The Rebellion Era

Chapter Four.

                  

Everyone squalls ghastly, folding onto each other like a mass of terrified limbs and bodies, save for those who hurried down the lane to their dwellers, locking themselves in with thousand of doors.

Mother remains seated over father's body, prattling utter gibberish I cannot comprehend. She is so weary she doesn't act to my bleeding arm, and all I feel are determined arms enfolding me among their biceps. They draw me away from the scene and shut me in my family's residence.

Assem places me on the floor, bracing my back against the wall in an angle so I won't slide down. He dashes to my room, and not a second later comes back with my floral coverlet. He ties it around my wound, raveling strong but loosely enough knots. I observe as the white wool transforms into baby pink, and then deepens further into a heinous shade of angry red.

"Hey, Fatimah, look at me!" He orders, and only then I realize I am staring at nowhere.

But I couldn't. My brain has shut down and is undisputedly irresponsive to any sort of cooperation. All I could think of is retaliation, although I have ever detested the abjectness of vengeance. Rather now, I am a creature of no fortitude, neither am I courteous. I am only vulnerable.

I smell father in every corner, and I hear his peal of laughter in every resonating scream outdoors, carried slightly over the fragileness of our souls like his spirit has shattered to pieces to mend every broken soul of ours. All he did to the world is good, but the world is wicked and he never wanted to give up on it. Now he has paid the ultimate price for his blind faith, and unwillingly forced us to pay with what we don't have.

It amazes me to finally remember my father isn't immortal. I seem to have failed to recall that as I grow, my parents fester.

Omar's cries are still absent. He must be at the hospital yet. My twelve year old little brother will come to a dead father and an injured sister.

Assem presses his hand tightly against my wound. This is the first time since forever for him to touch me. "Hold there okay. The doctor will be here in a minute."

I don't see a man hovering over me attempting to fruitlessly cease my bleeding anymore. I see Mrs. Eman, a woman who stood silent and let a man get killed, for she was terrified of stepping forward. A woman, who is already dying, yet allowed the death of a man selfishly who had his life still before him.

"Your mother killed my father." I blurt out.

He is tying blood-free part of the blanket around my wound instead of the previous blood-soaked one when he looks at me, flummoxed and wholly distressed.

"I will not intercept nor will I chastise your odious accusation because I know exactly what you are going through." He says, focusing on my makeshift gauze.

"You know nothing of what I am going through!" I yell, lurching forward. "Your father killed himself because he was a coward and he could not face his own problems so he decided to give up and bail out on both of you! Your father killed himself because he was sick and needed help! But my father was protecting your selfish mother who could have just given them the money when they demanded it! Don't you dare compare your situation with mine!"

He is gazing down at me, not in contempt, but with melancholy eyes rimmed with tears. These tears might be true sadness over father's death so much as a method of deception. He doesn't argue back, but his eyes are oozing out pain, speaking questions in silence. And even though he conceals it, I know he is reminiscing over young Fatimah and young Assem, who would rather work extra hours in the fields fertilizing lands with animal manure, than sleeping mad at one another.