Love isn't always butterflies and pounding hearts. Love can also lie, deceive and betray.
Her way of seeing the world was a lot different from his. She was broken with open wounds, standing high on her throne and giving no damn to the world. A stron...
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"So you're telling me you've never thought of covering the scar with a tattoo." Ayat managed to bring himself out of the graveyard and after trying many times, she persuaded him to get back to the hospital and stay there until he completely recovered. However, Ayat sneered out an amused laugh as he showed dislike towards the people that hid their past with a fake cover of pleasure and happiness.
"Not really, no because, one, tattoos look ugly, two, I wanted to be accepted as I am, not as someone who has a scar covered in tattoos." The air brought a petal from Adil's grave closer to his feet– almost touching them. He leaned forward and took the petal in his hands and caressed it before fisting it tightly in his palm.
"Acceptance takes courage, doesn't it?"
"It does. Very much." He could remember the days when he would go out with his mother or brother and found everyone staring at him as though he was a heinous monster. What did he ever do to anyone? He was just a child– a nine year old boy when all this started, when he was bullied days and nights, when he was pushed to kill himself, when he was left alone in an abandoned garage on fire by his bullies. He was left to die.
He told everyone that he forgot how deep the impact was from the cut but never in a hundred births would his soul forget what it did to him. Even after years the images were vivid and the only good thing in this whole ruckus was it never came back at him in the form of nightmares. He slept at nights. He slept like a baby without giving a damn to the world. He slept way too much that it had started to bother his parents. One thing done and he would be back on his bed and be asleep for how so long he wished. He slept too much to get rid of the real world– the comfort that those deceiving dreams rendered him, he asked for that.
"What were you grieving about?" She asked, her eyes turning softer with every moving second.
"I lost my best friend to death, why else do you think so?" He asked, still staring out from the window.
"Nine year old Yazdan definitely didn't lose his best friend." Ayat spoke back, making a frown form on his face. He, at that very moment, didn't think she would be talking about it and he felt as though his wounds were scraped again. An old ache, leaving an echo in the empty corners of his heart. He looked down at her only to look away. He was lying to her and there were only a few things he was allowed to let on.
"Nine year old Yazdan didn't get to see the real world," He mumbled, sniffing when the dust particles itched his nostrils, "I didn't get to see what it was like out there before I was exposed to racism and hate." So much hate that they lit a garage on fire only for him to die.
"What?" Ayat staggered on her words, not knowing what to say to him. This was blinding-ly shocking.
"People like me can never fit in here nor in America. Here, I'm a firangi and in America I'm from a family of slaves who ran away from their home country and get told to leave even though I'm an American National and Salalah? I haven't tried yet."
