Less Than Perfect

{2} Two Sides of Every Video

Kanza Hadad

Stepping into my new apartment room, I muttered a 'Bismillah' (in the name of God) as I walked in.

Cardboard boxes lined against the wall, idle and as lifeless as the rest of the cold, foreboding new place. A small couch was at the corner, an abandoned table on the opposite side, and then a narrow hallway that led into the bathroom and the small gaming room I set up. My bedroom was adjacent to them.

Sighing, I slipped off my shoes, flicking a switch on to illuminate the taunting darkness.

Here I was, a couple states away from home. My parents were skeptical at first, but in America, their words fell to deaf ears. In a Muslim household, it didn't matter how old the child was, the parents' words were absolute. There was no loophole, no trick, no scheme around.

Moving out took a lot of fighting, diagrams, logistics, and prayers before I even started packing my luggage, let alone moving out on my own.

I knew my parents' friends would gossip about my departure. I knew they would spread vicious rumors, yet they didn't know me. They didn't understand the lingering pain that town left me, the suffocating hold the past held on my life. It took me five years to realize that I needed an escape.

My parents understood, and they believed in me after a long while. No parent wanted to see their child live in misery from tormented memories. No matter how much they loved their child and wanted to protect them from harm, the pain of watching that same child suffer would be too much to bear.

I looked around the seemingly empty room. Although it looked cheap and worn down, a couple of stitches and care would turn the room into something straight out of a magazine.

Except that's tomorrow's problem, I thought. Right now, I got a video to film.

* * * *

"Assalamualaikum to my Muslim fans, and a cheerful hello to my non-Muslim followers," I smiled into the camera, mic in front of my computer screen and the flickering screen of the loading page for the new game I was reviewing.

A cartoon-like, orange cat scowled from my screen, a band of similar fellows right behind him. All were dressed like characters from the middle ages, armor and weaponry a glistening silver among the hues of vibrant green, three-dimensional landscapes awakening above the map.

The game was childish and sophomoric in appearance, but the concept behind it and the graphics were a lot more advanced than people gave it credit for.

I was a bit biased though.

My eyes flickered to the camera again, a pearly smile masked across my lips, hiding the worries and stress of my regular life as I portrayed the easy-going persona I was known for having. My followers didn't know me personally. They didn't know my life nor did they know my past and inhibitions.

Although some spent hours watching my videos that ranged from amateur self-care tips to vlogs to rants to gaming, they only saw the parts of me that I wished for them. They only saw the painted features of a mask, the decorations of perfection, and the illusion of being whisked into a life that seemed too perfect to be real.

There were no shadows, no shards. There were only smiles and laughter. There was only joy, not a single hint of sadness lacing any of my words. I was successful Alhamdulillah (thanks to God), yet there was still a dark voice whispering all the mistakes, all the short-comings I had.

Focus, I told myself. You have fans. You need to focus.

"I know I've been kind of missing in action this week, but like I swear my reason is justified so put the pitchforks away and tone down the whining," I lightly chuckled. "I just moved into my new apartment. Maybe I'll do a tour of it when it's actually presentable. If I showed you my new place as it is now, my mom would probably whip me if she saw."