I Am Mariam

•°Chapter 1°•

•1992 April 1st•

Mariam's cries filled the living room when she saw her younger brother, Omar, decapitate her dolls head. 

Omar's sticky fingers stubbornly wrapped around the doll's waist, trying to dress it with a creamy white handkerchief, with his initials embroidered at the bottom of it. 

Mariam's mother gave her a side-eye that said, "If you don't share with your little brother no desert for dinner."

Mariams bottom lip trembled as she tried to imagine the gooey Lebanese sweets that she'd miss out on.

Take deep breaths, she reminded herself.

He's not worth it, she reminded herself.

I'll make him pay latter, she reminded herself.

At this sight, mother snorted between a fit of giggles. 

"Come come let's take a picture of this moment." Mariam's father pulled out a camera, appearing to be a vintage classic.

"Ok one two three!!" 

Mariam made sure to make the most terrifyingly horrific pout at Omar who flashed her a toothy grin.

After the torturous photo, Mariam saw her mother trudge back into the laundry where she originally was. Not wanting to witness the heart-bleeding sight of her dolls being dismembered, Mariam continued to argue with her brother.

Mariams mother turned off the washing machine and covered her mouth with a cloth, careful not to get germs on the clothes. 

With wide eyes, she removed her hand and saw a red crimson colour soaked into the clothing. 

For a second everything seemed fine.

Then her vision clouded

Her legs collapsed.

And she succumbed to the darkness.

Mariam heard a crash in the laundry and came rushing there, heart punding in her ears.

Is mommy ok? she wondered.

Her mother's unconscious body was the answer to her question.

----

The ear-splitting sound of sirens drifted off in the distance as the poor nine-year-old was questioning what became of her mother. 

Mariam sat peacefully in the room that was painfully...white.

There were off-white sofas, cream chairs and walls, adorned with a TV that also had, you guessed it, a white frame. Even the nurses uniforms were that obnoxious colour.

And lucky for Mariam, she hated the colour white.

It had some sort of a facade. Its stereotypical concept that white was pure always ticked of Mariam.   

Weren't pink, purple and black also pure?

It's not fair that only white is.

The only thing that wasn't the bland colour was a beige door with a chocolate brown tinge where, coincidently, her mother was being held. 

After 10 minutes, Mariam became fed up with the slice-able tension in the air and trudged towards the door, carefully placing her ear on the cold wood. 

Mariam only caught a few words that slipped from the room which seemed like 'cancer', 'liver' and 'fine'. 

The moment the last word was heard, the door slammed open. 

This, obviously, caused the nine-year-old to lose her balance and with an 'Oof' she fell on the white tiles.

"Mariam what were you doing?" her father questioned.

"N-nothing father," she politely answered.

"Your mother is doing fine. The doctor said she will be better with an operation. Do you understand sweetie? She will be back tomorrow with us at home." 

Her fathers cold blue peered into hers, awaiting her response.

"O-ok"