The Hooded Hijabi

'If'

"I am driftwood now,
I am homeward bound,
Pull me from the sea,
Save what's left of me,
'Cause I'm tired and worn,
From the tides and storms."

The words play on the speakers as I sit in my dimly lit room, reading Blackmailer's letter to Azan's family for the nth time.

"Skit #8: Break her down using Azan! My wedding present to Amina. More will be gifted if she doesn't comply with my wishes."

One and half months have passed by since the day Azan went into coma. I'm only allowed to see him when his mother isn't around. Fatima and Uncle Mohammed have been supportive but aloof. How can they be so kind despite all that happened to Azan because of me?

I am back to being cold and distant the way I was after my father was brutally murdered by a serial killer in cold blood. Rachel, Becky and Mustafa have been trying to meet me but I rarely ever get out of my room or let anyone in.

I've grown distant with Ma yet again. She tries to console me but I push her away. Ali knows me too well to pull me of out my cave. He knows I need time to pull myself together. He knows I can't cope with my emotions, let alone of the people surrounding myself.

I haven't cried or let out any emotion ever since I saw Azan in the hospital for the first time after the car crash. It's selfish of me to give up on life when I'm surrounded by people who cry themselves to sleep because of the state I am in.

What's even worse is that I'm losing Him. I know He's near, yet I can't feel Him. I know He's calling out to me, yet I can't hear Him. I know He's holding out a hand, yet I can't reach out to Him.

"Pour me from the sea. Save what's left of me.", I flatly whisper the words playing in the background, staring into space.

The Blackmailer has been in hiding ever since Azan's family involved the police. He can't be traced since he only used burn phones, didn't leave a trail behind at any of the places he has encountered me and used clippings from various magazines to write that letter. No one knows how it got to Azan's place, though.

I could've informed the police myself but I was scared for the lives of the people I cared about. I didn't even have the contacts Azan's father has. He's making sure that the police use their resources fully to track him down.

Doctors say that they still have no clue how long the coma will continue. Apparently, he's getting a little better only because he has the will to fight. I wish I was in his place; I could sleep all my worries away.

I think, I'm just being ungrateful. I've fully recovered and yet, I don't thank Allah. I always hated it when I saw people being ungrateful to Him. Look at me now, not even remembering Him, let alone thanking Him.

I slide the door open and walk into a room that smells of medicines and jasmine flowers. Fatima looks up at me and stands up gradually, putting her magazine on the table beside her.

"Salam.", I say in a barely audible voice. "Walaykum Asalam.", she replies softly. "I'm going to get coffee. You need some?", she asks.

I shake my head slowly, my lips tight. She nods at me and goes over to the door only to stop and turn. "Ammi will back in half an hour.", she says, almost apologetically.

I nod understandingly and mutter a thank you. She opens the door and turns back again. "Amina? Can we talk?", she asks as she furrows her brows.

Taken aback by her sudden request to have a 'talk' after all this time, I simply nod, speaking,"Sure."