#41 in Spiritual 2/3/17.
Religion. It's a big part of you. Some would say that religion is basically who you are.
All her life Amira has been told who she is. What she is.
A Muslim girl.
But the more she learns about her religion the more she r...
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"Amira,"
"Yes daddy?"
"Don't forget alright?"
"I won't daddy."
I watched as he picked up his small suitcase from the bottom step. The nice police man was next to the door waiting for him.
"No matter what your mother tells you, you remember who you are alright?"
"Okay daddy," I whisper.
He smiles and hugs me tight, tighter than how he always does before going on one of his business trips.
"When will you be back daddy?"
"Soon sweetheart,"
And with one last glance towards me, he leaves.
And then I fall into a never ending pit of darkness.
I awake with a jolt. The feeling of falling still fresh in the pit of my stomach, my father's worried face still fresh in my mind. My mouth parched.
Getting out of my bed, I feel my way to the door, opening it I step out into the corridor. The light from the kitchen oven guides me to the kitchen where I gulp down a whole water of bottle.
On my way back to my room I see Seid prostrating on a mat, I remember the last time I saw him in this position, I remember being embarrassed by it- feeling like an intruder but now I feel no embarrassment in walking right up to him and standing right next to him. I copy his movements- him on the mat, me on the cold floor. I don't what's taken over me.
When it's time to press our foreheads down on the ground again, I squeeze my eyes shut. Feeling more at peace than I ever have.
I note that he's murmuring something under his breath, since I don't know what it is, I say nothing, I just follow through the actions. After about five minutes Seid looks to his right then left and then as if snapping out of a trance he looks at me.
"What're you doing awake?"
"Had a bad dream," I murmur. We haven't talked ever since we got out of the car. I locked myself into my room and did my assignment and he did whatever it is he does on his Sunday nights. At around ten I heard a knock on my bedroom door and I opened it to find a sandwich on a plastic plate with a glass of orange juice, obviously left there by him. I took it as a sign of truce and vowed to pester him about the list in the morning.
"What are you doing?" he's looking over at me curiously.
"What?" I ask, not knowing what he means.
"What are you doing here- next to me?"
"I- I don't know?"
"What are you doing Amy?" He asks for the third time, "You all but told me you have no interest in these religious things when you shot Khadija down yesterday."
