After Midnight

8

I was made to sit in one of the empty cars with the driver in the front seat. Dad didn’t even spare me a glance before he yelled orders and we came back home in about ten minutes, thanks for his men’s reckless driving.

A part of me wished to just blurt out all the part, and I was positive it was the crazy part, that part of me which I never let out. The other part of me had a complete different agenda; it wanted me to lock myself in my room and cry. Weep. Sob. Wail, until even the tears begged me to stop crying.

This is no shock to anyone that being a woman is never easy. Do those women who say ‘Being a guy is so easy’ actually know that they’re the ones who have to go out and earn for their families, that it’s their duty and they are bound by it? Every male, every female, everyone’s life is tough. But where guys can smirk like it comes natural to them, or put on a cold expression, or drown their sorrows in alcohol, girls usually just cry themselves to sleep. Not all, but at least some of them.

Nobody bothered me the following night, which was quite shocking, honestly, because I bet my Mom couldn’t wait to let out all her anger on me. This time, she even had a solid reason.

I lay in bed, gazing at the ceiling, wondering. . .what would Harry be doing?

Needles pricked at my heart. I miss him. It hasn’t even been a whole day and already my heart aches to see him. Talk to him. Before, I was bound by the laws of religion to not speak to him openly, to not see him. But, now that he is my mahram, I still can’t do any of that openly. I couldn’t risk calling him, saying I wasn’t allowed to lock my door, and anybody could barge in any second. In my barely illuminated room by the gold faerie lights hung around the frame of my door, I could see shadows of footsteps outside, as if someone would patrol every five minutes.

I sigh.

Consequences be damned.

I grab my phone from the nightstand and with shaky fingers dial the number I could never forget.

“Don’t tell me you’re that wild to call me.”

Sparks light me up. “Harry. . .” I barely whisper, closing my eyes and finally, finally letting the tears free. God, it feels so good. The wetness against my skin: a reminder of what calm tears could bring sometimes.

I hear him whisper-hiss, “Aabi? Do I need to put some sense into you?” He’s angry, but I don’t care. I don’t care. He could even yell for hours, and it would still give me more peace than before.

“Maybe? I don’t know. I am glad you are okay. God,” I furiously wipe at the corners of my eyes, suddenly angry at myself for crying. “You have no idea how glad I am that you’re fine.”

“Oh, I know. Very well. And I do hope you also know how very furious I am with you. Perhaps I should cut the call.” On the last sentence, his voice wavers, giving away he is lying. He would never cut the call, and that makes me smile despite the tears.

“How are you feeling?” I ask him. I dart my eyes to the door, stilling for a mere second. I thought somebody was at the door. Phew. Almost stopped breathing from shock.

He is silent for a few heartbeats. Then, after what seems like forever, his voice echo’s in my ear. “Did he hurt you?”

He slapped me. “No.”

“Aabi. . .”

Well, technically, my father didn’t hurt me. Physically, yes, although the bruise on my cheek looks less nasty than I expected it to be, I don’t think it would go unnoticed by my very alert husband.

He could never hurt me emotionally. Never. I refused to let his words get to me in any way possible, not even of they were like knives to my chest.

“I am fine. Hey listen. . .” I nibble on my bottom lip, revising the sentence in my head. “Can we meet?” There’s too much hope in my voice. I shouldn’t have that, lest my heart would be shattered.

His reply is quick and stern. “No. Not for some days. You can’t even look at me in school. Just—lets keep some distance for a few days, okay? We can talk through the call.”

“Um, no? I am not okay with this solution of yours. Are you suggesting we completely stop seeing each other? Even in school?”

“That’s not what I meant—“

I don’t wait for him to finish before cutting the call.

The door to my room flew open, revealing a silhouette of a devil/my step mom. She marches inside the room until she is just beside my bed, her hard gaze narrowing in on me.

I don’t move.

I don’t hesitate.

I just lay still, holding her eyes.

“Just what do you think you’re doing, young lady?” she snarls. “Can’t you be like your sisters? How obedient they are to me, and how much your father’s respect means to them?”

I nearly puke. “My father’s respect? About which you don’t give a crap? I am sorry but, I would like to be alone for some while.”

