Within The Pages

Round 4.2 Miles To Fly

A story written for "Gloves Up| A Multi-Genre Smackdown Contest", Round 4.2 (December 2022). Genre: Sports.

Story Word Count: 3999

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"Habibah! Get inside!" I heard Ammi (mother) shouting angrily, which was my cue to rush inside before the furious, burning woman burned the whole house down.

I ducked under the dining table, crawling my way through the small door of my room. However, it seemed like my plan was not as well executed as it sounded. Because the moment I felt Ammi's hands twisting my ears, I knew I was so done.

"Ah, Ammi, sorry! Please, please, just this time! Let me go, Ammi!" I literally pleaded at her, trying to free my tiny, paining ear from her strong grip.

"How long have I been calling you? Why are you so stubborn, Habi? Ya Allah... do you know if your Abbu (father) gets to know of your 'petty-escape-plans,' he'd slaughter you alive!?" Her words were harsh, but the bitterness of the truth they held made me gag internally. Even the mere thought of Abbu knowing it crushed the tiny girl in me.

"Ammi, I'm sorry. I won't do it again!" I felt her hold loosening, taking it as my chance to disappear in my room, as she went on and on about my "negligence."

"You aren't 8 anymore, Habi. You're 18, for Allah's sake! Grow up...." And the rest of her voice faded as I collapsed on my bed, wondering what my life might have been like if I had been a boy rather than a girl.

Growing up with the thought of "feministic" responsibilities and the constant reminder of "male" dominance around me wasn't something that thrilled me. It never did. Instead, it just made me more rebellious. It made me fierce. Wanting to become the breaker of this evergreen cycle.

I hailed from a very middle-class family. My Abbu worked as a driver for the Egyptian sheikhs, while my Ammi was a kindergarten teacher. And I, well, I was just me... with dreams that floated alongside clouds and soared high into the sky.

They thought I didn't know. Didn't see the way everyone looked at me every time I was there running in the streets. Practicing and juggling to be on my feet. The chirrups of crowds were the most familiar, unwanted greetings invading my dawn.

Hailing from the land of beaches, Marsa Matruh, even the waters of the magnificent Mediterranean Sea knew the depths of the legacy that went on, concealed from the eyes of others. It was amazing that even amidst all this, the once sown seed of running in the heart of a mere seven-year-old girl had now developed—undisturbed—into a tree of passion and desire.

They say young hearts should be careful while dreaming. And I dreamt of something that was not considered exactly as a "good" career. Where girls were expected to be doctors, teachers, good wives, and mothers, I chose to be something entirely different.

A marathoner.

You see, clearly not a "good" path. And there began the long, ten-inch-thick curls of stereotypes. It ran everywhere. Despite the fact that the place might seem appealing, modernized, and developed, it was only a façade. To cover the hollowness and rotten truths.

Just a mere lie.

"Habi! Habi!" An all too familiar voice jolted me away. I yelled back, inviting her in.

"Khamin ma? "(guess what?)

"You proposed Bassel?"

"HABIBAH! NO!"