twisted beautiful things

iii. lethal

iii. closer

'so we could call it even 

you could call me babe for the weekend

tis the damn season

write this down'

(taylor swift).

...

amir

When I wake up Wednesday morning, it takes me a second to remember why I'm feeling stressed and worried.

The boy named Matthew. Julian and Jason. Nova.

The events of last night fly through my brain in images. Julian's gashed knuckles, Novella's empty face. And the beautiful face of a boy who I dreamed about all night long.

Shaking my head, I groaned and kicked the covers off, feet touching the cold wood. I heard my dad, moving around downstairs, the sound of the coffee maker starting. I yawned and got up-and froze, as I spotted my Bible sitting on my nightstand, out in the open where anyone could see.Heart pounding, I grabbed it and shoved it under a pile of jeans I don't wear anymore at the top of my closet. How could I have just left it there? Out in the open? I shivered, thinking about what would've happened if my father were to walk in and see it. He would flip. Surely throw me out like he did my brother. When I was sixteen, my brother told my parents he didn't want to be Muslim anymore, that he never really believed in it. And my dad...well, to say he flipped out is an understatement. I had been in my room while the conversation was happening, doing homework, when I heard a bunch of loud yelling in Arabic and the sound of glass breaking. Mom was yelling at my dad to stop and I heard my baby brother crying downstairs. I had sped downstairs to see my older brother with a swollen eye and a broken plate at his feet, my dad shouting at him from across the room, my mom crying and my little brother doing the same at his high chair, spaghetti sauce all over his mouth. My older brother was kicked out of our house at seventeen and went to live with his best friend until he turned eighteen. If dad found out about me reading the Bible and not participating in traditions...he would do the same to me.

I leave my room, intending to grab a cup of coffee and head out for work at a cafe that's on campus. I'm so glad I don't live in the dorms. I hear they're roomy, but I don't trust public restrooms because kids my age are dumb, carrying around those pesky STD's and whatnot.

And that's another thing. If my father kicks me out, I have nowhere to go because I'm broke and can't afford rooming. And if I did somehow get the money for a dorm room, I'd have to use those nasty bathrooms and then boom, STD.

On my way downstairs, I pass my brother's room. He was six now, and he was already starting to experience the pressure I did. He's six.

In the kitchen, my father sits at our large wooden dining table, drinking a cup of coffee and studying the Quran.

"Good morning," he says cheerfully, setting his mug down. I mumble a good morning to the floor, opening the fridge. It's been hard for me to look him in the eye lately. It's been awhile since he and I actually had a long conversation, just the two of us. My fault. More than once he's asked to take a walk or something, but I always had an excuse.

"How'd you sleep?" He asks, studying me. I grab a cup and start the Keurig.

"Good," I say, still not looking at him.

"Can you stay for breakfast? Your brother and mother will wake up in a second and then we could all eat together."

"Can't," I say, grabbing a muffin from the pantry. "I have work and then class."