I sometimes forget how cruel even human beings could be. People like us, people we pass by on our way to work, people we have minimal conversations with, our closest friends, our family members. Every human has their own flaws, and yet we still have some hope in the next person. Perhaps he might change, maybe he will do better, it might have been a rough day. The excuses kept piling atop each other, that it almost drowned us in falsehood.

Something stirred in my heart when Sufyan's perfume bottle fell onto the floor, the ink splaying everywhere.

I was transported back several months ago, cooking dinner in the kitchen while Ahmed sat in his high chair, playing with some cheerios. As I stirred the chicken, my gaze landed on the clock above our stovetop, for the tenth time in the last five minutes.

I thought about my previous pathetic attempts at cooking dinner for Hamza, only to be cast aside. I was real pathetic, wasn't I?

I jumped at the sound of the door slamming. Goodness, that was certainly louder than yesterday's.

I turned off the stove and rushed over to the door, only to be met by Hamza's sour expression. A recurring theme, it seemed.

I gulped. "Assalamu Alaikum."

He lifted his bloodshot eyes to pierce through mine. I almost gasped at the vile way he looked at me, as if he was the predator and I was the prey.

My heart raced as he took off his jacket and shoes lazily, his eyes never leaving mine. My feet wanted to move so badly, but I stayed rooted on the spot. If I showed him cowardice, he would only take advantage of the situation.

I almost opened my mouth to accuse him of his tardiness, when I heard the sounds of Ahmed's cries. I took one last look at Hamza before returning to the kitchen.

I held him up by one arm while I mixed the rice and chicken together with the other. His cries eased when I heard Hamza stagger inside noisily. "Boo," he whimpered, calling for his father, but was ignored.

I set a glass of water in front of Hamza, who looked up with hard eyes. "Tell him to stay quiet around me."

It was nothing new. These disgusting orders he would make. His hate for Ahmed only increased when he was heavily drugged.

I couldn't stop myself from replying, "And tell yourself never to come back home when you've intaken filth."

He lifts his eyes up to meet mine, slamming his fist on the table. "Do you wanna repeat that, Salwa?"

Disgusting. Violated. Everytime he used my sweet name from that filthy mouth of his, I felt nauseated.

Sensing his rage, I made sure to clammer my mouth and continued rubbing Ahmed's back in silence.

Hamza stood up with a sneer on his face, holding tightly onto the glass of water. "The hell is wrong with you? You don't even sleep with me! A guy can only take so much 'till he moves on to other women."

I ignored him, but he kept babbling. "You pathetic wife. And, God, that kid. Pisses me off just looking at him."

At this point, his voice was louder than it ever had been. "Lower your voice," I ordered, glancing down at Ahmed.

He slammed his fist on the table. "Tell me what's the reason."

"Reason for what?"

He laughed mockingly. "Why don't you let me touch you? I'm your husband, I have every right to," he slurred, moving closer.

I shifted backwards. "I'm not ready," I said quietly.

"Is it because you're a virgin?" I frowned, but before I could respond, he asked, "Or is it because I'm not?" with a voice crack.

For some odd reason, for just a split second, I truly felt his painful words sear into my heart. Why did I feel bad for him? After everything he had said to me? Maybe it made me wonder if he did have feelings. Feelings that were hidden and disguised behind his bull-headed aura.

"Is it my fault she left me and this town? I'll never be able to see her again... all because of him," he shouted, pointing to the back of Ahmed's head.

I narrowed my eyes at him disapprovingly. "Leave him out of this!"

Hamza took a menacing step forward. "He's the one who started this. Because of him I lost the love of my life. Because of him I dropped out of college. Became a deadbeat. Mom took him in because she knew I would be in jail for the rest of my life if I spent a second more with him."

I gasped. How could he be so ruthless? So blunt? "Don't you dare blame your mistakes on him. He may be the product of your own sins but he was the innocence that you never were!" I was seething with anger. Who did he think he was? Did he forget how it all happened or did he need a reminder?

It was the first time I talked back in such a manner with him. I realized it too late when he threw the cup of water onto the floor.

I screamed, hugging Ahmed away from the flying glass shards. Pain seared into my left foot, the glass creating cuts across my skin, as if my heart wasn't cut enough.

What an evil man. He held so much aggression in his heart and committed atrocious acts on his body by using harmful substances. At that moment, I never hated him more. I felt like digging an iron into his face, or stepping on his body continuously with heels.

I knelt onto the floor, my whole body covering Ahmed and his cries and screams. I yelled out a vile word towards Hamza, but he was already gone, having smashed the front door closed behind him.

He didn't care for us. He didn't care for anyone. I had come to hate drugs as much as I hated him. He was a failure of a father, failure of a husband. Why did I deserve this? All my life I had thought up scenarios of me and my future husband, beautiful and made-up love stories. We would be madly in love, care, and support one another. What a dumb fairytale I was envisioning.

I stare down at the broken perfume bottle, going still.

My mind goes dull as I think about how much someone has to bottle up their emotions, just to have it pour out endlessly, violently. All of a sudden, like a light switch. A gentle tap, a brush of the finger is enough to gouge out that tiny hole. It pours out the negativity, the pent-up frustration, the tears, all without your permission.

Even after trying to patch up the small crack, to sew the hole back together, all it does is leave the heart in pieces.

And when I bend down to pick up the shards, my own finger begins to bleed. Sufyan takes a sharp breath, yet doesn't say anything and all I can hear are his footsteps receding.