Part 78: Hidden Battles

Ziyaad

“You know something.”

Her voice was soft, yet firm.

“I know you do.”

She studied me intently and I didn’t dare look up, knowing full well of the assertiveness held in those hazel brown eyes.

“Ziyaad.”

Damn it, Zah.

Zaakira

I watched him:

His thumbs pummelled the buttons of his xbox as he sought solace in the sounds of racing cars emanating from the medium sized speakers.

His jaw clenched and unclenched as he resisted the urge to look up at me, venting out his frustration, instead, to the screen in front of him.

My patience ought to have run out by now, but I recognised that look and it was a recognition that filled with me with sympathy, for the boy in front of me – left with the toxic struggle of keeping whatever he was hiding, hidden.

My heart went out to him, knowing that despite being right here, my neighbour was some place far, far away and that very heart of mine, broke every time it tried, and failed, to understand his silence and sudden need for distance.

Ziyaad

I watched the moving cars, a hot red ford fiesta trailing just inches behind my matte black Z3.

I focused on the control I had of this game, decelerating around the bends and swaying just as much as I needed to in the direction I thought suitable.

I found myself wishing my life had that sort of control, where I could just press restart whenever something went wrong or erase all data whenever I willed myself to forget haunting memories.

I pictured myself in the seat of that Beamer, clutching onto the steering wheel, living life at 240 miles an hour, passing by skyscrapers – a relieving drive, helping me rid myself of the worries that clouded every last bit of my damaged mind.

Her sigh brought me back to reality.

She spoke again, despondent, now.

And then, she left – left me to deal with the war waging inside of me.

My grasp tightened on the controller, her whispers echoing one last time before my mind travelled back to two months ago, my efforts to discard it from my memory going in vain.

I  let out the loudest cry, no longer able to block it out, my thoughts now taking control over me, the kind that I had over my xbox.

Zaakira

“You know something.”

My statement was met with silence.

“I know you do.” I probed.

Still… Nothing.

“Ziyaad.”

He barely even acknowledged my presence.

I sighed, trying not to take it to heart but feeling the slightest tinge of pain after being completely ignored.

“Okay.”

I breathed in. Then breathed out. I mushed down the emotions rising within me, fighting the urge to cry.

“Okay.” I repeated. My voice was a whisper now; all hope I had, of breaking through, now lost.

“You don’t have to tell me. Just know that if you need to talk, WHEN you do, I’ll be ready to listen.”

I thought I saw a flash of emotion but it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

“I’ll always be here, Ziyaad. Whatever it is. I’ll be your person.”

I walked out then, tears rushing down my cheeks just as I made my exit.

I wasn’t sure why I was crying, wasn’t even sure what saddened me but the feeling intensified when I heard the volume of the television increase while descending the stairs of the Pillays’ mansion.

Then, just as I was about to leave, I heard Ziyaad cry out in frustration and I imagined the amplitude of his thoughts to be much higher than that of racing cars.

I left anyway.

Ziyaad – two months ago

“We don’t need to do this.” I pleaded, helplessly forced into a trip down memory lane.

It was a trip I usually made at night as I struggled to sleep, with eyes glued to the ceiling and a heart searching for answers my brain knew I would never find.

“Oh Ziyaad.” She laughed, her long, manicured fingernails tracing the edge of my stiffened jawline. “Poor, poor Ziyaad. I don’t remember asking your opinion.”

It was now midday and her visit caught me off-guard, the suddenness of it all barring me from defences and opening me up to vulnerability.

“Well, I don’t exactly remember inviting you into my home.” I retorted, sarcastically.

She laughed again, her laughter fading into the distance as my mind raced back to two years ago – more specifically – to the death of my best friend, ripping me of the progress I’d made at acceptance, the slideshow of torturous images once again presenting itself before me.

“Isn’t that right?” She whispered, maliciously, breaking my train of thought for just a second. “It was because of you that your very own best friend died.”

I felt the anger build up within me.

“Oh babe,” she probed. “Did I hit a nerve?”

It was heartfelt anger, directed solely towards myself, but consequences of which were endured extensively by her as the palm of my right hand made contact with the skin on her cheek.

She fumbled backward, with a sarcastic snicker and a smile playing along her lips, enjoying the reaction she had gotten.

‘“You should not have done that.”

“I just….”

Did.

Suddenly, overcome with the unmistakeable feeling of light-headedness, I was robbed of the ability to verbally complete my sentence before everything went pitch black.

I awoke a while later, my head throbbing, my vision blurred, and my limbs unexplainably immobile.

I looked up, and was met with a gaze holding an uncanny mixture of hostility and wrath.

It was the very same pair of eyes, filled with incredibe warmth, that previously captured every chamber of my heart, now turned stone cold, with an unshakeable desire to destroy and her voice, once so innocent, held the same desire – a rapidly increasing lust for vengeance.

“You will pay for what you’ve done. You and your puny group of friends.”

“What… What exactly did we do?” I stuttered, the burning sensation in my head making its way to my throat.

“You breathe.” Her face, inches away from mine, her breath hot on the skin of my lips as, sending shockwaves down my spine and boy, it was not the exhilarating feeling of infatuation.

She walked out with that, leaving me with difficulty in freeing myself – both my limbs and my conscience – now fully aware that my friends were in danger and once again, no one, but I, was to blame.

Days passed and nothing out of the ordinary happened. I found myself wondering why Maseeha took it upon herself to threaten me on that day, in that way, and I never fully understood what I did that was deserving of those threats.

I felt my fear subsiding, my belief in Maseeha’s cowardice replacing it.

