The Birth of Heartbreak

It happened while I was flipping through the pages of my fourth year Latin classics book. That was when I glimpsed the word that brought me back to my childhood days with Didi. I rummaged through the book again, frantically trying to locate the page that had the word on it. I flipped through the pages once. Twice. Three times, this time with my nose inches from the yellowed pages of the old text.

Aha. There it is.

I stared at the four-lettered word, reading it in my mind. Then I read the entire sentence.

Aut neca aut necare.

            I was eleven when I first met Didi. She transferred to our fifth grade class in May, which was strange. Most things about her were. She wasn’t popular, which I always found surprising. Her hair was so long, she could sit on it if she ever let it down. And it was darker than the darkness trapped underneath your blanket. She had the most peculiar eyes. I remember thinking they didn’t fit her thin face; they looked so much older than her eleven years. Most days they were the color of the deepest oceans, and other days they were the stormy clouds that loomed above it. I swear, the first time I saw lightning, it was in Didi’s eyes.

            We took to each other instantly. It was odd, the way I felt my soul cling to hers. I never felt lonely before Didi, but after Didi, that was all I felt.

            It was a hot and sticky Friday afternoon, so Didi decided that we should spend our time down by the river that my mother told me to never go near. We were still in our school clothes and my pockets were heavy with the two juice boxes I stole from the cabinet in the kitchen. When we got to the river, Didi picked a spot and I waited patiently for her to cast the “invisibility spells” around us.  “That way grown ups won’t find us, ever,” she’d say.

            Satisfied with her work, she sat on an amputated tree trunk and motioned for me to sit next to her. I handed her a juice box and sat down on the grassy patch at her feet. “Didi, how come we never go to your house?” I asked as I poked my straw into the top of my juice box. She didn’t answer me at first, so I turned to look at her. Strom clouds stared back at me.

            “I told you not to ask me that again.”

            Fear grabbed hold of my insides and my mouth dried up. “What did I tell you the last time you asked?” she asked in that quiet way of hers.

            “Th-that you wouldn’t be my friend again.”

            “That’s right. I ought to push you into this river right now!”

            I looked away from her and fixed my gaze on the juice box in my lap. “I’m sorry, Didi. I won’t ask you again. I promise.”

            “You know what happens when you break a promise?” she threatened.

            “Yes,” I mumbled.

            “Good.”

            Even though I wasn’t looking at her, I knew she was running her fingers through her hair. I pulled at the grass around my legs. After a few minutes of silence, she spoke.

            “Do you want to hear a story?”

            I tilted my head back to look at her. The storm clouds had broken, giving way to the ocean currents. Feeling a bit easier, I grinned. “Yes.”

            “Good. Turn around and face me.”

            I did as I was told and watched as Didi put down her juice box, and tied back her long hair.

            “This one my great great great grandmother told me,” she began.

A long, long time ago, when the world was still young, there lived a beautiful woman in the middle of the forest in a far, far away place, where there were no other humans. She made friends with the birds, and the trees. She could even speak to the river. And she was happy.

            Then one day, a man got lost and ended up passing through her forest. So the woman hid and watched the man through the eyes of the sparrows, and she learned his actions through the dirt he walked on. She had never seen a man before, but she knew that whatever souls were made of, his and hers were the same. And so, she instantly fell in love.

            She followed him around the forest, staying hidden the entire time, and the further his footsteps lead him away from her, the more her entire being ached for him, until she could bear it no more. Her heart leapt each time he smiled in day dream. Wanting to be the cause of such a beautiful smile, she did a foolish thing that would haunt her until the end of time.

Gathering up her courage, she approached this stranger and began confessing her love to him. The man’s eyes rounded in fear, and he took several steps backward, almost stumbling in the process. The woman, needing to hear a similar confession from his lips, followed him. The man put a hand out and shouted some words in a foreign language. She stopped in her tracks and stared at him, not understanding his words, and not wanting to understand his energy. She felt his fear, his repulsion.

With another string of foreign words, the man got up and ran. She watched him leave. And that was the first time heart break had touched a woman.

