My heart aches for the good times, it longs for support, and it looks for change. A simple thing, the sound of a car backfiring, sparks this fear. I’m back to that world, the world that swore it’d destroy me, and I let it.
It was a pitch black brick room, the age old bricks were falling out of the wall. It reminded me of my first time in this country when I’d seen bricks form an oven and had my first meal here. I thought this was a good sign, after all I’ve always been told to look for the good in even the worse situations. I was terrified, terrified doesn’t even seem to be an adequate word for the level of fear I felt.
Damaged goods, it’s a word I’ve heard all too often in my life. I don’t wish this burden on even my worst of enemies, feeling broken and never having the strength to fight on. This feeling of inadequacy prompts this fire inside of me. There are two ways this could go. If it’s a good day, it’ll ignite this fire that’ll make me fight stronger and smarter to survive and be the person I strive to be until I can look in a mirror with pride. If it’s a bad day, it’ll ignite this fire of memories inside of me that’ll haunt my every being.
The constant pain brings back the memories in a heartbeat. One moment I’m laughing with my friends over my classic cup of coffee, the next I’m sitting on bathroom floor wanting to end it right there and then. I never saw this man without a cigarette in his possession, whether it was a smoke or one that would turn against me. He picked up a brick the first time and chucked it at me, landing right at my ribcage, and knocked the air out of me. I hadn’t expected this. I was merely a child who’d hoped her time in capture would be short or she’d be put out of her misery before the unthinkable was done.
One day, you’re fine. Good, even. And the next, you’re still okay. There are weeks and weeks of good days. Sometimes, months. And sometimes, just mere days or even hours. There’s always a bad day somewhere that cuts off the circulation to the good days.
At first, I screamed out in agony hoping someone would notice. I just needed to be saved, anyone could save me. I didn’t need a knight in shining armor, I needed anybody who didn’t want to hurt me. I would soon learn the hard way, nobody could hear me except my captors. And for them? The screams egged them on. They yearned for the screams as it showed them they’d succeeding in breaking you.
I swore I was fine, showed up to my daily obligations with “scratches.” I needed to be fine for myself, if I told myself it hadn’t happened, that meant it didn’t. I hadn’t given up on my everlasting belief that one can lie to themselves so much they begin to believe the truth. I didn’t want people’s pity. I didn’t want that look of sorrow that crossed everyone’s face. I’d lived to see this face all too many times that year. It was all supposed to turn around in my favor, it was supposed to be the start of the good times.
The first blow took my breath away. The second hurt my ego. The third hurt my soul. The fourth made me lose my faith in surviving. I remember the dark nights of fear, awaiting the next beating or worse. I remember the first time it crossed the line I hoped it wouldn’t. That night, it was the last straw. I wasn’t fighting anymore, I didn’t want to, I wanted in that very moment to just die.
The ending has always intrigued me. I’ve been raised as a devout Muslim and I’ve explored plenty of other options. Islam seemed to stick with me when I needed this belief in a better after. I don’t really know if I believe in an afterlife and heaven/hell like most religions do, but having faced death multiple times, I’m willing to say it helps in the end to know there’s a possibility of redemption for your sins.
They left me on that road to the village the final night, I was sure I was dead. I had convinced myself this was the other side of the spectrum and I’d never live another day. And if it wasn’t yet, it would be soon enough. I can’t help but wonder if they knew I was still breathing, I don’t think they did. Suddenly, I awoke in a brightly lit hospital room reeking of cigarette smoke, didn’t work in my favor. The chain smoker who used to go through a pack a day, couldn’t for the life of her stand the smell without thinking back to the dark brick room that would consume her mind.
Memories are a bitter pill to swallow. The good ones help the memories of those gone and those still here spread joy. The bad ones become all consuming and terrify your every moment, conscious or not.
I remember the gloves, how could they even think to be sanitary? I remember the maps on the walls, how could these people ever think to travel? I remember the car batteries hooked up to wires, I never knew what they for. I’d learn sooner than later. I remember every word said, every facial feature I registered, and I remember the pain. Emotional. Physical. It was just pain, pain from being shattered as a person. I knew in that first breath I took upon waking in the hospital I’d never be whole again.
Sometimes it’s the dark memories that make life unbearable. In these moments, it’s hard to see where the lines between good and bad begin to blur, where one ponders anything to find relief.
Writing has always been my savior from reality. In particular, I found myself writing this article to save myself from the dark memories. I know I’ll never escape the reality of what happened, but I’m slowly making my peace with it. It’s easier to put it onto paper than to have it consume my mind eating away at my sanity.
Author’s Note:
If anybody is interested in speaking after this, feel free to shoot me an email.
rabeaali08@gmail.com