That was up until Hana’s disappearance.

Her absence confirmed otherwise and it was one that came with a series of unforgettable, uncalled-for events.

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Part 77: Liberating captivity

Hana

My body shivered in response to the biting cold and I kept track of time using my sense of hearing – the chirping of birds indicitive of the arrival of a new day and silence, that of night. It was dark nonetheless – always colder at night than during the day. I listened, revelling in solitude in what I thought of to be an abandoned basement, wondering who was affected by my absense and who was not.

Focusing sometimes on the distant sound of flowing water, I allowed the bliss of solitude to open me up to the true, petrifying nature of my mind and, back pressed against one of the four walls surrounding me, I felt no shame in exploring every part of it.

Thoughts, uncuffed, flowed and I let them, finding peace in vulnerability as I shared them with the darkness that enveloped me. I connected with each passing thouht, granting freedom to the mirror image of that darkness, existing inside of me. A release that ripped apart every part of me, and it did so painfully.

It was in this pain that I found ease, finally understanding a part of myself; a part so minor yet greatly impactful. It was like that night under the sky, a feeling similar to the contentment I felt as I wrote, except it was so much more than that. My mind raced, years of being held back giving it the momentum to bounce about each corner of the empty room within which I sat. I didn’t dare chase it, thinking about love and hate; strength and weakness; emotion and reason; thought and impulse; pain and relief; surface compatibility and deeper connections.

It was an accumulation of thoughts, previously chained to the back of my mind, now travelling it. A year’s worth of thoughts, hidden so expertly within the cracks of a broken heart, behind a glowing smile, finally unleashed as I pondered over these polar opposites and, even more so, the thin line that separated them.

A line so easy to cross, yet, once crossed, yielded a series of damaging consequences.

“The inbetweens”, I called them, creating a domino-effect of some sort; of fates. 

A stage of transition.

The process of change.

More particularly – mine.

My transformation went by unnoticed. It was gradual, and unexplained. I wasn’t sure what changed, or when it did, but suddenly, Hana and I were no longer one and the same. Instead, confined to one body, were the souls of two completely different people.

And so, with a mind at war and, a heart diseased,

I was stripped to the core, broken, exposed, lost…

Then,

In the chill of an isolated basement, there was a union of those souls – Hana, carefree and happy, with I, the stranger, the fearful adolescent, with damage too burdenous for her youth, pain and heartache that ripped one of the ability to live, despite having been alive.

In the chill of an isolated basement, I put together the pieces of a complicated jigsaw puzzle and I found myself, thinking about nothing and everything simultaneously, overcoming my difficulty in expressing myself and, rather ironically, finding soulful liberation in captivity, the kind of peace that proved so very difficult to come by.

 

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Part 76: The Captor

“She will be there any minute now.”

I didn’t respond before cutting the call, my first glimpse of her distant figure confirming his statement. Her face wasn’t clearly visible in the dark and the old, cracked window in the dilapidated building blurred out most of her features. I looked through it nonetheless, imagining it – pained, lost and tired as she wandered about aimlessly.

“Why her?” I continued to ask him, day after day, for months prior to this particular night. “Why not any of the others?”

“She’s the easiest target.” He said firmly, nonchalantly loading a pistol for the amateur, Steven, who stood silently next to me, readying himself for his first solo adventure. “She’s bait.”

It was silent for a while before he snickered.

“Oh. Poor little Hana.”

He was a man of action, with little speech. He expected the same in return.

I didn’t answer, knowing better than to argue.

He looked up, meeting my gaze, the coldness of his, proving my decision a good one.

I looked down, his eyes piercing, intimidating.

“Mi boy.” His voice was warning, his next sentence mocking me. “These petty feelings and emotions must not cloud your head. You get the job well done. You get paid.”

“You don’t…”  

His eyes narrowed, the hand around his pistol directing it toward me.

My heart thumped in my chest.

“Yes.” I said before he could finish, my voice softer than his, much less firm. “I understand.”

I didn’t.

But I needed the pay.

And…

I needed my life.

They needed my life.

There was a knock on the door, just as he said there would be.

He was a good judge of character, my boss. He had a sharp mind and this, coupled with years of experience, made him capable of determining his victim’s next moves before they even made them.

A deep breath later, I opened the door, my smirk, a mask of evil, hiding every other thing I felt.

“I’ve been expecting you.” I said.

Disbelief flashed through her hazel brown eyes under the flickering light bulb on the ceiling above us.

I acted fast, using her inability to comprehend to my advantage, grabbing her while pressing the piece of fabric tightly against her face.

Her breathing quickened, the sedative making its way into her system through her nostrils, her attempts at catching a breath, suffocating her further.

The result was instant, my heart falling as I looked down at the unconscious body of Hana Omarjee, her light weight pressed against the muscles of my arms; her features now, despite relaxed, still showing evidence of her sadness, heartbreak and vulnerability.

All of that which had made her “an easy target”.

“I need the pay.” I whispered into the silence of the night.

It responded.

Thunder.

Lightning.

Then, the very first droplets of rain.

Sighing, I took her inside, kicking the door shut, preparing myself for the long week that lay ahead of me and as I watched her heaving chest, I contemplated the pretense – mine – that followed her wake.

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A/N 

O-KAY! Well, I didn’t mention who’s narrative this is, as it’s still to be revealed! 

I know it’s very short, but my aim is to keep the suspense alive. 

