Hushed Confessions

Sibling Goals

Sajdaa Taha

Silence.

I never thought that such peace could be so deafening. Although, the air around Hamza and I was thick, neither of us did anything to break it. We allowed the suffocating nature of stillness to torment us in the late hours. I sighed, my gaze moving to the tree branch outside the window.

I could see my reflection through the glass as the moonlight illuminated the highlights of my cheeks and eyes, the dusty brown seemed to lack colors, and I wondered if it was the effect of stress. The darkness outside only heightened my fear of the unknown. A killer was out there, a man who wanted me dead, a man with a cold heart, a man of bloodshed. He was dangerous.

The thought brought chills down my spine, making me shiver. The air seemed colder, almost like I was being watched. The crickets went silent, the owls flapped their heavy wings away, and the rustling outside stopped.

My fingers touched the scarf that was lightly wrapped around my head. One glance at the window and I knew I wasn't being irrational. I knew, deep in my heart, that those creatures were warning me.

Someone was there.

I couldn't imagine what type of force I had reckoned with in order to be targeted by someone so cruel. The numerous letters I had received and the text message that started it all made me wonder. Who had known me so well enough to do such a thing? Perhaps, it wasn't even entirely my fault.

"You still awake?" whispered Hamza.

I turned over to my side, facing his figure. "Yeah," I said. "What's wrong?"

"Everything feels weird."

Weird, I could have laughed. Life was more than weird. That small word wasn't enough to describe the recurring fear that kept plummeting my heart on a daily basis. Sometimes, I wasn't sure whether I should be crying or laughing, maybe even both. Life was like that at times. It was hysterical, almost too surreal like something right out of a book. Everything went by so fast.

One minute I was singing nasheeds (Islamic songs) to my uncle, and the next, he was gone. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the horrid memories to go away. After all this time, the pain never left me, the pain still stung every time I allowed myself to grieve. It was almost unbearable at times.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I opened my eyes and stared right into my little brother's eyes. "Tell me," I urged him, softly.

He sighed, his fingers ran through his tough black hair, reminding me so much of Ridwan. "I don't know, but it's just really hard to believe."

"I know what you mean."

"It's like the stereotypes weren't enough, but killing is a whole new level of messed up. We lost so much, Sajdaa, our family," he gulped, "they've sacrificed so much. Why do we keep hurting them?"

From a young age, I knew Hamza was different from kids his age. Even now, my little brother proved everyday that he was growing up to be a honorable young man. Hamza was never selfish, he always thought about his actions much more thoroughly than I did. All of his decisions depended on the reactions of those that he cared about.

"Hamza," I started, "it's hard in today's society. Everyone's telling us who we should be and who we shouldn't be, painting images of their standards. It is difficult and it does hurt sometimes, especially when people are so against us."

He solemnly nodded his head, refusing to meet my gaze.

"But, we don't give up. That killer can try to terrorize us as much as he wants, he can rip us apart, but we're a family that sticks together. Look at the hardships we've overcome. We're still alive," I reassured him. "Mom and Dad need us to be strong for them. We have to be strong for Ridwan."

"I guess you're right. I'm just worried."

I reached over to touch his hand, he looked up at me, his dark brown eyes staring at me in confusion. "We got this, Hamza. Allah has us covered," I smiled.

He grinned. "You just made a Muslim pun."

I scrunched my eyebrows, wondering what he was talking about until realization hit me hard. "Why do you always ruin a heartfelt moment with puns?" I questioned, narrowing my eyes at him.

Hamza laughed. "Tense situations feel awkward. Besides, it's not my fault I catch every fault in your words."

"That wasn't even a fault, you moron," I scoffed.

"Moron? No offense, but you really need to upgrade your vocabulary."

I groaned into the pillow. "Little brothers are such a pain."

"But you love me."

"I love food, kid. Get it right."

"Food isn't love," he argued.

"In my world, it is."

"Oh you mean your dreams? Damn, Sajdaa I didn't know you were that lonely," he joked, knowing that he was getting under my skin.

Lifting my head from the pillow, I glared fiercely at him. "I know you're new to this stuff, but in America, there's this thing called respect. It's where we force ourselves to be nice to those older than us. Yeah, that's the thing that you need," I retorted.

