Journey

0?: False News Of A Utopia

Isn't it ironic? The way parents wield control over their children, leveraging phrases like "I carried you for 9 months" or "I bought you everything you have" as excuses for their authority. It's like being puppeteered by invisible strings of obligation and guilt, forced to comply with their wishes no matter how unreasonable or hurtful they may be.

The supposed foundation of unconditional love feels conditional, overshadowed by the weight of parental expectations and entitlement.

Fragility, a delicate veil that once cloaked my every move, now hangs heavy in the air, a reminder of the vulnerability that once defined me.

In fact, to this day, 'fragile' stands strong as my definition; the only difference between myself and Hussaiba from six months ago is that I'm significantly taller and just the slightest more mature.

As I stand frozen in the confines of the wardrobe, a silent witness to my own past, I can't help but feel a pang of nostalgia mixed with regret.

There she is, the younger version of myself, oblivious to the tragedy that awaits her. Sitting at the desk, consumed by the innocence of youth, diligently working on her geography assignment. Little does she know, her world is about to come crashing down around her.

I remember that night all too well - the temptation to stay behind, to focus on my studies instead of joining them on that fateful journey. It seemed like such a trivial decision at the time, but now, it haunts me like a specter.

As I watch my younger self, I can't help but wonder what could have been. If only I had chosen differently, if only I had been braver, maybe things would have turned out differently. But regrets are a heavy burden to bear, and I am weighed down by the weight of my own choices.

"Hussaiba! We're leaving now. You sure you don't want to tag along?"

If only had I changed my mind, if only had I chosen differently. Maybe then, we would have stopped at the bookstore for my desired notebook... a simple detour that could have changed everything.

But instead, I chose to stay behind, to focus on my studies, oblivious to the tragedy that awaited. It's funny how one seemingly insignificant decision can alter the course of your entire life. If only I had known then what I know now.

Trapped within the confines of the wardrobe, I strain against invisible bonds, desperate to reach out to my younger self, to warn her of the impending tragedy. But no matter how hard I try, I am immobilized, as if held in place by an unseen force.

The realization hits me like a ton of bricks: no amount of pleading or struggling can change what has already happened. My parents are gone, and I am powerless to alter the past. It's a harsh truth that I must accept, but the memories of happier times linger like ghosts, refusing to let me move on.

Blink.

I'm now standing by my brother's hospital bed - I am confronted once again by the grim reality of his condition. The sterile smell of disinfectant fills the air, mingling with the faint beeping of machines monitoring his vital signs.

His arms, once strong and full of life, are now connected to a network of IV drips, delivering the life-sustaining fluids he so desperately needs. The sight of the various stitches and plasters adorning his body serves as a painful reminder of the trauma he has endured.

It's been six long months of this routine, of watching him fight for his life day in and day out. And yet, despite the passage of time, his condition remains precarious, hanging in the balance between hope and despair.

As I stand by his bedside, a wave of helplessness washes over me. I long to ease his pain, to take away his suffering, but all I can do is stand vigil, a silent witness to his struggle. In moments like these, words feel inadequate, offering little solace in the face of such profound suffering.

All I can do is be there for him, to hold his hand and offer whatever comfort I can, even as my own heart breaks with each passing day.

"Wake back up, Hussaiba."