She couldn’t go on. Every time she walked through her forest, she felt the lingering presence of the stranger. Her heart clenched when she passed the tree he had rested against. She was no longer living, and yet she wasn’t dead. The constant state of hovering between two realms and the sleeplessness that came with it drove her to the brink of insanity.

And so one night under a moonless sky, she sharpened her thinnest bone-dagger and inserted it between her ribs. She carefully cut out the treacherous organ, until it lay on the grass, still beating. She asked the Earth to swallow it up, burying it in the deepest recesses of the underground.

The woman had become a demon, a beautiful, heartless demon. She never was the same again, and she haunted the world for the rest of eternity. She was heart break. She became that pretty girl you fell in love with at a party, but never returned your phone calls. She became that girl that kissed you once, and then disappeared, leaving you crippled. She became that great girl next door that moved after she became your best friend. She became the girl you courted all throughout college that ended up marrying your best friend.

She fed on the hearts of men. She never died, she just moved on. Once she had one man’s heart, she took it and moved onto the next meal.

Didi’s eyes were alive by the time she had finished the story. It sounded more like a nightmare to me. I stared into the distance, feeling my skin crawl.

“You better watch out,” she said with a smile that broke me. “She could come for you, too.”

“How do I stop her?”

Didi tossed her head back in a laugh. “It’s nearly impossible to stop her!”

I shivered.

“But I’ll tell you how.”

            I dared to meet her eyes. “How?”

            The legend states that heartbreak is made of two halves of two different souls. Two souls that were ripped in half for the same reason. If one of the halves of the two half-souls belonged to the woman, who did the other half-soul belong to?

That same night, the man that was lost in the forest finally found his way back to his village, where he found that his sweet heart had assumed he was dead and carried on without him. Feeling his heart tearing apart, he went back to the forest and ripped the organ from his chest and offered it to the Earth. Caliming the two half-souls as its own, heart break was born. The male demon roamed the Earth, a hollow man. He fed on the hearts of young women. He became that shy boy from your English class that laughed about your glasses behind your back. He became every man that ever ignored you. He became every man that returned your shy smile with a sneer. He became every man that made you feel fat, or ugly, or stupid.

And the only way to get rid of both these demons is to reunite their hearts, deep within the Earth.

*     *     *

            I stared at the sentence again. 

Aut neca aut necare. 

            Kill before you are killed. 
            Bile collided with the back of my throat as the realization dawned upon me. Didi’s full name was Dimidium Neca.

Latin for half death.

Some People Are Like Bruises

You wake up one uneventful morning and they're already stamped into your life, like an unknown bruise. You don't know where they came from, and even though they're as close to you as a second skin, you forget all about them underneath all your clothes and security. You only remember them when you're in most vulnerable state: your nakedness. It's when you realize, "Oh, there's that bruise. Wonder where it came from." And you think about them for a moment or two before donning your clothes again, forgetting them once more.

And then you wake up one morning, several days later, and you suddenly realize the bruise isn't there anymore. It couldn't possibly have gone overnight, it's a process that takes time. But you only realize its absence, not its gradual fading.

Just as suddenly as they appeared, they're now gone, those beautiful bruises.

Photo cred: OlexD

Gray Matter

Why do we lay in bed, waiting for our alarm to go off, even though we're already awake?

He stared unseeingly at the neon green numbers. It was already 7:32AM, but he had been awake for hours ever since that coughing fit took over. His glasses lay on a book that had gathered dust on his night stand. It was the same book he picked up and leafed through every time he couldn't sleep and even then, he couldn't tell you what it was about if his life depended on it.

The conversations from last night drifted through his mind, like the last cheerios in a bowl of milk that he always chased around with a spoon, never catching them.

He rolled over and looked at her side of the bed. It was empty, he had felt her get up an hour ago. The pillow wasn't warm anymore. He suspected she got as much sleep as he did, both awake for the same reason, re-running the same conversations in their heads. In a way, being awake for the same reasons should have made them closer, but then why did he feel so much distance between them even though they slept inches away from each other?

And the hardest thing about it all was that he could have closed this distance. Just one word from him would mend all the things he said yesterday.

He thought about this as he touched her pillow, the same place her head had rested just an hour ago. And when that wasn't enough for him, he rolled over onto her side of the bed and rested his cheek on her blue pillow case, breathing in the scent of her hair.