Hope you like it 🙂 

Spread the word ❤ 

Part 75: Impulse

HANA

Impulsivity is a funny thing. Most find it terrifying, and while I may be among those who fear it, it’s this very same fear that I find extremely exhilarating. The suddenness, the haste and the effortlessness – it makes impulse addicting. It’s tempting, and I’ve succumbed to this tempt for I sought pleasure in the things I did impulsively.

I found it strangely satisfying; when I put pen to paper, venting out the kind of bottled up emotions I could no longer speak about to my friends; when the patch of soft, artificial grass outside my window cushioned me as I sat, or lay, under the, sometimes starless, night sky in my state of insomnia; when inspiration struck, my admiration for the beauty of this growing with every passing second spent in the hours between dusk and dawn, the chaos of the rest of the world finally quietening to a peaceful slumber.

I wrote then, jotting down each of my thoughts, loving the feeling of content that washed over me after I strung together letters into words and, then, words into complete, heart-felt sentences. I wrote about life, about death, about love, about friendship, about sadness, about happiness, about fairy-tales, about reality. I wrote from my heart, emphasizing the deepness of the emotions I kept hidden, freeing them from the shackles of secrecy only when I was left, in solitude, with my little black notebook.

I didn’t realize it then, but the gradual accumulation of these little things is what had driven me completely out of control, turning my entire world upside down, inverting my beliefs, not just snatching me out of my element but ruthlessly tossing me into another one – completely foreign to me.

I thought back to my conversation with Junaid and his overwhelming kindness; his unfailing friendship.

“Please.” He begged. “Don’t push me away.”

He didn’t understand, how could he? All I ever did was lie to him, about me, about us.

I put my hands over his then, treasuring the feel of his skin underneath mine, my heart heavying further when I got up to leave.

“Not me.” I heard him mutter.

I paused – for less than a second, knowing, from the tone of his voice, that in that moment he had come to understand the reason for my distance –  then continued walking, suddenly remembering the crumpled up paper I didn’t take with me when I left.

I watched him through the blinds hiding me behind my window, a mixture of shock and melancholy contorting his perfect features, his head bowed.

I watched his gaze wander over to the piece of paper, watched him hesitate before picking it up and leaving too, his figure becoming smaller with each of the steps he took away from me.

I imagined his face as he read the contents of that page later that night, imagined the tears that might moistened his eyes, the sincerity of his care for me was evident.

I shut my eyes, the words I had written flashing over repeatedly in my head.

“Junaid…”

I had written.

“My dear Junaid, this one’s for you…”

Thunder rumbled in the distance, the indication of a brewing storm breaking my thoughts.

I glanced around, taking in my surroundings, wondering if it was impulse or just pure stupidity that brought me here at this hour.

It was both.

I walked over to the bridge, the slight breeze chilling me.

I needed a breather and, getting lost in my thoughts, as I always did, I allowed my feet the freedom to take me to wherever it felt fit; and that turned out to be our lake, with an ancient, seemingly abandoned house overlooking it.

It was just passed 2 a.m. and our lake was eerily silent without the usual energy and chatter of my group; of what used to be my group.

I ignored the silence, as I did the uneasy feeling I got, of being watched.

Instead, I continued walking forward, each step taking me closer to the empty house and I looked around at nothingness, in awe at how its abandonment resembled everything I felt over the past year.

I lifted my hand, bringing it to the rusted metal, banging it against the worn out wood thrice.

The door opened.

My jaw dropped.

My heart beat rose, my heart making its way to my throat.

“I’d been expecting you.” He said, a smirk playing on his lips.

No. It can’t be.

I wasn’t allowed the time to process anything for seconds later, I felt my head spinning, my eyes fluttering shut, engulfing me in a darkness and quiet I couldn’t seem to escape; a darkness and quiet I didn’t want to escape.

It was then that I came to I know of my need for saving,

Yes, from my captor,

But mostly…

From myself.

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A/N

Hey guys. I’m kind of torn between excitement and nervousness about this post. 

I’d given this “twist” a lot of thought, from the start of season 2. 

This post has also been sitting around in my drafts for a while, because I was doubtful in my abilities to pull off this kind of story-line. 

Clicking ‘publish’ will be impulsive LOL but I do hope you like it. I apologize for any future delays, as I am not used to this type of writing and I want it to be perfect. 

Comment, follow and spread the word 🙂

email: zaakirassimpleyetcomplexlife@gmail.com

twitter: @Blogger_14

instagram: @zaakirassimpleyetcomplexlife 

 

Part 74: Forgiveness

SAAJIDAH

Bright baby blue lights illuminated the darkness of the starless night sky, the unmistakable smell of alcohol making its way to my nostrils over the short distance between myself and a building whose familiarity released the leash I had on many memories, giving them just the right amount of freedom to flow, chaotically, within my mind, its rush mirroring the kind that came with the mixture of sounds emanating from its liberator.

My gaze wandered over the small, crowded building before shifting over to the person standing against a car parked two empty spaces away from mine. We stood apart for a while, studying each other, recognising the heartache plastered over both of our faces, the hesitancy in Mahmood’s footsteps eventually reflecting in his eyes as he inched closer and closer, the body of my white Polo becoming the only form of barrier separating us when two empty parking spaces decreased to zero.

Wordlessly, his expectant gaze pierced my calm one over the roof of my car and I couldn’t help but smile, in content mock of his anticipation for the outrageous outbreak he would not get for it was suppressed by my sudden knowledge and understanding. It stemmed from my heart, this smile – the kind that was broken yet acceptant – and the recognition passing through his light grey eyes indicated his noticing.

I knew my reasons for being there and it was not reckless spontaneity and influence, as it was the first time. Now, although three years later, came the aftereffects of that, consequences that included immense pain, regret and memories that served as everlasting reminders of those thoughtless actions; MY thoughtless actions.

