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CHAPTER TWO; unfair, unjust world. ( ZAFIRA )
MAY, 2021
RED-TINTED SUNLIGHT STREAMS through the windows of the church. Beautiful, large murals are thung against the smooth rock of each wall. Floor to ceiling gold detailing outlines each window, casting an ethereal glimmer across the ground. Rows of wooden chairs are placed, stretching across the entire lot, filled with mourning loved ones.
This is probably the most beautiful building I've ever been in and that should make me feel some sort of happiness. But, even the house of the Lord cannot shake my impending devastation.
"Those were some beautiful words about Jalal from his kind wife, Mireille." The priest says in a somber but assertive voice. "Now, let us open our hearts and show our love to Jalal's only daughter, Zafira, as she speaks about his best moments."
The mention of my name catches me off guard even though I expected it.
As soon as it leaves his lips, the entire room turns to face me. There's a tight tendril that wraps around my neck and my breath gets knocked right out of me.
Still, I rise from my front row seat and make my way to the stand.
Each step clatters against the stunning marble of the church, my heels hitting the ground as I walk. I keep my gaze down, afraid that if I look up and acknowledge the sudden attention, I'll run off and not look back.
The priest walks down from the podium and gives me a smile as I near it myself.
He presses both of my hands between his, looks at me with as much sympathy as he can muster, and whispers, "You are strong. God is with you."
I choke out a simple, "Thank you." And pray the ground swallows me whole.
Two things go through my mind as I climb the podium's steps: one, this is the worst day of my life. Two, I can't believe this is real.
I shut my eyes and grab the side of the stand, trying to ground myself. I can already feel the tears build up at my waterline and my vision turns blurry.
No, I think to myself. I can't do this.
With shaking hands, I pull out a piece of paper from my black pants' pocket, my father's memory written between each line. I lay it flat against the podium, my fingers struggling to rid the paper of its creases. The words fall right off of it and they swirl around, creating a jumbled mess of ink and letters.