"Politicians don't follow that."

"Politicians make hundred and thousands of dollars. You really believe they'll respect each other with that much money on them?"

"Just a little bit," he said as he gestured with his forefinger and thumb.

I gave him a blank expression. "You need a reality check, little brother."

"And you need a life, but you don't see me complaining about that."

I started laughing with Hamza joining in as well. For a moment, it felt as if nothing had changed, there were no worries, no contradictions, no fears, and most of all no killer.

It was just us, enjoying ourselves by poking fun at each other. It was just us as siblings, not two kids that were trying to catch a bloodthirsty murderer. It was just us, as normal people, not labeled by society. It was a feeling I was growing to love, even though it was only a couple of minutes.

When our laughter ceased, so did our voices. We went silent again, enough for us to hear the crickets chirping outside and the dark clouds that now covered the moon, small patters of rain hit the window. The sound was soothing, almost relaxing.

"Is it just me or am I seeing things?" asked Hamza as he propped himself on his elbows.

"What do you mean?"

He pointed at the window. "I thought... never mind. It must have been my imagination," he muttered.

I stared at the window, wondering if my suspicions had been correct. The rain came down harder, violently hitting the glass as the weather roared. The sound echoed into the small house, making me jump in surprise. It was so beautiful like a second ago, I thought.

"Hamza," I slowly said, "what did you exactly see?"

He turned his gaze back to the window, the lines on his forehead creasing. "Someone in a hoodie, but I can't be too sure. It was for like a second or two. When I blinked he was gone," he said.

A feeling of dread settled into my stomach. I bit my lip, worried as I glanced at Hamza, hoping that he would realize the error in his words. He hesitantly stood, the covers falling off him.

The thunder got louder, lightning screeching as Hamza took careful steps to the window. The room lit up, flashing quickly, rain pattered down even more than before. The water streaking the window, making it impossible to see anything.

I watched as Hamza leaned closer to the glass, his brown eyes squinting through the streaked window, trying to see through the water droplets. He flattened his palms against the cool glass. The air was thick like we knew something was about to happen. There was this eerie feeling rocking through us like a warning.

Hamza gasped and jumped back.

I instantly stood up, Hamza running to my side and gripping my arm. "What?" I frantically, asked.

"He's here."

That was all the confirmation that I needed. I ran to the kitchen, my legs taking me even before my mind could process everything. It was instinct to run, to hide, to protect. Hamza was close on my tail, rushing to get to the drawers, and scavenging through the different blades. We needed a form of protection.

"Got it!" exclaimed Hamza, pulling out a knife. "Let's go, we have to warn the Hollens-"

A gunshot rang through the air.

Hamza's eyes widened, and I pulled his arm up the stairs. Our footsteps rumbled against the carpet, Hamza's knife glinted in the shadows, regardless, we kept running. My heart was pounding against my chest as I silently prayed that they were okay.

Another gunshot.

Then, we heard a high pitched scream just as we entered the room. I pushed the door open, slamming it against the wall. The sight before us was enough to make me go pale, my stomach felt queasy, my hands tightened around the wooden bat.

"Oh God," mumbled Hamza as he rushed over to Mr. Hollen, dropping his knife. His fingers gripped Mr. Hollen's lifeless figure. "Mr. Hollen! Wake up! Mr. Hollen, this isn't funny!" he yelled.

I glanced around the room, Mr. Hollen was bleeding out from his head. Mrs. Hollen was on the ground, her face smothered in pillows as a red crimson color slowly surrounded her. I rushed to her side, turning her over. I grabbed her pale wrist, trying hard not to stare at her face, and checked for a pulse. Nothing. I was in denial.

Hamza looked up at me through teary eyes. "He can't be dead," he whispered, closing his eyes. "No, this isn't right. This is just a nightmare. Sajdaa, tell me this isn't true. Please!"

I had never heard Hamza sound this helpless, this desperate to escape our harsh reality. I kept my mouth shut, tearing my gaze away from his heartbroken expression. I cradled Mrs. Hollen to my chest, quickly dialing the police. As the phone rang, I noticed a note besides Mrs. Hollen, blood was splattered against it.

You thought you could hide?

Sweetheart, this is only the beginning.