I saw it in his eyes too, rising and falling as he struggled to contain it, flashing out among the hesitance, screaming out in agony, as did mine.

Immense pain.

Regret.

Memories.

The three things we loathed most is what brought us together again, right outside of where it all started… for me, at least.

I knew a lot of things this time, as compared to the last, and everything finally started to add up for those three things is what brought everyone here; and while it had started here for me, I’ve come to understand that it started elsewhere for him and every other person, inside and around, this nightclub.

This nightclub, wretched as it is, was a safe haven for most. It was the place that offered comfort to the lonely, it offered love to the broken-hearted and it offered fulfilment to the voided. It was a place that understood us, emphasizing this understanding with 9 alphabets strung together in an alluring font – the deception of this allure hidden as each letter called out to our vulnerable melancholy.

C’est La Vie.

It called out to us, offering us its intoxicating solace.

That’s life.

Life – throwing us completely off the edge, time and again, to a level of insanity we so desperately wanted to escape, our every attempt not only proving to be futile but plunging us further into the depths of this insanity.

Shit happens.

Finally, comes this phrase, bearing justification for all the wrongs we do here, all the mistakes we make, and all the hearts we break.

His eyes softened before he broke the silence, initiating conversation.

“I heard about your granny…” He trailed off, continuing when I didn’t speak. “I’m deeply sorry.”

His apology – they were 3 words directed at my most recent loss but said in a voice with the emotion of a thousand apologies mangled into one.

“I know.” I said, a while later. “I know you are. I am too. I’ve forgiven myself and… And I’ve forgiven you…”

I held his gaze for a long time before speaking again.

“Can you?”

He lowered his head, a fresh flow of tears moistening his eyelids.

MAHMOOD

“Can you?”

The hostility was long gone and in its place came a sudden warmth and understanding.

I couldn’t.

I don’t know how long I stood there, the voices in my head debating the answer to her question, ending abruptly when her arms wrapping around me in a comforting hug was more than a hallucination, when the forgiving, pained woman standing in front of me found it in her to have hope for me even after I ruined her.

Her touch lingered, long after we parted.

Her whispers echoed, as I sat in car a good distance away from my house later that night.

Her words, simple and inferior yet still somewhat impactful and encouraging.

“Yes.” She had answered for me, the firmness in her voice indicating an awareness of doubt. “Yes, you can. I know it.”

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A/N

Readers, where ya’ll at?

Apologies for the delay.

This post was sitting in my drafts from 3 this morning and I’m not completely satisfied with it but I wrote it up in about four hours so I can avoid delaying the delay lol!

I hope you liked it, anyway 🙂

twitter: @Blogger_14

email: zaakirassimpleyetcomplexlife@gmail.com

instagram: @zaakirassimpleyetcomplexlife 

NUMBED- Written by Author/s of Zaakira’s Simple Yet Complex Life

I haven’t really had the time to write up a new post so I decided to re-blog this piece I had written on the side for TA’s blog. Hope you like it 🙂 Do check out http://www.thoughtavalancheblog.wordpress.com

Thought Avalanche

I had thought that my depth was lost,For writing had once been my only escape,Now, however, it seemed as though I had no way of expressing myself,As I sat at my desk, pencil in hand,Staring at the page in front of me;A page whose blankness resembled that of my mind. Insomniac night after insomniac night,I tried to channel my feelings, as I did in the past,But these feelings and emotions,Having piled up within me,Secrets and loss,Having been ignored,Now crept up on me,In pure vengeance,Compressing,Ruthlessly,Turning my heart to dust,Letting it slip into my lungs,Suffocating me,Focused solely on ripping me of my every last breath. And the more I thought about it,The better I understood, that,It was not the loss of depth that forbid me to write,It was the consequence of that kind of depth,A depth that began to create a void,An unrelenting emptiness,A sense of complete and utter loneliness;One that had…

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Part 73: Blood, Sweat and Tears

PLEASE TAKE TIME TO READ THE AUTHOR’S NOTE AT THE END 

AUNTY ZUHAIRAH (SAMIHA’S LATE MOTHER)

13 YEARS AGO:

The day was particularly difficult. The 12th of August always is. It’s been five years since my stillborn child and the pain experienced by this loss proved its unflagging strength as did the depth of the wound it left; both completely unaffected by the passage of time.

Sweat trickled down my tired face, the cold surgical room suddenly starting to feel unbearably hot.

‘Excessive bleeding.’

My ears felt a tinge of pain, the urgent hushed voices of co-working doctors suddenly sounding too loud.

‘Abruption.’

I struggled to keep my eyes open, the optimized lighting of the room suddenly seeming too bright.

‘Placenta.’

A burning sensation made its way to my outstretched legs, the short time I spent extending them suddenly feeling too lengthy.

‘We’re losing them!’

A lot happened then: It was as though I could actually feel the Earth’s spin – at 1000 miles per hour; as though I could actually hear the thumping of my heart within my chest as its beat exceeded 100 beats per minute; as though I could actually see the heightened pressure my blood flow placed on each of its vessels as they fought back, difficultly, trying to keep from bursting.

‘She’s stable.’

It’s so dark in here…

“HEY!!!” My eyes shot open at the sound of a louder, much firmer voice. “STAY WITH ME!”

Why is she yelling?

I felt her gentle grip. My eyes shifted to her hand on mine.

“BREATHE WITH ME.”

Ouch.

It hurts.

Everything hurts.

“Come on,” her voice is softer now. Almost calming. “Inhale. Hold it. Exhale.”

