Nothing Is As It Seems

Khadija's Backstory

As the sun began to drowsily shuffle behind the bustling city towers, the landscape glowed with a hue of golden-orange. Khadija breathed in deeply, this was her favourite time of day. She held on to the railing of her balcony as her indolent zinnia's* drifted lightly in the wind. Her newest wound right under the base of her right foot began to throb. She reached for her metal chair, and eased into it carefully. As if to add to the soothing afternoon, a butterfly twittered towards her zinnia, and comfortably rested upon its petals. The butterfly was beautiful in it of itself, no doubt, with its expansive wings glistening in the weakening sunlight, but for Khadija, those wings pushed her back into her memories until she was with her parents sitting across the doctor, in a brightly lit room.

"She is a butterfly child*..." the doctor had said looking steadily at both her parents.

"I don't think this is the time for metaphors doctor! Can you clearly tell us what's wrong with her???" her father shot back, confusion and despair gleaming in his eyes.

"It isn't a metaphor , Sir, the disease is called so because your child's skin is as fragile as the wings of a butterfly, any slight friction can cause serious damage." the doctor finished, weighing each word carefully.

These words had changed Khadija's life for ever. From then on, she only moved about with a bandaged body for protection as she tried her best to engage in a normal life. Her first memories were filled with laughter and giggles like any other child, but unlike every other child, each fall, each unintentional accident had severe consequences for both Khadija and her parents. It left Khadija moaning and screeching in pain as her parents redid her bloodied bandages. With Khadija finally asleep, her parents, would return to their rooms grim faced and emotionally exhausted from their daily ordeal.

With her blistered fingers pressing against the lock, Khadija slowly shut the veranda door. She moved to the kitchen and reached for the glass of orange juice left on the table. As the citric drink slithered down her throat, she was suddenly sitting on the soft sand during third grade break time. In her hands rested a cold bottle of orange juice. After many failed attempts, Khadija helplessly glared at the stubborn green lid. Each time she tried to open the bottle of juice, her fingers grazed against the plastic, and her skin burned in response to the friction. With tears in her eyes, she ran to her favourite teacher, trying her best to avoid tripping on the hard concrete floor of the playground.

"What happened Khadija?? Are you alright?" Her teacher bent down, looking at Khadija's flushed face.

"I...I can't open my juice..." she sniffled, "I'm so thirsty..." she whispered softly.

The teacher flashed an amused smile and opened the orange juice with a swift movement.

"Here you go dear..." She passed back the drink gently to Khadija.

Under that afternoon sun, with children joyfully running around, and her topless bottle of orange juice still grasped firmly in her little hands, Khadija understood that she was different. Other kids could fall on the roughest surfaces, rub their skin against the most stubborn of juice lids and push each other with as much force a third grader can muster; their skin wouldn't budge, it would remain intact, as firm as glue she used to muse. She began spending more time alone in school, her open wounds and blistered fingers scaring the other children away. A normal child's skin didn't tear open at the slightest fall, a normal child didn't have missing finger nails and wounds so deep that the red flesh would display itself proudly. Khadija had begun to realise that she wasn't normal. She wasn't even close...

Khadija rinsed the glass under the cold water, and closed the tap swiftly. Taraweeh was in a few hours and she still needed to finish the laundry and reapply her bandages on the unhealed wounds of her feet and hip. She waddled to the laundry room, her blisters mercilessly throbbing once again, obstinately demanding her attention. She bent down and began to load her clothes into the washing machine. A turquoise dress poked out from the pile of clothes. She chuckled to herself. She had worn this dress for her 17th birthday. She had felt beautiful that day. Now a grown woman, the dress had delicately grasped her widened hips, and embellished her figure with beauty. It flowed and fluttered as she walked, giving her the confidence to go down and buy the extra milk she needed from the store. Most important of all, it was long sleeved and flowy, so all her marks and scars were hidden away under the turquoise cloth. Scanning the aisle for the correct brand of milk, she caught sight of him. Oh God! Its HIM...Khadija could have recognised him anywhere. With his broad shoulders and soft smile that made Khadija dizzy at times. His fingers though, that's what Khadija had really admired. The way they stretched back a bit more than usual when he moved them around in conversations. It was that tinge of imperfection that seemed to draw Khadija towards him. They were united and bonded by their strangeness. Of course Khadija had never spoken to him. That would be crazy!! What would be the point anyway? Khadija moaned, the moment he would get close enough to see that she wasn't normal. That she had scars, both literal and figurative, so deep that any person could fall right in and be consumed by them. He would leave. And who would go through all that trouble? Who would accept her flaws and imperfections and still choose to love her through thick and thin? This remained a question for Khadija, as the clothes began to tumble and turn in the dryer, much like her thoughts, all jumbled and confused.

After her 17th birthday, Khadija began to go downhill. This persistent test of health and emotional damage had begun to pull her down until she began to fall in and out of depression. She withdrew into the loneliest corner of herself until her personality was like the darkest night, a moon of hope only reflecting a shadow of the bright, giggly girl she used to be. During one of her long sessions of sobbing and self-lamentation, her mother, now lined with age entered her room slowly.

"Khadija....You can't remain like this forever..." Her mother slowly shuffled closer to her.

"There is nothing for me to look forward too anymore Mama! I- I don't have a future...." Khadija responded between violent sobs. That was it for Khadija's mother

"Get up!" she growled, with a tenacity only a mother could muster.

"Wha-"

"Look at me Khadija..." her mother softly but firmly grasped Khadija's soaking chin in her fingers.

"You could sit here crying all day and the world would not even so much as flinch in concern."

Khadija's sobs had softened to a slight whimper.

"Khadija, you do NOT live for people!!! Yes you have been given a more difficult life than others, no doubt, but that does not mean you stop living all together!!!"

"Show gratitude for the gifts you HAVE been given and move forward. Everybody is given their set of joys and difficulties, these are yours Khadija, accept them!"

This conversation woke Khadija up like a splash of cold water and pushed her closer to her religion. Over the years, her difficulties did not decrease but her faith in God brought peace to her broken heart and a means of support for her to keep on going.

With her forehead still glistening with wudu, she tucked her metal chair under her newly bandaged waist and walked slowly but gracefully in her favourite turquoise dress to the call for prayer. The future still uncertain, but her trust in God leading her on anyway.

*Zinnia: a type of flower from the daisy family

* Butterfly Child: An extremely rare disease caused by a missing gene that helps hold the layers of skin together.