The Rebellion Era

Chapter Five.

Author's note: I apologize for the inconvenient delay prior to releasing this chapter. I am a freshman at college so I have just been adjusting to the life shift. I'll do my best to ensure this doesn't occur again.
I hope you enjoy this chapter and many more to come!
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The night has fallen, and the wind has gotten stronger. It howls outside, and I can't help but think that earth is as well pining for the demise of one of her striving children.

I lie on the floor, my legs stretched before me and my hands frozen between my thighs. The pain in my arm has begun to subside to a dull throb I barely feel unless I focus on it. Assem sits under my foot, staring at his legs squared beneath him. He breaks his gaze occasionally to wipe tears before I notice them. But in mourning periods it seems, your perception to tears intensifies.

I watch him as he weeps my father. His shoulders bent in sorrow, his arms shaking out of control at times. It was stupid of me to think he faked sadness over his death. Father taught him like a mentor, advised him like a counselor, loved him as a parent and treated him as a son. Father took full custody of his family following his father's death, and ensured Assem he still has a back to rely on. Now, my father is also gone. Assem and I, both, have no back to rely on.

"Don't you dare do that again." Assem snaps, waking me up from my reverie. I stare at him in confusion. He looks now at his hand, tinkering with a straw he found on the ground. "Throwing yourself ridiculously in front of the trigger! You got shot in the arm, Fatimah! The bullet was that close to your chest!"

Undesirable anger rages in my chest. What a way to thank people! "You cannot risk your life daily for me and expect me not to do it in return!"

He shakes his head. "Sacrifice is ought to be unrequited!" His attempts to contain his temper are palpable. "And, Fatoom," He adds, his voice soft again, with a hand on my knee. "I am the man. It is my obligation to protect a lady in peril. Especially you. This bullet in your arm," he nods ruefully at the wound, "hurt inconceivably more than a thousand bullets could have hurt my chest."

I lower my gaze discordantly, fighting back the tears conquering my eyes. I want to shout and say that it is not my obligation to stand back and watch those I care about die for me either, but I opt to silence. The wound of my father's death is still so raw, even the slightest of things hurts.

His grip tightens on my knee. "I am sorry for yelling at you but," He draws back his hand, shaking. "Can't you see it already, Fatoom? I'd rather die than seeing a world without you in it. You make gruesome life worth living and wars worth waging."

I have insulted his mother and accused him of deception, yet here he is, reminding me of the high regard in which he holds me merrily and blissfully. Assem, who would call me Fatoom everywhere and every time that I once thought he forgot my real name. Assem, who would listen to my poems over and over as kids, and would never yawn of boredom, but rather ask me for more. But unfortunately, since I only have coal from the streets to write with, my words have been revolving in circles in my brain, without being actually crafted onto paper.

There is a vile sort of pain that devours you whole when words cut as sharp as knives, and it kills me to know I have just caused this pain to Assem; my best friend.

He stands up, wiping his hand on his pants. Without a look at me, he heads to the door.

"Where are you going?" I say the words before I think it. As bereaved as I am, I cannot let him walk away mad at me. Mad when he has stayed with me when my remaining family has not.

He looks over his shoulder. "I need to- need to take care of the burial and the funeral arrangements." He says, careful to being light so the news won't strike me hard. "Besides, people will find something to gossip about if I stayed here alone with you for long."