The seriousness in her eyes compels me to do as she asked. Inhale. Hold it. Exhale.

“My…” I started, my voice coming out strained. “B-a-b–.”

“MA’AM.” The word silenced me. “You need to do as I say.”

She doesn’t want me to ask. She’s avoiding my question.

“All of it will be over soon.” She said, gently. “You need to be stronger for this last part. It’s going to hurt. But… Just one…”

I screamed out in pain, my body obeying her commands without her having to complete them.

“NO!” someone yelled then; shocked, distraught, afraid.

“DR MILLS!!!” came another shout with a tone more confident, more warning, more superior. “NOW IS NOT THE TIME!”

“WE LOST THE BABY!!!!!”

“DR MILLS!” the voice was now angry. “GET OUT OF MY O.R.” 

Silence settled before being interrupted again.

“OUT!!!!!!!!!” 

There was a bit of shuffling, banging of instruments, muffled gasps.

Everything’s distant.

“Baby…” I managed, eventually, unsure if anyone heard me.

‘Bloody hell! We’re losing her!’ came a response. 

The lights disappeared then, the voices faded and darkness I caught slight glimpses off before, now presented itself in entirety.

“Salaam Mamma!!!” my train of painful thought came to an abrupt end as I passed the playroom. Teasingly, I ignored the call, a small smile dancing on my lips.

“MAMMA!!!” she called again, louder this time, her voice laced with the slightest bit of irritation. “Mamma, I know you bluffing.”

I put down my laundry basket, the smile now fully spread across my face, and made my way toward my daughter. Her mind was sharper than most her age and she quickly picked up new words, and sentences, whilst in the company of her two older siblings.

“What you got there, kid?” I asked, rhetorically.

She ignored me, as I had done her; her sass charming me. She looked down, concentrating hard on a sketch of Barney, all of her fingers clutching onto a purple crayon as she scribbled onto the page, with so much force it almost tore.

“That’s pretty.” I said, pointing to the zig-zag lines she’d been making across the face. “Like you.”

The compliment rid her of her anger as she blinked up at me with big, grey eyes.

Those eyes, displaying the innocence of a child, kind.

She smiled, offering me forgiveness, living up to her name, despite being so young.

That smile… generous.

This child, little as she was, somehow able to shed light into a very, very persistent darkness…

Cries, I hear cries.

My eyelids lifted, my heart ignoring its heaviness.

I looked up to see my husband close to my bedside, his arms encompassing a wrapped bundle.

A smile made its way to my face, lasting less than a millisecond before the events of the past 45 minutes flashed through my mind: remnants, at first, and then hitting me full force.

‘WE LOST THE BABY.’ They had said.

It was a series of echos in my head, each one setting off another, the sound never ending, the words sinking in.

“My baby.” I said, my words clearer now that I was fully conscious.

He looked up at the sound of my voice, the pain evident in his eyes, right before turning stone cold.

“It was a boy.” He said, finally, after a long moment of silence.

Was…

My eyes shut, the reality dawning upon me, the tears of my heart, too heavy for my chest to bear, escaping through my eyes.

“My baby.” I said, again, reaching out weakly. “Hamza… No… no…”

My husband placed the unmoving baby into my arms.

I lifted the lifeless bundle, bringing him closer to me, hoping he’d feel the soft kisses I placed on his forehead, willing them to be some kind of reviver; but he did not and it was not.

“No, this can’t… this isn’t… he can’t…” I trailed off, unable to complete my sentences. I looked up at my husband, seeking some kind of comfort, but he refused to even meet my gaze.

“Zaakir?” I said, questioningly.

“You missed appointments.” He muttered, his voice mirroring the chill in his eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“YOU DELAYED CHECK UPS!!!” He shouted this time.

My heart sank and I voiced a question, already knowing his answer.

“Are you implying that it’s my fault?”

“No.” He chuckled, sarcastically. “I’m straight out saying it is.”

“It was only two.” My lack of energy forbade me from yelling.

“ONLY TWO!!! ONLY?!” He reached for Hamza’s corpse and I pulled away. “That’s still a fucking irregularity.”

I remained silent, processing his words.

Did I kill my child?

“You complained of cramps, high fever and dizziness.”

He was right… this was all my fault.

“YOU DAMN CHOSE NOT TO GO TO THE CLINIC!”

I didn’t choose to…

“YOU KILLED THE BABY!!!!”

My sense of denial kicked in then, giving me the strength I lacked.

“I DIDN’T CHOOSE TO!!!” I screamed at him. “I WOULD NEVER, NOT INTENTIONALLY!!!”

A nurse entered and just as she did, I yelled, “LEAVE US!”

“Take the dead weight too.” My husband said, glancing hatefully at me.

“He was our baby!” I exclaimed, completely taken aback, pulling Hamza closer to me.

“He died before he even got a chance to be.” His voice was devoid of emotion as he snatched Hamza from me.

“No, Zaakir, don’t, are you even hearing yourself?!”

He ignored my helpless pleas, handing our child to the silent nurse, as if Hamza was trash, as if his death meant nothing.  

“He was our baby!” I repeated. “HOW DARE YOU?!”

“FUCK YOU!” He yelled, lifting both fingers in the air.

“ASSHOLE!!!!!” I yelled right back, my strength wearing off as I laid back down, dissolving into a never-ending stream of tears… again.

