by: Zahra Daya
You toiled more harder than longer to get here. The evidence is written plainly over your face, a net over your mouth, catching and transforming every word to match you now. You often like to mull over what it means, what happened, why, why, why. Your mother tells you fate, father says hard work, brother shrugs and disappears.
Your story began in an outskirt suburb of London, England where rain was a constant occurrence and there were more colored folk, than non, around you. You returned from a refreshing holiday in Egypt, bringing souvenirs of sandy toenails and a sunburnt nose, none of which are giftable, your mother scorned, she herself holding beautiful boxes of baklava, Arabic you could no longer read calligraphed all over them. She told you the new school down the road accepted you, how lucky you are. You fiddled with a loose string on your unicorn t-shirt, winding it around and around the same patch of skin until it started throbbing, blood trapped, stagnant.
You cried that night, hard and silent. You shoulders shook, you put your back to your door and didn’t cover your face. When your mum called you down for dinner you cleared up the trails of phlegm on your forearm and salty pools brimming with fish above your upper lip, painting on a crimson smile. You stretched your lips in the mirror, wondering how many times you could fake a smile till your face muscles tired, elastic settling into its natural state. Forty-three muscles, higher than your fingers could count to then.
Waiting for you downstairs wasn’t just a plate of salmon and herbed potatoes, but a heap of raggedy green-and-grey cloth. School uniform, your mother said brightly, picking up a grey skirt, the fabric and color embodying elephant skin perfectly. You cried some more into your dinner when your mother’s back was turned to the dishes, tears snaking into spicy olive oil. You ate your sadness that night.
You didn’t talk the whole of the next day, lips sealed because of a reason you didn’t know. Perhaps it was to keep that stirring in your chest inside, afraid of what would come out if you did open your mouth. Or maybe in protest, anger the catalyst. You didn’t say a word when the teacher told you to introduce yourself, or when a girl asked you why your uniform looked crinkled, or when the whole class chimed in to agree, points and laughs aimed at you until the teacher stepped in to settle everyone down. You sat in the same seat for every lesson, ignoring the groups of giggling girls when they asked you to move during Maths. You hung your coat on the last peg in the cloakroom, mentally pinning your name to it. When your mother asked you how did school go, you couldn’t help but notice her trembling hand, her white knuckles on the kitchen counter. You fibbed your way to hugs and nods, started and finished your homework within the hour, pages flying with your mind. You ate dinner then fell dead asleep into bed, mind too distracted with numbers and basic equations to yield dreams.
Days liquidated into months, steamed into years, and you reveled in it, found peace in flow.
It was December, the temperature steadily dropping each day, approaching the negatives. Winter Wonderland, your Dad exclaimed, brandishing a brightly-colored flyer. You got excited, thinking it was sight-seeing in Central London, perhaps a seasonal toystore, you were wondering how big it would be compared to London’s ultimate toystore Hamleys; you’d gone off on a mental tangent. A theme park, your dad said, breaking down your train of thought. With rides and drops and loops, he added, mistaking your empty face for confusion. A lump formed in your throat, you swallowed, but it remained. I think I have something to do that day, Dad, you said, praying your cheeks stayed their tan color. Bollocks! he yelled, his arms winding around your mother’s hips, squeezing them in excitement.
Back against your wall, phlegm painted your forearms again that night, you wiped your art away before going down for dinner.
The snow was just settling in for the night when you arrived at Winter Wonderland, festive music filling the icy air. There was a constant thrum of your heart, so loud it beat the music. All jumbled and mixed into your ears. Laughter of small children on equally small rides, giggles of teenangers on first dates with guys double their age, screams mixed with curse words descending on the milling crowds from a looping rollercoaster. You shuddered at the sight of it, hand clutching your stomach. Your dad saw the action and grinned.
Next thing you know, a lady wearing a bored face and chewing gum the size of baseball ushered you into the seat, locking you in with the seat belt. You squirmed and squirmed, ignoring your Dads protests. Fear gone beyond tears, you panicked, but then you were metres off the ground, miles it felt. You shut your eyes tight and accepted defeat.
Your legs felt like jelly afterward. You tried your best to contain your excitement coming off the ride, but now it was out. The ride had been great.
That one? Dad asks, pointing to a steep drop. No, never, you shook your head vigorously.
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