Every soul shall taste death.
Samira remembered that verse from the Quran very vividly—not every day like it was recommended—but she remembered it. Death was inevitable; it was something every human agreed on, whether they were religious or not. Samira always looked past the words, the message God put into them, and the semantics' richness. How everyone tasted it on their tongue, that it could come to them any day, any time.
After a past of sinning, Samira took her time to balance life now and life in the hereafter. Her deen and her dunya. To be good before tasting death.
Would it be as sweet as the wine Allah described in Jannah? Or was it as revolting as the Zaqqum in Jahanam?
Two years later, Samira stopped wondering. Now she wanted a taste, a bite, whether death would poison her tongue or allow her to smile at her very last breath. This dunya repeatedly trampled all over Samira until she became dust, and she wanted the death she was promised.
But oddly enough, not a drop lingered in her mouth.
Why not?
Ishaaq Uncle . . . yeah . . . she's here. I'm not sure what happened. Yes . . .
Not death, but pain. It flickered all throughout her body, from the top of her head down to her toes.
A clattering noise filled her ears; Samira felt a soft hand lift her arm. Teeth chattering from the gentle breeze, she opened her eyes, then shut them immediately from the intense light.
So, Samira squinted. Above her was a white ceiling and her body lay on something soft—a bed. A light blue curtain draped around her, and a thin blanket swaddled her lower half.
Beep . . . beep . . . beep . . . from her left.
Samira's vision contained blurred hues and contorted figures. As she turned her head to try and see, a twinge circulated her neck—she groaned faintly.
"Are you awake?" A gentle voice said, soft and silvery in her ears. It soothed the pain, just for a moment. No matter how much Samira blinked, all she could see in front of her was a pair of circular glasses and a small beard.
"What's your name?"
"S-Samira . . ."
"How are you feeling?"
"I . . . I can't see," Samira whined, coughing softly. "Where am I?"
"You have a fall risk, so please relax." The voice replied. "Your hemoglobin levels are low, so we are going to start your blood transfusions."
A pair of hands wrapped a rough piece of cloth around her forearm like a coiled snake. A crunching sound filled her ears.
"A nurse will be here when you next wake up."
"I'm in a hospital?"
"Yes. I was just told to check your vitals now. You can go back to sleep."
Samira loosened the muscles in her neck, her head resting on a plump pillow. Her brain was murky water, thoughts swimming with no purpose. Her eyes felt like heavyweights—they fell shut the moment her vision finally cleared.
"Why am I not dead?" She mumbled thoughtlessly, her voice breaking.
"You're okay, Samira."
It felt as though anvils piled on Samira; lips parted and head slumped to the side, she fell back asleep.
Beep . . . beep . . . beep . . .
As the noise rang through Samira's ears inaudibly, she felt a hand stroke through her hair. There was soft mumbling, a voice little Samira would hear whenever she sought relief from her childhood nightmares.
YOU ARE READING
under the covers [hs au]
FanfictionSome stories aren't just about love. They're about life. They move you in a way you can't recover from. They bring you out from under the covers, open your eyes to the world. This is the story of Harry and Samira. One is bold, the other vulnerable...