It was an argument paving the way to multiple disagreements; one fight setting off another, just like the echos in my head…

I watched my little girl, my mind searching for answers but finding none for the questions remained, lurking around, as they did for 5 and a half years. It baffled me how quickly things changed – the years prior to her birth being a painful flash of events. Those were the years of tragedy, of difficulty, and of conflict; reminding me what it was like to feel pain, punishing me for allowing myself to forget and in the remembrance of this type of pain, I forgot love. Love, upon not having received it, I neglected giving it and as a result of this neglect lay two young, living kids with no understanding of why they’ll never see their younger brother; as a result of this neglect lay two young, living kids wondering why their parents were suddenly always yelling at each other; as a result of this neglect lay two young, living kids, afraid and restless, with uncaring, oblivious parents, depending solely on themselves and each other.

“Mamma.” Mahmoood called tiredly. “Please, mamma. Why can’t I sleep by you and Abah?”

Because Abah and I don’t sleep in the same bed anymore.

Abah and I don’t sleep in the same room anymore.

Abah and I barely sleep in the same house anymore…

“You’re a big boy now, Mahmood.” I said, instead, smiling lightly.

“But my nightmares won’t stop, Mamma. Please.” He pleaded.

Neither would mine.

I wanted to say yes, craving companionship.

I wanted to say yes, knowing full well that my son’s presence would soothe me as it would him.

I wanted to say yes, for watching Mahmood fall asleep would suppress the wander of my mind.

I wanted to say yes, willing to accept anything that offered to keep the loss of my first child from consuming my thoughts.

I wanted to say yes, wanting someone, needing someone to just be there.

I wanted to say yes, but I couldn’t for these children need not know the severity of the brokenness between their parents, the outrageous arguments that never ended were burdenous enough.

I wanted to say yes, every fiber of my being urging me to, but I fought every urge with a strength I never knew I had and, instead, I cradled my son in my arms, lifted him off his bed and carried him to the large window in his new room.

I stood with him, his head on my chest, and together we gazed out into the beauty of the silent night for what felt like ages. I told tales that calmed his racing heart, chased away the nightmares and allowed his eyes to shut gently, pulling him into a deep, peaceful slumber. My gaze ran over my sleeping son, whose weight had started to cause an ache in the muscles of my arms, and as I did, I wished, again, for everything to go back to how it once was.

I was now propped up against a wall, with Samiha on my lap, playing with a button on my shirt. I ran my hand through her open, messy hair and she looked up at me, yawning before offering me another smile. She was but a toddler – my toddler – who’d been living proof that the wish I made those 4 years ago had been fulfilled.

Unconsciously, I rubbed a hand along her back and she slowly drifted off to sleep as I drifted into thought, her head buried in my chest and mine resting lightly on hers.

It might have been the weight of my tears or maybe even the exhaustion of my heart that sparked a sudden change but one night my husband didn’t come home late, the next day he bought me the reddest of roses and cooked us dinner, a week later we were all suddenly okay and the past two years were never spoken off. It was as though it never happened, except that it did and merely brushing it under the rug made me queasy. Everything changed for the better and although it did, with an additional member to our family, the uneasiness proved to be difficult to shake off, my fear of pain daring me to ignore it.

“YOU DID WHAT?” My husband’s loud voice travelled through the hallway, making its way to my ears, my thoughts interrupted again. 

I know that tone. 

“I CAN NOT BELIEVE THIS!”

He used that tone on me once before. 

My feet rushed towards the urgency of his voice and I found myself entering our room, his back to me, a phone held tightly to his ear, him unaware of my presence.

“AYESHA!”

Ayesha? Ayesha who? 

“THEY WERE MY KIDS JUST AS THEY WERE YOURS!”

Kids?

“SO WHAT IF I’M MARRIED?!”

Married? Yes, to me. 

“DID YOU EVEN THINK TO CONSULT ME?”

What? What is he saying? 

“A BURDEN? THEY WOULD HAVE NEVER BEEN A BURDEN.”

Who?

“ALL THAT WAS BURDENOUS WAS MY AFFAIR WITH YOU.”

Affair? 

My lungs did the math before I, for they stopped providing oxygen and, upon exiting the room I struggled to breathe.

Ayesha. Kids. Affair. 

OH. 

“Oh…” I said to myself walking along the empty hallway. “Oh…”

NO.

“No…” I clutched my chest, it tightening, my pace increasing. “No…”

CHEATER.

“Cheater…” My hands reached for the handle of a  door. “Cheater…”

I felt it again – the Earth’s spin, my heart beat fasten, my pressure rise.

This time, preoccupied, I didn’t fight back, I couldn’t, my gaze wandering, filling my sight with a deep blue .

How did I get in here? 

My heart heavying, I took towards the crib, walking slowly, taking in every detail of the room we never entered.

The room we set up so perfectly for Hamza with the teddy bears, the rattles and the tiny cars.

I collapsed to the ground near the, still, packaged gifts I received at my baby shower 5 and a half years ago.

I lifted one, it felt soft.

I shook it, it made no sound.

I ripped through the wrapper, a bright blue exterior enclosing 0-3 month old baby clothes: a romper, a short-sleeved t-shirt and track pants. I brought it up to my face, sniffing in its newness, my tears staining the white material.

I let it slip from my fingertips, crying out, feeling hollow in the place my gut ought to have been at.

Feeling weak, I laid down, my back on the ground, staring up at the ceiling fan.

The wires around it indicated a job unfinished, a job we didn’t need to be finished.

I sat up again, feeling my suffering rise to a level that became more than unbearable.

I stood up, afterward, finally having found an everlasting solution.

I walked to where the mobile steps were, placed them directly underneath the bolted-on ceiling fan I’d been staring at, grabbing hold of the rope that was conveniently left at the corner of the room.