She braces her hands on her lean hips, a frown etched on her face. Even in the dim lighting, it’s almost impossible to not see her hatred for me. I can tell my her restlessness that she wants to hit me, just like she did before. And before that. And so on. I was fine with it, really. I just didn’t care, letting those blows be restricted to my body alone, and stopping them from reaching the heart where it would actually hurt me emotionally.

My twin sisters’ are her number one favorite. She has spoiled their childhood by glittering gowns and big tiaras that rest atop their heads, and which also makes those twelve years old proud. I hate it. I hate what she is doing to my family. If only. . .I could get rid of her.

Suddenly, my phone is being snatched from my hand. I don’t get the time to stop her.

“What is wrong with you!”

She jams her fingers on the touch screen, impatient as always. “You have been talking to that boy again, haven’t you?”

That boy is my husband, the truth lies on the tip of my tongue. It takes everything in me to not utter it out loud.

“Give me my phone back!” I shout, just when my little sisters barge in the room, their faces ghost white.

“What is going on?” Elina demands, running frantic eyes from me to that filthy woman.

“Nothing. Go to bed, girls. We have to get up early for spa,” she says to my sisters, simultaneously glaring at me with a venomous glare.

God, I hate her so much, that it is unreal.

I get up and yank my phone back from her, for once grateful I had listened to Aaila and put a passcode on it. Not that she would know how to operate these modern phones, but still, she is smart, and I don’t want her to lay even a hand on our relationship.

“Get out of my room. All of you.”

My sisters give me a weird look. One might think they would’ve argued to stay with me, but not in my case. This woman has her hooks so deep inside them that even I seem to can’t break them free.

One day, I promise. One day.

Next morning was just as terrible as I had predicted. My mood was sour, and every face of my family member made me want to scream at them in frustration. I didn’t even spare them a glance before going off for a jog in the neighborhood.

Outside, the wind was blowing in my direction, sticking my clothes to my body. It was just some time after Fajr, so the sun wasn’t fully up yet which gave me the opportunity to wear tights and a super long shirt, alone with my extra lose scarf. I wanted to see Harry so bad. . .but couldn’t. Not when Sara, my step mum was in serious doubt about us.

As I set off to a steady jog, tears were already welling in my eyes. By the time I reached the end of the street, stopping just outside Harry’s house, something inside me twisted with pain, and the tears were fast, just desperate to break free.

Nobody ever understood what Harry and I had. We weren’t just best friends, just some normal couple. There was something between us that only we see. Feel. The emptiness that grows inside my chest with the fear of not being with him—

I shake my head violently, demanding myself to stop stressing. I will find a way. I will find a way to be with him without the fear of ever getting caught.

One day.

I spent the entire day in my bedroom doing absolutely nothing, until late afternoon the room burst open, startling the crap out of me.

“There’s a thing called knocking,” I narrow my eyes at Abdul, who winks at me and strides inside, closing the door behind him as he does so.

“It doesn’t exist in my vocabulary,” he laughs. He jumps on my bed and braces himself on his left arm. Then, he sighs.

“What?” Worry grows inside me.

“What?”

I rest my back against the headboard, tie my hair in a bun and scrutinize my brother with suspicious eyes. “What’s that deep sigh about? Did something happen?” I say, trying to act innocent. Somehow, I really don’t know how, he seems to know everything.

He lifts a shoulder coolly, picking at his nails as if bored. “I met Harry yesterday.”

I kind of stopped breathing.

He continues, but his voice quietens. My brother’s eyes cut to mine like a knife.

“I saw the ring he wore. Same as you are wearing right now.”

Nope. I don’t think I am breathing right now. what’s oxygen?

Abdul sighs heavily, again. “You’ve done something really stupid, and reckless.” His dark eyes travel to the little band of diamonds resting on my finger. I place my hand under the blanket and nervously tuck a fallen strand of hair behind my ear.

“I don’t have any regrets.”

“I know you don’t, but still. You’re just eighteen, sweet pea. Why would you marry at such a young age?”

I stare at my brother for the longest time. If anyone could understand me after Aaila and Harry, then it is Abdul. “Because I don’t want to do relationships with him the haram way. People nowadays instead of marrying take girlfriend’s and boyfriend’s. I just chose to keep it halal. What’s the big difference?”

Abdul’s eyes widen a fraction. “Wow. When did you get so wise?”

My lips twitch at the corners. “A long time. I guess.”