DARK LINES

Scares that burns the bridge

A few days had passed since the night the hospital nearly lost its light the night Sameeha’s breath almost faded into silence.

Now, she sat by the window in her hospital room, wrapped in a soft cream shawl Basma had brought her. The afternoon sun poured gently through the glass, warming her fragile skin. Her body was healing, but her heart still carried invisible wounds.

Mr. Ali entered quietly, his prayer beads in hand.

“How are you feeling today, Sameeha?”

She managed a faint smile. “Better, Baba… Alhamdulillah.”

Her voice was barely above a whisper, yet to him, it was the sweetest sound he had heard in years. He pulled a chair beside her, lowering himself slowly as if afraid to disturb her calm.

“I’ve been thinking…” he began softly, “When the doctor discharges you, I want you to stay with Basma and her mother for a while. Until you’re stronger.”

Sameeha looked away. “You don’t want me home?”

Pain flashed across his face.

“No, my daughter, I want you home. But not… not in that house.”

Silence filled the room. Only the rhythmic beeping of the monitor stood between them.

Sameeha’s thoughts wandered to Nadia , her stepmother, her aunt. The woman who was supposed to love her enough for two mothers but ended up breaking her spirit instead. The image of Rimsha laughing in the hallway still haunted her sleep.

Later that evening, Basma came in with food and a soft Qur’an recitation playing from her phone.

“The doctor said you’ll be discharged tomorrow,” she said with a warm smile.

Sameeha’s eyes softened. “Tomorrow…” she repeated quietly, her gaze drifting to the window again.

Outside, the sky glowed with fading orange light, peaceful, deceptive, almost like the calm before a storm.

Back home, Nadia paced around the living room. Her eyes were swollen from sleepless nights, her nerves tight.

“She’s coming back?” she asked when Haider mentioned it.

He nodded. “That’s what everyone’s saying. Baba’s been staying at the hospital.”

Nadia clenched her fists, her chest tightening.

“Let her come,” she muttered bitterly. “Let her see that nothing has changed. She can’t take my peace away.”

But deep down, she knew peace had already left her house the night Sameeha ran away.

The next morning came quietly. Birds chirped outside the hospital window, and the faint aroma of disinfectant filled the air.

Sameeha sat upright on her bed, dressed in a soft lilac gown Basma had bought for her. Her wounds had started to heal, though her spirit still trembled like a fragile flame.

Dr. Basheer entered the room, a tired smile resting on his face.

“Alhamdulillah, you’re much better now,” he said. “But you must take it easy. Your body has endured what many wouldn’t survive.”

Sameeha lowered her gaze. “Allah saved me,” she whispered.

He nodded gently. “Yes, He did. And maybe… He has plans for you that none of us can see yet.”

Basma stood by the door, holding a paper bag filled with Sameeha’s few belongings her Qur’an, her prayer mat, and a folded scarf that still smelled faintly of home. She looked at her friend with quiet admiration. Sameeha had changed not completely healed, but stronger in a way that came from pain and prayer.

Mr. Ali completed the discharge papers and walked in, his eyes soft with both guilt and relief.

“Basma, please thank your mother for all she’s done,” he said, his voice heavy. “You two have been our angels.”

Basma smiled modestly. “We only did what was right, Uncle.”

As they stepped outside the hospital, the morning sun bathed Sameeha in golden light. She squinted slightly, feeling the warmth on her face the same light she had prayed for when she thought her world was ending.

“Ya Allah,” she whispered under her breath, “thank You for another chance.”

When they reached home, the air was different. Too quiet. The neighbours peeked through their windows, pretending not to stare. Whispers followed her every step.

Nadia stood by the door, her arms folded, a faint forced smile on her face. Rimsha and Haider flanked her sides like guards protecting their mother’s pride.

“Welcome home,” Nadia said stiffly.

Sameeha looked at her really looked at her. For the first time, she didn’t see a monster. She saw a broken woman wearing anger like armour. But forgiveness, even the thought of it, felt heavy in her chest.

“Thank you,” Sameeha replied softly, stepping past them into the house.