I climbed it, one by one, my heart starting to race. Not for long. 

My hands reached for the wires as I combined them with rope, expertly knotting it to the fan and then wrapping it around my neck.

Thinking abut the baby I left asleep on the floor of the playroom, I hesitated, only once, before kicking away the only thing separating me from the ground. From death. 

Many things went through my mind. Most of which had been hazy.

I thought mainly of my children.

Saadia’s teenage phase.

Mahmood’s nightmares.

Samiha’s entire life.

The wire and rope started to burn my skin, pressure being placed on the vessels in my neck.

‘You’re a coward, Zuhairah.’

My very last thought, before the oxygen and blood supply to my brain came to an eternal end…

…As did my life.

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A/N 

Greetings everyone!

Finally managed to type out a post, yoh, what a mouthful! Call me crazy but my stomach felt funny typing out this post because I was envisioning it. I do apologize for it being too cringy and for the vulgarity, but it seemed apt for the story-line.

I hope this post was worth the wait, I made it extra long!

Also, I hope the shifts between the past and the present  weren’t too confusing.

One last thing, I’ve recently gotten myself an instagram account, do follow @zaakirassimpleyetcomplexlife

Much love,

Take care!

 

 

Recaps and Edits

Parts 1 to 12

The Sulaimaan family – sisters, Zaakira and Saajidah, and their parents, Yahya and Khadija, just recently moved to Durban, from LadySmith. While Zaakira is a simple person, with little drama, her emotions are stirred when she bumps into an old best friend, Naseema Paruk. Naseema claimed to have developed feelings for Zaakira after falling prey to homosexuality.

We learn a little about Ziyaad, Zaakira’s neighbour, and his family. Ziyaad has a bit of a traumatic past, being witness to his best friend’s, Ismail’s, hit and run. We glimpse the slightest bit of chemistry between himself and Zaakira, on her birthday, when he helps her with a dress she struggled to zip up. We’re introduced to her best friend, Halimah, her cousin, Tasneem, and Tasneem’s annoying twin sister, Nuha.

Parts 13 to 25:

Ziyaad and Zaakira have their first fall out, after Ziyaad invites Naseema to speak with Zaakira.

Drama brews between three additional characters – Junaid, Hana and Samiha – the three best friends stuck in a love triangle. Hana, despite ending her relationship with him, still had strong feelings for Junaid, whose relationship with Samiha started to flourish.

A lot is learned about Samiha in these posts – losing her mother, to death, at the age of 3, her father father failing at his responsibility at the age of 6 or 7, her relationship with her brother strained throughout her life and her step-mother treating her like trash, for all of her years growing up.

Junaid and Hana visit her home, after wronging her with the secrecy of their past, and Junaid gives her brother a piece of his mind, meaning good but, instead, causes further problems as Samiha’s situation goes from house-arrest to a proposal of marriage.

We’re taken into Mahmood’s troubled past, learning about his mother’s miscarriage, prior to Samiha’s birth, and his parents’ ongoing arguments. Mahmood’s mind is flooded with regret as he makes an effort to change, resulting in the move out of their house and into Zaakira’s.

Zaakira’s sister, Saajidah, however, is hit with a blast from her past with her sister’s innocent attempts to help a friend. Mahmood’s relation to Saajidah wasn’t a pretty one – the two strangers hit it off in a club one night, leading to Saajida’s unspoken of pregnancy and her abortion. Bear in mind that Saajida is now, years later, engaged to Muaaz and after confessing to her sister, she calls him, intent on telling him the truth about who she had once been.

The phone-call, however, brings more tragedy for she finds out that her fiance has met into an accident and that she was unaware, for no known reason, of his state of comatose.

Meanwhile, Samiha is burdened further, finding out that suicide was the cause of her mother’s death; a detail omitted and covered up with something subtler, by her father.

PARTS 26-36

Hana’s emotional break-down is brought to light now. The loss of her friends start to take a toll on her and she finds herself misunderstood and imprisoned.

Ziyaad’s love life is also mentioned, as he starts to question his feelings for Maseeha – a girl he had a crush on for years. Being close enough to Samiha, he manages to find her one night, when she supposedly went missing. A cute moment between Samiha and Junaid follows, securing their relationship, giving her hope that everything will be fine, showing Ziyaad what love really looked like. Maseeha, filled with anger after being dumped, convinced Zaakira was the reason behind it, has a plan of revenge for her.

Zaakira visits Muaaz for the first time and when he starts to awake, Saajidah passes out. The hardship plants a seed of conflict between the two families, both distraught about the condition of their kids.

Mahmood realizes his feelings for Saajida and finds out about his mother’s death after Samiha’s outburst.

We now focus on Muaaz’s past. Also being a victim of an abusive father, he grew tired of watching his mother suffer. Still quite young, he took matters into his own hands, and filled with anger and hate, he watched his father burn to death in a fire that was only he knew was so accident, driving his mother to a sea of depression and drowning her, unwillingly. He was being haunted by these memories, he kept hidden, in his state of unconsciousness, and the inability to move was not the only thing that hurt.

PARTS 37-42

Junaid isn’t all that perfect. His break up with Hana let out a darkness, and having being hurt drove him towards hurting others. He became a player, jumping from one girl to another and dropping them, watching them, with pleasure, as they fell. Finally, having met Samiha, he started to change, falling for her and falling hard.

Samiha’s heartache is expressed further, her father finally kneeling in apology. Mr Hassen’s love for Samiha is clear, as her tears hits his heart, forcing him into admitting to his mistakes, and as he begins to sincerely regret allowing his ego to ruin his relationship, to ruin his wife, he phones his elder daughter, Saadia, after a long time, offering her, and the rest of his kids, honesty, offering them closure.

