What Not To Do When You're In Love

05 | Gratitude

05 | Gratitude

"Don't you freaking get it?" I screamed in his face. "My Allah, how stupid are you?!"

I continued after a small pause. "I do not want to have to go through all this. I hadn't wanted it!"

His expression then was somewhat funny. He looked like he'd received the biggest shock of his life.

"You didn't want this marriage?!"

"You imagine I did?" I said, placing my palms on my waist. I let out a laugh.

"If you're asking whether I didn't want to be a puppet in a strange family's hands? Yeah, I did not want this marriage. If you're asking if I did not want to give up literally my whole future to create kids and be a doll furnishing your house, with my degree framed in glass which won't be anything but a showpiece, then yes, I did not want this marriage, my friend."

His face was horrified, and he actually looked . . . shocked?

Was it really that hard to comprehend? The fact that girls who were wed off had once had their own wishes too?

"You know something?" I continued. My rage hadn't appeased in the least bit yet. "Snatching a puppy away from its mother and telling it how cute it is, and then not allowing it to be what it is, what Allah made it - it's not nice, Mr. Ilmas, and whatever you tell your conscience regarding it is all complete and utter bullshit!"

Was it just me, or did he actually wince when I cursed? In that moment, though, I did not care.

"No matter how well you claim you'll keep me, you've taken from me my right to a life of my own terms. It's not fair in the least bit, and you know it."

"I . . . I didn't know that . . . " He stuttered. I just stared. "I had not realised you felt this way about things," he finally managed. "I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?!" I screamed, losing it again. "And 'things'? Really?! You call this marriage, a deal of my life, 'things?!'

At this point I was hysterical; my eyes teared, and still I giggled between angry sentences. "He's sorry," I said to myself, unable to determine what difference his possibly fake remorse had any power to make.

He did not speak after that. I took a look at how calm he looked now, all the initial panic at my sudden rage long gone, and in its place, just patience. He was waiting for me to pacify, with all the peace on his face that I was having trouble mustering.

I sniffed, trying to control myself and speak in a way that was a bit more contained. Allah knew what things could take place if he became convinced that I was deranged.

"I had wanted my life to be mine, Hasan," I said, now somewhat calmed. I was taking his name for the very first time. "I wanted to study more, a lot more; to work, to be who I knew I was, somewhere inside. But instead, I'm here with you, after a nikah that happened with the bride under the conception that she'd be allowed to work afterwards, which obviously enough isn't actually going to happen."

I could actually see an expression similar to the of understanding on his face; it looked like he was satisfied that I was finally speaking.

I didn't stop. "I'm here, sharing with you a room that doesn't have a desk for me, no bookshelf for me, a room that I couldn't bring my cat to, a room that quite clearly isn't enough to sustain my life.

"My hands are red, Hasan. Look at this! Look," I pushed both my open arms in front of him. "These drawings on my fate, in the colour of a relationship I barely know the proper meaning of. This outrageously sweet scent of a life-long deal I was emotionally blackmailed into, and this ring of your name glittering on my finger for all my years now - your name wound tighter around me than my own is!"