𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐔𝐄𝐃.
𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐭𝐨 𝐧𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐲𝐚'𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐠; 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞!
❝who wants that perfect love story, anyway? cliché, cliché.❞
DISCLAIMER. do not take this shit serious. i am not from new york, this is just for fun!
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Khadijah couldn't even remember the last time she left her bed.
The apartment was eerily silent save for her mother's sobs that echoed through the walls. Khadijah laid in her bed, unmoving, staring up at the ceiling.
It still felt like the information hadn't quite sunken in yet, as if Khadijah was just living in a false reality.
A bad dream. One she couldn't wake up from.
Khadijah hadn't seen her mother for days—she supposed her grief had made her forget about her last living kin, her daughter. Khadijah didn't mind. She didn't want to see her mother. She didn't want to see anyone.
No one except her father.
But he was gone and her mother was in pieces.
Khadijah was too.
Eventually, her mother managed to crawl out of the hole she'd dug for herself to check on her daughter six days later. Khadijah had barely moved, just laid in her bed curled up into a ball.
"Jacaylkayga (my love), please... you have to eat, Khadijah," her mother pleaded with her, sniffling as she set a cup noodle on her nightstand. She did that three times a day, despite looking worse for wear herself. Khadijah didn't speak—just laid there buried in her blankets. She spent most days crying—other days, she just laid there unmoving—still not quite processing everything. Her school principal called to give their condolences, tentatively saying that Khadijah had made the volleyball team and that when—if—she would return, she had a spot waiting for her.
It hurt her that she couldn't even bring herself to care about the news.
The days just seemed to blend together and finally, her mother convinced her to shower after a week—running her a bath. Khadijah sank into the warm water, letting her mother wash the grime off her body.
"I just—" Khadijah croaked, voice raspy due to not using it for a while—it was the first time she'd spoken. "I feel lost." She settled on saying as her mother paused her ministrations as she lathered her shoulders, kneeling beside the tub.
"Khadijah, we... he will live on—in us—through us," her mother said, continuing to wash her body after a moment, "we will send him off properly as we should. We will go to the mosque soon to pray Janaaso." She continued to say, even though her voice trembled dangerously towards the end.
