Journey

01: Colour (H)

As a gentle breeze caresses the surroundings, my short hair delicately sways, a dance choreographed by the wind's unseen hand.

With a slow and rhythmic grace, my eyelids begin to shimmer open, revealing the promising canvas of a new morning.

The sun, a vibrant ball of fiery orange, bursts through the open windows, it's rays penetrating the room with an almost demanding energy. It's as if the sun itself is urging me to awaken, to step out of the cocoon of my thoughts and embrace the day that awaits. Despite the inviting warmth of the carpeted floor beneath me, alluding comfort and peace, the sun's persistent glow serves as a gentle nudge, coaxing me to leave the solace of my headspace.

As my eyes fully adjust to the morning light, they are met with the familiar sight of wooden tiled walls, standing as silent witnesses to the passage of time. Beside me lies a pool of my own blood from the events of last night, a stark reminder of the tumultuous emotions that often accompany the night.

Turning my gaze towards the kitchen, the morning light illuminates the aftermath of the previous day's chaos. Dishes scattered, countertops cluttered, and remnants of unfinished tasks paint a vivid picture of the state of disarray that has become synonymous with the household. Each element, from the sun's persistent rays to the disheveled surroundings, serves as a reflection of the battles that shape my daily existence.

As I struggle to rise to my feet, my gaze instinctively shifts to both my arms, where the remnants of last night's self-inflicted wounds linger. The platelets have begun and finished their healing process, yet the blood stains remain, a silent reminder of the tumultuous thoughts that plagued me.

I pause, contemplating the events of the previous night. What was I thinking? The details blur, but one memory stands out amidst the haze — I remember the familiar wish for Omar's demise resurfacing in my mind.

It's a cycle beyond my control now, a disturbing pattern that unfolds when my body is pushed to extremes — be it exhaustion, dehydration, or starvation. In those moments, my body seems to take the reins, compelling me to harm myself without consent. It's a disconnect between mind and body, as if my physical being dictates the terms to my brain.

Worse yet, during these episodes, my thoughts spiral uncontrollably, mirroring the chaos within. It's a disconcerting realization, knowing that in those vulnerable moments, neither my actions nor my thoughts are truly my own.

As I carefully tend to my wound and wrap it with bandages, a conflicting mix of emotions floods my heart. On one side, there's a deep-rooted desire for Omar's return, picturing him in a state of happiness, healed from his pain, and safely by my side. Yet, hidden in the depths of my being, there's an unspoken thought that perhaps eternal peace would be a more merciful outcome than enduring ongoing suffering.

After ensuring the bandage is secure, I take a moment to collect myself. Drawing in slow, intentional breaths, I try to reconnect with the version of myself I know, the Hussaiba who existed just a few months earlier — the authentic me.

But the more I reflect, the more I realize how distant that version of myself has become. The real Hussaiba, once naïve and carefree, would spend her days immersed in magazines and manga, postponing responsibilities until the last minute. She lived in a world where others took care of her, shielded from the harsh realities of life by her innocence and ignorance.

The stark contrast between who I am now and the person I used to be serves as a poignant reminder of the journey I've traveled and the transformation I've undergone. It's a bittersweet realization, a longing for the simplicity and carefree nature of the past, yet an acknowledgment of the growth gained along the way.