The Art of Breaking Her

Breaking Her -- Chapter 3

Breaking Her

Hamza Musa-Ali

            It’s the first day of school. As I wake up and head to the bathroom, I think back to when I was in elementary school, about how I begged my mom to get me a Toy Story alarm clock so I could set it to wake me up at exactly seven o’clock for the first day of school. How whenever I got ready, I could barely stand still in front of the mirror as I brushed my hair because I was so excited.

            As I brush my teeth, I look everywhere but the mirror, everywhere but directly into my own eyes. The toothpaste. It tastes sweet. Minty. It burns my tongue a little, but I don’t care. As I wash my face and put the toothbrush back into the medicine cabinet, I dare myself, challenge myself, to look at myself once, just once. The water burns as it drips into my eyes, still a little soapy.

            Green eyes stare back at me, hardened pools, remnants of innocent eyes once filled with misguiding happiness. My throat locks and my eyes sting but my mind fiercely justifies these acts as nothing more than the soap on my face. As I finish washing up and grab a towel, my heart beats fast as sick, stubborn longing fills inside of me. I wish I could be that kid again, the little boy that didn’t have his world crushed. I wish I could just be happy, at peace with myself. I wish I didn’t feel as tortured as I do now.

            I focus on getting ready. Open the drawer, Hamza. Grab the khaki shorts. Put the shorts on. Another drawer. A belt. It’s olive green, your favorite color. Black hoodie, black hoodie. Where is it? I survey the room until I find it in my closet, on the top shelf.

            In the kitchen, there are chocolate chip muffins on the table. The traditional first day of school breakfast. Mom used to make them the night before, and we would always go to sleep with the smell of warm chocolate in the oven wrapped around us. As I pour myself a glass of milk and reach for the muffin, I catch sight of the box in the trashcan. Something rumbles inside of me and my mood sours. She bought them. God damn it, she couldn’t have fucking took some time out to make them herself so she bought them.

            “Hussain, Hidayah, get your asses down here! We’re leaving. Now!” I shout, not caring if my parents will wake up. I focus my attention on the glass of milk. Pearly whiteness. Smoothness. The surface of the milk is flawless until I take a sip, mentally laughing cynically. I always ruin everything I touch. Everything around me is an example of that.

            Hussain comes down first. “What’s the big rush? We have ten minutes before we have to leave.”

            “We’re leaving now.”

            “But Hidayah—”

            My voice is deathly calm. “Hussain, tell Hidayah to get her ass down here unless she wants to wake up Mom and Dad and have them drive her to school.” Without another word, my brother takes off. My conscience is about to nag me but I crush it down.

            Hidayah comes downstairs and wordlessly pours herself some milk and grabs a banana and a muffin. As they get their food, I go into the garage, press the button to open the door, and back the car out of the garage. Drumming my fingers against the steering wheel, I wait for them to get in the car. I’m really trying not get in a pissed off mood so I focus on everything around me. The grass is bright green lining the road despite how hot and rainless it’s been for most of the summer. It goes with how pretty the sky looks right now: dark pink and black with thin layers of clouds all over. Hell, the beauty of it all leaves me speechless for a few seconds.