FATIMA (YOU series #2)

Chapter 1

Let it hurt until it can't hurt anymore.

- Liam Ryan

Fatima

The vast room was silent. Only the sound of cutlery scraping against ceramic plates could be heard.

"Fatima, do you like the chicken today? I noticed you didn't touch it last time, so I asked Micheal to pay close attention to the flavours while making it this time." My mom asks, smiling slightly.

I offered her a weak smile and nodded lightly.

I've always wondered why we did this. Was it to trick the help into thinking we were happy?

If that were the case, it'd be better for my mom to stop trying. Even the people who walked past this house could feel the sadness and bad energy it gave off.

The sound of giggles erupted into the room. I looked in the direction of the noise. It was my half-sister. I saw the smile that lit up my dad's face and the uncomfortable look that formed on my mom's face.

The smile reached his eyes, a smile that had never been directed at me. She quickly jumped into his lap, and he hugged her.

"Did my baby have fun at school today?" he asks, looking down at her.

"Yes, daddy, I learnt so much," she responded.

My mom snuck a glance at me. I could see emotions swirling in her eyes. Pity, guilt, sadness, all the bad stuff.

I focused back on my food, eating quickly so I could excuse myself. Soon, I gave up on finishing everything on my plate.

"When can I go back to school?" I asked, speaking for the first time since this hellish meal had begun.

"Don't you resume on the 23rd?" my mom asked, sadness filling her voice.

"Yes, but I have some things that I would like to do before school starts. I would also like to settle into my new apartment." I replied.

"How far is it from your old place?" she asks.

"About ten minutes, but all my stuff is in storage, so I don't have to go there," I answered.

"You can leave Saturday," My dad says before focusing his attention back on the only thing he cares about, his precious 8-year-old daughter.

"Thank you, I'll go start packing," I said rising from the chair.

"Yaya Fatima, can I come help?" Zara asks.

I stared at her and then nodded lightly. She cheerfully got up and then intertwined our hands.

We made it up my room, and I pulled out my Rimowa set. I unzipped the boxes on the floor and instructed Zara to transfer the clothes I had folded into the biggest one, and she happily got to work.

I watched her as I pulled out stuff from my closet. It was as if the man wanted to clone me. Hell, he even gave her the same name as me. I wanted to hate her, but I couldn't find it in me. She was innocent in all this.

Her mom came into this house when I was 5 and my brother was 9. With her arrival, everything soon changed. Soon my father had become rare.

He would show up at my mother's side once in a while, and when he did, they would argue, and he'd leave without a word to me or my brother.

He no longer asked me about school, and he no longer spent hours colouring with me. He wasn't the person I had known anymore.

They desperately wanted a child, and when I was 11, it finally happened. But unfortunately, she passed quickly after the birth leaving their daughter.

And soon, he was no longer a stranger to me. He became a monster. He entrusted the girl to my mother. But with that came consequences, she would cry as babies do, and he'd claim my mother or me had harmed her somehow.

So I stopped attempting to play with her or interact with her. That didn't help the situation. "Why do you hate your sister?" he'd ask. I couldn't answer. I didn't know what would happen if I did.

When she turned 4, her aunt came to stay. I was glad my mother didn't have to deal with the drama anymore. I thought that was the end. I was wrong.

My brother was away at school most of the time, so it was just my mom and I dealing with most of it, but he knew how bad it was. He returned for summer break when I was 14 and decided he couldn't take it anymore.

He left back for school in September after an explosive fight with my parents, and that was the last time we'd seen him. He had left my mother one last text, of which I didn't know the context, but I remember her locking herself in her room for over a week.

Her reluctance to leave her room angered my father. He sent me to get her, and I returned without her every time. He would strike me across the face and send me again.

It went on for about 30 minutes.

They fought for close to an hour when she finally left her room. I could hear the yelling. All of it was still fresh in my memory.

I brushed my thoughts away and focused back on packing. I hated leaving my mom here all alone, but it was my only escape.

She had no one apart from me. I had begged her to leave my dad and come with me, but she always refused, saying I wouldn't understand.

With the help of Zara and 2 of the help, I finished packing up. In 48 hours, I would be free. Even if it was just ten months, it meant something.

Ibrahim

I pulled into the gate of the house Ammi had asked me to pick her up from. I returned from an assignment two days ago and planned on visiting her and baba tonight.

Instead, she asked me to pick her up then we'd go to the house together. So I parked and called Ammi before coming out of the car for some air while I waited.

I scanned the compound. The house was modern and littered with sports cars. I knew the owner, General Abbas, was an avid collector of sports cars.

He shared this interest with my father once, and I happened to be present during the conversation.

He was a very respected general in the army, although he retired some years back. But, apart from his interest in cars and having three kids, little was known about him.

Maybe because neither his wife nor kids were seen regularly, the family seemed to value their privacy.

I noticed Ammi walking out with two figures following closely behind. It was a woman about Ammi's age and a young girl. I approached them and greeted the woman.

"Amina, Is this Ibrahim?," she asked, scanning my features.

"You're surprised at how he's grown, right" Ammi responds.

"Yes, when I used to visit, he could barely pronounce his name," she replies, smiling at me.

I returned the smile.

"Fatima, have you forgotten how to greet?" she asks the girl.

"Ina wuni," the girl says, her eyes meeting mine for seconds before she looks away.

I respond.

"When your mom was pregnant with you, Ibrahim would always ask when you were coming out. So we'd tell him in a few months, and he would get upset," Ammi reminisces, laughing.

When the hell did I do that?

I saw a small smile form on her lips. She was a beautiful girl, but there was just something about her that was off.

"It's crazy how fast time flies," her mother says.

"Fatima, safe trip. Allah ya bada sa'a," Ammi says, bidding them farewell.

I could see them waving from the mirror as we pulled out.

"Fatima", I whispered, testing the name on my lips.