DROWNING IN YOU

CHAPTER ONE.

Bismillah.
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•JANAN•

❝Alone, out in the cold
Staring in with a hole too deep for my heart to hold
A feeling of sadness seeped in thick as wood
I watched in from under my frail hood
And wept from the outside I stood. ❞

CHAPTER ONE: WHAT WOULD PEOPLE THINK.

Janan: 16

My Mother died today.

I had woken up with a cold sweat gliding down my back drenching my pillow, drenching the edge of my bonnet, and soaking up the nightgown I had on.

A shiver ran down my spine, cold prickling through my pores, freezing my blood, my heart boisterously beating in my ribcage in a threatening rhythm, and sent a sharp pain to the side of my head.

I spent the rest of the night staring out in the darkness, squinting my eyes to get a view of my plain white ceiling and imagining stroking the tips of my pencils, drawing up lines and curves that linked up to produce the jumbled mess of words my mouth couldn't let out.

And I stayed that way until my alarm broke out beside me, jiggling my phone a bit and vibrating it against my drawer.

I sighed, said a quick prayer, got up and slipped into the bathroom to get ready for fajr.

I spent a considerable amount of time with my head on the floor, begging Allah to relieve me from the unknown burden tugging my heart and crying silently for a reason that was vague to me.

Sleep didn't come back to me afterward so I packed up my praying mat and wandered out of my room with my hijab trailing behind me.

The grand house was silent apart from the soft bustling cleaning and preparations from the helpers trying to make sure everything was set before the main occupants of the house awoke.

This was the only time I could get to see my mother, hidden in the shadows away from the eyes of the rest of my family members.

Her room was in the back quarters where the helpers slept. It was located behind the house, with a mini gate demarcating the garden and it.

She didn't sleep under the same roof as mine, wasn't supposed to stand too close to me, talk to me, or even look at me.

Because mummy was a helper. And I was Dada's daughter. Alhaji Muhammad Nazeer's daughter.

The building was painted dark brown and eggshell white. It had windows that produced creakily sounds when shut open or close and a huge metal door at the entrance that they padlocked shut after a day's work and when the day began.

I slithered through the corridors, my footsteps soft and senses sharp to catch any sound.

When I heard footsteps approaching I would duck into the shadows and wait till they disappeared and continued my way to her room.

Her door wasn't locked and made a squeak when I gently pushed it open and shut it behind me before fully walking into the room.