The Perfect Girl

8

As salaamu alaikum! So, the last chapter was one of the most important in the entire book and also one of the most real I've ever written. What did you guys think of it? Could any of you relate?

"They don't know she's looking back at, broken glass and dreams, bursting at the seams,"

The next morning, when I woke up, I had brief, blissful moment of pure, complete and utter numbness.

But then the emotions from the night before poured in like thick fog.

I spent a long time, after that, trying to make sense of my own emotions, trying to turn them into numbers and letters. All of my feelings felt like a single atom, and you cannot split and atom, cannot divide and conquer it, because if you do it will cause an explosion.

The weekend passed in what felt like a haze.

I couldn't tell you much about it, about anything that happened besides that one night, but I could describe that night, describe it vibrantly. I couldn't tell you, perhaps, about the shape of the pool's tiles or designs on the walls or what the room looked like, but I could describe the feelings. I could have coloured them in, made sure all of the colours were just the right shades against the grays and blacks and whites of the rest of the weekend. I could have painted a picture of them.

I think a part of me hoped that upon returning home, I would leave the emotions behind me with the hotel. But no, the feelings settled in my gut, faded, but still there.

As much as I had been looking forward to a break for so long, all of a sudden I wished for my exams to return, just so I could distract me.

I didn't know what switch had flipped in my mind, why the thoughts I had been so good at distracting myself from for so long had flooded my mind. I couldn't even look at my own hands without feeling a sort of disgust, a helpless sort of abhorrence.

The only time I could think of before this when I felt so consumed by my own thoughts was a few years back, just after my grandmother passed away. But that time, it made sense. There was a clear trigger, a cause, not just a random reaction like this.

I tried to act normal, and I think I did a good job because no one treated me any different, something that only made me feel worse. It made me feel even more unimportant to know that the people around me who had known me for so many years couldn't tell that something was wrong.

The only one who did seem to pick up on a change was Abu. I could tell in the way he talked to me, softer, gentler, in the way he asked me, quietly, if everything was okay. I lied and told him it was, but he always seemed concerned anyway.

My whole mental state seemed to have shifted in a moment, and my life was not about to return to its normal repetitiveness.

***

It was only a few days after the trip when Aunty Lina's family came over.

I was pretty much adjusted to this by now, the consistency of their visits. It was strange for me, in fact, if I didn't see them for a week.

My cousins were also over, and we were having a barbecue. I was inside, grabbing plates, when I heard a cry.

"HELP!"

I followed the sound to the garage, and there, crouched and sobbing, was my youngest cousin, Isa. The huge toolbox that contained nearly all of my father's woodworking supplies and weighed as much as two of me was nearly on top of him, just enough weight resting on him to pin him in place. I ran over, pushed at the box.

I could only just barely keep it from falling completely onto him and crushing him.

"ABU! SHUAYB! AMAR! COME!" I shouted over and over.

The door to the garage opened, and I exhaled in relief, but the head that popped out was not either of my brothers' or my father's.

"Hiba?" Khalid said, confused, clearly not noticing Isa.

"I need help!" I said, hearing the panic in my voice even as I tried to steady it.

He seemed to realize what was happening. His eyes widened, and he was out in a minute without his shoes on. He came up beside me, pushing at the box, the two of us finally managing to get the box back on the shelf.

He and I were both breathing heavily from the effort. I looked at Isa, who was calming down, and examined him. He was alright, or so he said.

"Are you okay?" Khalid asked me.

"Yeah," I said, trying to make my voice firm but failing.

My hand actually hurt really bad. I'd cut myself on a screwdriver's sharp edge that had been sticking out of the box. The dullness of the metal only made the cut more painful.

"There's blood on your hand!" Khalid exclaimed.

I looked down, swallowed, "It's fine, I'll get a bandaid in a minute." I looked at Isa, "Please take him to his dad."

"I will," Khalid said, looking concerned, "Make sure you do something for that cut, yeah?"

I nodded, "Thanks for the help. You didn't get any injuries, did you?"

"Nope. I'm just glad I came out in time, alhamdulillah. That could have been really bad. If the box fell on Isa, it would have crushed him," Khalid brushed it off.

"Alhamdulillah," I murmured, then cast another look at Isa, "You're sure you're good, Isa?"

"Yes, Baji."

"Okay," I brought my eyes back to Khalid's, "I'm gonna go."

"See you."

"See you."