Mr. Ali stayed back for a moment, his eyes meeting Nadia’s.

“Let this home not be a battlefield again,” he said firmly. “She’s still your blood.”

Nadia’s jaw tightened. “If she behaves, there won’t be any war.”

That night, the house spoke in whispers again. Rimsha complained under her breath that Sameeha was getting too much attention. Haider muttered that their father had changed since the hospital incident.

Nadia stayed silent, her eyes fixed on the wall where a family photo once hung the one she had torn down the day Sameeha ran away.

Sameeha couldn’t sleep. She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the generator outside. She clutched her prayer beads close and whispered,

“Ya Rabb, I’m back here… not because I want to be, but because You willed it. Give me strength. Let my return bring peace, not more pain.”

Tears rolled down quietly, soaking her pillow. But somewhere between her sobs and supplications, she felt it a calmness settling in her chest, like Allah whispering to her heart that healing was coming, slowly but surely.

The next few days passed quietly, though peace was only on the surface. Sameeha tried to blend into the rhythm of the house again washing, sweeping, pretending not to feel the stares or hear the whispers.

Her body was still sore; the scars on her back itched and ached whenever she bent down. But no one seemed to notice, or perhaps they chose not to.

That afternoon, while the sun burned high and the air felt heavy, Nadia called from the living room.

“Sameeha! The water tank is empty. Go and fetch some from the next street.”

Sameeha froze, the words slicing through her heart. She turned slowly.

“Ummi… my wounds are still”

Before she could finish, Nadia snapped.

“Do I look like I care? You’ve rested enough. You can walk to the hospital; you can walk to fetch water!”

The room fell silent. Rimsha smirked from the couch, scrolling on her phone. Haider chuckled softly. “At least she’s good for something now,” he muttered.

Sameeha swallowed hard, her lips trembling. She picked up the old yellow jerrycan and began the long walk under the scorching sun. Her steps were slow, heavy, each one a reminder of pain, both physical and emotional.

The streets were alive with noise children playing, women chatting by their doors but she felt invisible. Her arms shook with every step, and sweat mixed with the faint sting of her half healed wounds.

At the well, she struggled to lift the bucket. A kind woman nearby noticed.

“Ah, my daughter, your body is not strong yet. Where’s your mother?”

Sameeha gave a weak smile. “She’s at home, ma.”

The woman frowned. “May Allah ease your affairs. You shouldn’t be out here like this.”

Tears burned behind Sameeha’s eyes, but she blinked them back. “Ameen,” she whispered.

By the time she got home, her legs trembled, and her arms felt numb. Water splashed over her feet as she struggled to carry the jerrycan inside. Nadia didn’t even look at her.

“Put it by the kitchen,” she ordered coldly.

Sameeha obeyed quietly. When she reached her room, her knees gave way. She sat on the floor, clutching her side, breathing hard. Her head throbbed, but her lips still moved in silent dhikr.

“Hasbiyallahu la ilaha illa Huwa…”

“Allah is sufficient for me… He sees everything.”

Her voice was faint, but her faith unshaken.

That night, as the house fell asleep, Mr. Ali peeked into her room. He saw her asleep on the mat, the faint marks of exhaustion visible even in rest. He shut the door slowly, guilt twisting in his chest.

“Ya Allah,” he whispered in the dark hallway, “I fear I am failing her again.”

And in that same darkness, Nadia sat on the edge of her bed, unable to sleep. For the first time, her own heart began to whisper questions she didn’t want to hear.

“Am I becoming what I swore never to be?”

She covered her face, but the silence of the house echoed her guilt louder than any voice.

The night was still. Only the ticking of the wall clock broke the silence. Sameeha lay on her thin mat, her breathing shallow, her arms wrapped around her aching ribs. The room was dim, the moonlight painting faint silver lines across the wall.

She whispered, “Ya Allah… give me strength…” but the words came out barely audible. Her lips were dry, her head spinning. The pain in her body had turned into a dull wave that refused to fade.

When she tried to sit up to drink a little water, her hand slipped, and the world tilted. The cup fell, clattering onto the floor. Then everything went black.