Naseema is brought back into our story, with the return of her father who left, unannounced, years ago, claiming to have changed and being rejected by her pained mother. Naseema’s love for her father remains, despite his flaws, and is proven by the effect his absence had on her.

Saadia is introduced as Samiha’s sister, her troubled past including the abuse, physical and emotional, of her step mother, the cowardice of her father and her escape: marriage. (Details of her meeting Imraan, her husband, was added to the blog. Please refer to Part 41) She left her home, her troubles, and never once looked back, abandoning her siblings, cutting off all contact after a while. She boarded a flight home with Imraan, afraid of her husband’s reaction to the reality of the past he has yet to learn of.

PART 42-50

Muaaz and Saajidah are now both fully conscious and she, once again, attempts coming clean about her past’s wrongs and failing, once again, after being interrupted by her little sister.

Hana, constantly being compared to her elder sister, starts questioning her worth and grows tired of her mother’s oblivion to her messy inner state.

The chemistry between Ziyaad and Zaakira amplifies.

Saajida attends a wedding in Johannesburg (co-written with the author of LLD) where she bumps in Nemo, another remnant of her past, her attempts at moving on proving to be futile as she resorts to self-harm, driving a blade through her skin unconsciously. It’s here that she meets Aara, whose wise words reach her heart teaching her the importance of forgiveness, of oneself.

Samiha and her family sit down to discuss what their father promised – honesty. He began his tale – meeting their mother, Zuhairah, at a hospital after her father passed, befriending her, loving her, proposing to her, wronging her and then ruining her. Each reacted with anger, escaping to process the information on their own. Moments later, Samiha, with a heart of gold, returns, wrapping her arms around her father, choosing to forgive him, her desperation for a father’s love outweighing the wrongs he admitted to have been guilty of.

PART 51-58

Zaakira’s preparation for her final paper of grade 11 is interrupted by Ziyaad who goes on to express his concern about their group’s threatened bond. He finally accepts that the death of his friend was not because of him and, with an intention of bringing Hana, Samiha and Junaid back together, he sets up a meeting before he receives an unexpected visitor, with chilling news. (Possibly forgotten so to jog your memory visit Part 52)

We learn the real reasons for Hana’s decision to break off ties with Junaid – it was an attempt to avoid her mother’s disappointment,  one gone in vain. Junaid notices a pleasant chance in Samiha’s attitude, along with the unpleasant one in Hana.

The group gather on the last day of school, discussing the sudden fall of their friendship, opening up to each other, after a long time. Zaakira is met with a surprise – Naseema, donned from head to toe, an attempt at change finally proving to be a success. This change, as explained, was sparked by her father, whom she couldn’t resist visiting after his return.

Saajida, having finally told Muaaz about her past, was left, listening to the line cut – a loss she accepted, finding it in her to move forward, to be free, despite it paining her.

PARTS 59-72

The Sulaimaan’s are once again tested, with the death of Daadi. Ziyaad shocks himself with his sudden attraction to Zaakira, who was deeply affected by the loss of her grandma.

Saajida, on the other hand, chooses to learn from this loss, a lesson helping her embrace the freedom from the shackles of the past. She’s approached by Mahmood, once again, but this time, she accepts his approach, instead of angering herself.

Muaaz is now on therapy, against his will, for reasons still unclear, his brokenness now more visible.

Hana’s loneliness deepens and she starts to isolate herself further, resisting Junaid’s hand when he reaches out to her. It was a resistance clarifying signs and sending them to Junaid, showing him how much of pain her love for him caused her. Hana, conflicted and unsure of what she wants, remains afraid to let anyone in and wishes, unsuccessfully, for an escape. A note slipped out of her pocket, unnoticed by her but read by Junaid who discovered her unexplained absence the next day.

The simplicity of Zaakira’s life is threatened, her uncle’s outburst, during the 40 days function, paving the way for change.

SUMMARY OF WHAT’S TO BE ADDRESSED IN FUTURE POSTS: 

  1. Ziyaad’s unexpected guest.
  2. The encounter between Saajida and Mahmood.
  3. The reasons behind Muaaz’s counselling sessions.
  4. Hana’s absence
  5. The change, and its result, in Zaakira’s life.

A/N 

Greetings

Happy New Year to those thrilled about it lol

Hope you all doing well

This was posted at 5 this morning but somehow got deleted from my page. I’m so sorry, I only realized now.

I’ve explained the content of this blog to the best of my ability. Feel free to comment or contact me if anything’s still unclear 

Take care

Much love

Poll

Hey guys,

I’m currently editing the 58th post 🙂 I’ve got 14 more posts to go before I continue with this blog.

I’ve thought of two ways I could post the updated version… Kindly vote with regards to what’s preferred

Lots of love!

 

Greetings

Hey all,

While I fear that many of you have given up on me,

I apologize profusely for the delay in posting.

This year has been hectic but other than life, I have no valid excuses.

I’ve decided to start editing previous posts, as I may have mentioned before. I’m currently on part 41.

Soon, in sha Allah, I will update it, officially, on this blog.

This blog will continue once I am done with the edits,  before which I’ll provide a summary to jog all our memories.

It took re-writing 2 posts to make me realize how much I missed writing, the drama and well… reading through comments!!!

I’m sincerely sorry!

I know I have ghosted and, that too, with a cliffhanger 😶

For those of you who haven’t forgotten me…

Where do you think our dear Hana is?

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