DAULAH

A Hollow Ache In My Heart

Allah's Generosity is connected to gratitude, and gratitude is linked to increase in His generosity. The generosity of Allah will not stop increasing unless the gratitude of the servant ceases

Ali ibn Abi Talib

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MAIMUNATU

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Nightmare. The word barely scratches the surface of what just happened. How I wish it is a nightmare! But the raw ache blooming on my neck assures me that it isn't. His grip...strangling, Mukhtar's hand...

But it wasn't him, was it? Those eyes... that vacant, terrifyingly expression that is now burned into my memory, permanently etched behind my eyelids. What was that?

I reach up and trace the angry red marks on my neck with trembling fingers. They're already starting to bruise, a visible reminder of the terror, of his... episode.

It all makes sense now. His insistence on keeping his distance. The almost painful rejection of Abba's proposal. "Not in the right spiritual state to bring a woman into my life." Those were his exact words. He kept saying he wasn't the man for me, desperately trying to push me away. Even after I'd finally managed to coax him into marriage, after I'd stubbornly chipped away at his resistance, he still kept that careful distance, that protective space between us... the self-imposed exile from my bed...the constant apology flickering in his eyes whenever he had to leave me alone, the reason he couldn't bring himself to explain. This is it. This is what he was protecting me from. What he's been battling, hiding, alone, in silence, for God knows how long.

An enormous wave of pity washes over me. My Mukhtar. My husband. My love. The man I'm supposed to love and be there for, in sickness and in health, in times of need. In his every situation. In his every state. But when I saw him like that, when I saw whatever that was, when his eyes went blank and his hands turned against me, what did I do? I ran.

I freaking ran away from him. I turned deaf to his cries when he finally surfaced, when he came back to himself and realized what he'd done, to the desperate plea I heard in his voice, begging me to come back. And instead of doing just that, instead of running to him, holding him, assuring him that I'm here, that I understand even though I don't, instead of promising him that it's all going to be alright, that we'll face this together, I did none of those things. Instead, I abandoned him. I ran and left him in what must be the most vulnerable, terrifying, and isolating moment of his life.

No.

Mukhtar deserves so much more from me than that. He would never have run away from me. He is, without a doubt, the strongest person I know. He would never have done that. He would have stayed, no matter how scared, no matter how confused. He would have stayed and tried to help. But me? what did I do?

I press my hand against my forehead, the weight of my guilt threatening to press down on me in a blanket of shame. What am I supposed to do now? Go back to him?

As I wrestle with that thought, I hear it. The unmistakable rumble of a car starting outside. His car.

My heart leaps into my throat. He's leaving. I fumble for my phone. I squint at the screen. 4:30 AM. He's leaving in the middle of the night. After what happened. I don't even take the time to think. I just react. I throw open the door I previously locked like my life depended on the locks, my bare feet slap against the tile floor as I race downstairs, driven by a desperate need to stop him, to explain, to apologize, to somehow make this right. But before I can even get close to the front door, before I can even yell out his name, he's gone. The roar of his engine fades into the distance, leaving behind only the deafening silence and the heavy weight of my own regret.