Night, a concept of peace and serenity for many as it is a respite from the stress and work of the day. For some of us out there, night is a time of haunted thoughts.
His eyes, they were brown. Brown eyes. Piercing eyes the color of hot cocoa and yet they meant everything but good. Eyes that had been burned into my every living breath and memory. I would give every joyous moment in my life, every accomplishment, every little thing to forget his eyes. They haunt my every breath and consume my being. It’s his eyes I see in the mirror.
Etched onto my body with force, the word "whore." Unforgettable to say the least, the reliving of the pain as I lost control of myself. Have you ever felt like someone’s property? Like you’ve lost your goddamn soul and it’s just instinct that keeps you surviving. Every single moment I come face to face with myself I feel like I’m staring at a stranger’s home. His home. A product of his creation, of his violence, of his actions. I thought it was just another attempt to get me to spill this information he thought I had. Another way to demonstrate masculinity and power. Little did I know, it was his way of marking my body to forever be his. Branded like a piece of meat. The pain, the suffering, the embarrassment, the feeling of worthlessness, it all comes back every time I see this word, which I have the joy of seeing every day.
Waking up in the middle of the night. A night that prompts hysteria and unsteadiness. Opening my eyes with vivid images terrifying my every last breath away. Sweating in a room at a temperature like the freezer. The smell of cigarette smoke surrounding me, suffocating me. All over this brown eyed fellow who took everything. The concept of night is now one I fear for it means another night of knowing I lived that night.
One foot in front of the other, taking the path of few. The heavy clunk of the boots he wears in comparison to others alert of his presence. Smothering cigarette smoke overwhelming the air. A single chain linking one’s feet to the wall. The brick wall made decades ago, falling apart. It’s been a day from hell to say the least. This brown eyed fellow, Asif I’d learn his name was, was comparable to Satan himself if you asked the two of us.
Two, there were two of us. She was younger, had been there longer. A financial plus rather than a vengeance of blood which I was. Her family paid and she was supposed to go home. I’ll never forget the look of relief that came upon her face when we overheard them saying the payment had been made. She was going home, to her loving family. “I’m sorry they took your innocence, but you’ll be home soon too. No father would let his daughter go through this.” It wasn’t him that came to mind when the idea of a savior did, but I hoped I’d done him justice in this life if it were to end. Her words are ones I’ll never forget, the feeling of hope in her voice.
Little did she know, the tables would turn for her fate as well. Asif marched in the room, confidence and joy spilling from his smirk. I feared not for myself, but rather for this young girl who had everything to look forward to in life. When he stepped towards me, I thanked whatever God was left in this world that he wouldn’t lay a hand on this girl, for I felt responsible for her. It was as though we built a mutual connection on this idea of suffering. He lit a cigarette and I accepted my fate, it would be another night for his masculinity, little did I know he would turn around and pump loud crackling bullets in this little girl. The blood poured out of her and with her dying breath she took my heart away, “Kismat.” Fate.
There was something inside of me, a passion, a burning passion to fight that died when I watched someone’s relieved face turn into that of surrender. Her words are etched into my mind, she apologized for something she hadn’t even had a hand in and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why it stuck with me, one who refused to apologize even when at fault. Guilt.
His face as he pumped lead into the body of this little girl who was cared for and loved, is one I’ll never forget. Neither guilt nor remorse nor compassion. But, rather the smirk on his face turned into a grin as he admired his handiwork. Certainly not his first kill, I’d soon learn, but in his own words, “This one, I’m proud of.”
Meanwhile, I’d watched the youth pour out as blood laced with lead from this little girl and I could not find any reason to fight on. It was in that moment that I could not stomach the thought of fighting this fate anymore and chose to stop fighting. It would prove to be the one moment where the will to live left that little girl whose every word and action I could imagine. In that little girl who had accepted her fate and yet didn’t deserve such a fate at the hands of this disgrace of a man.
The people blur into crowds and the words blur into confusing concepts with missing chunks. The downfalls of finding one’s self in another world is said world no longer consists of good, but rather of the haunted flashbacks suffered the night before of the little girl you couldn’t save. The little girl whose blood is on your hands. I looked down on the blood as it covered my hands, and I couldn’t face myself for what I’d let happen.
Sometimes, my mind flashes to her face, full of innocence and hope in this dunya and it’s cruel ways. And I feel like a hypocrite for being glad she was pumped full of lead and escaped this world. Because she escaped with her innocence, with a good view of her father, with the playful attitude of a child, and most importantly without his violence seared into her memory.
Her death, it would be on my conscience for life. Her face, it’d be one I’d never forget. Her words, they would be my mantra on the bad days.
