w r e c k a g e ✓

the wreckage of his religion

❝Don't hang near him. One day he might bomb the whole school.❞

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"YOU ARE MORE than just the color of your skin. Terrorism is not a religion."

He remembered when his mother would tell him that every night before she would tuck him safely into bed. Before she was murdered to death on the side of the street. Right in front of his eyes.

He had been nine years old then. Nine years old and scarred with the memory of his mother's body being chopped in to pieces.

She told him to wait on the other side of the street. Don't talk to anyone. Don't look at anyone. Don't move anywhere. Stay still. She had been trying to buy vegetables for their dinner that night. The owner of the stand told her to leave. She had said no. She had told him that she would not leave with out vegetables to feed her son.

"It's people like you that we all need to stay away from," the man had said angrily.

His mother stood appalled, zipping her mouth shut, not wanting her son to hear such awful words.

"Leave!" The man had shouted.

His mother again, said no.

"The color of my skin, the clothes on my body, and the religion that is mine, will not define me," she stood her ground.

Sometimes he wished his mother had never said that, because with in seconds the man had lifted out a large knife, and slashed his mother's stomach. He didn't stop there either. He went mad. Wild. Insane.

"You and your people are the reason why my daughter is gone!" The man snarled.

The sounds of his mother's screams echoed through his mind.

"Don't talk to anyone. Don't look at anyone. Don't move anywhere. Stay still!" She cried out and looked his way. "I love you," she mouthed.

"Terrorism is not a religion, terrorism is not a religion, terrorism is not a religion!" She chanted and chanted until she could chant no more.

It was all a blur. All of the locals were yelling and crying, begging the man to stop. The sound of sirens had gotten closer. He fell to the ground into a world of unconsciousness.

That had been eight years ago, he thought to himself. Since then he had lived with his adoptive parents. They never really understood him. His thoughts. His beliefs. His past. They tried, they really did, but he didn't want them to. He wanted to be alone.

He nodded his head at the lunch lady, thanking her for her hard work before lifting his tray up and walking out of the cafeteria line. He squeezed through all of the tables and through all of the judging people.

He had almost made it to the table he sat alone at before his tray was knocked out from his tight hold.

"I think most Muslims are hypocrites. They say one thing and do another. I think they have a secret plan to take over the world. Look at their reaction to the Pope saying things. Why don't Muslims just jump off a cliff and visit Allah?" The preppy clothed boy had smirked after saying those things, as if he were proud.

The boy's friends agreed behind him.

Instead of arguing back like he could have, he held his head up high, walked around his splattered lunch, and completely ignored what he had just heard. There was nothing he could do to stop these people.

They acted as if they knew what he was going through. They acted as if they knew of his kind. His people. Maybe if they had known about his mother they would see things from his perspective, but he wouldn't use that as a way to get their attention. No, he would think of something else.

You are more than just the color of your skin. Terrorism is not a religion.

He couldn't help but doubt his mother's sweet words, and it was all because of the heartless people who had made him believe that he was a disgrace.

Terrorism is not a religion.