That was when he noticed the stack of books on her night stand. She liked to read when she couldn't sleep too. Her books all had similar keywords: child care, babies, pregnancy.

Except the book that lay at the top of the stack. This one was "Eat to Fight Cancer". He brushed his fingertips across the spine of that book and thought back to the lonely book that was gathering dust on his nightstand.

He picked up the container of her hand cream from on top of the books, unscrewed the cap, and sniffed it before screwing the cap back on and replacing it on top of the stack of books. His eyes lingered on that cancer book for a second longer before he rolled over and sat up on his side of the bed.

One word from him and everything would be okay. He didn't want to do it. He was a grown man, pushing fifty, and he never made his own decision, not once.

He had a solid argument. He didn't want to spend the rest of whatever time he had left in hospital beds. He wanted her to understand. Maybe she did. But there was no taking back the hurt he saw in her eyes. There was no taking back the tears she quietly sobbed into her pillow last night when she thought he was asleep.

He reached over and took his glasses off the book on his nightstand and made his way downstairs to the kitchen.

She was standing over the sink scrubbing at a pan, her belly making it difficult for her to get closed to the sink. She stopped scrubbing when he wrapped his arms around her, resting his head against her shoulder, the scent of her hair stronger here than it was on the pillow case.

"Alright."

She turned her head slightly to the left. "Alright what?" she asked.

He waited before saying the words. "I'll do the treatment."

*     *     *

For those of you who found this post a little familiar, that's because it's based on an episode from the TV series Breaking Bad. I started watching it a few days ago and this scene really just got to me. You know how sometimes you see something really beautiful and you're just so awe-struck by it that you wanna recreate it and show it to the world? Maybe that's why we take pictures of sunsets and post them on facebook, because we want to share that beauty with anyone, everyone. That's why I had to re-create this scene, except I did it in what I'm good at - writing.

I guess imitation is the highest form of flattery.

Hijab: A Love Story

"Why do you wear that?" she asks as she traces invisible circles around her face, referring to my hijab.

Whether its at a da'wah table, or while I'm standing in line at a 7-Eleven, or even during group projects at school, the question always comes up. After being a hijabi for ten years (going on eleven), I've learned to anticipate the question. I've gotten so good, I can almost predict when it'll come up.

You'd think that answering this question would have gotten easier over the years, but it hasn't. To me, hijab is my most loyal friend; my hijab is part of me, it makes up a good portion of my identity. I can tell you why I wear the hijab, but I can tell you what the hijab has done for me so much better. But I guess in order for you to understand that, I'd have to start at the beginning, when I first began my journey.

Alhamdulilah, I started wearing my hijab around this time, when I was in seventh grade. At the time, we were living in Egypt for a year and my parents were on Hajj, so my Aunt, who wasn't married yet, was staying with us. I woke up for school one morning and BAM! puberty. My Aunt pretty much asked me, "Do you want to start wearing the hijab?" I said yes, and that was the end of that. It wasn't anything I really thought about. I was raised all my life in an Islamic school, and I knew that once a young lady hit puberty, hijab becomes mandatory. All my other friends were wearing it, my teachers wore it. My mom and aunts wore it, as did my cousins. It was a no-brainer for me. I never went a sleepless night because I was up thinking about how people would start treating me once I wore my hijab. Hijab just wasn't something I worried about.

Looking back at that segment of my life, I now realize that I took that comfort for granted.

I didn't start becoming aware of my hijab until I was entering eleventh grade in high school. My parents transferred me from Ghazaly to Marist High School (long story) and just so you know, Marist is a catholic school. Obviously I was extremely upset with this decision (and I took advantage of every opportunity possible to illustrate this), and that was before I even digested the fact that this was a catholic school and I was coming from an Islamic school. Let's just say that it wasn't really the smoothest transition. Ghazaly was my entire life, it was the bubble within which I existed; I knew nothing beyond it's pecan-green (I wonder what color they are now) walls. If you asked me to recite a Surah in the Quran, I'd recite it to you and even give you the Tafseer in a jiffy. If you asked me where in the Sunnah it described the steps to Tayammum, I'd rattle off the hadith, no problem. If you needed a du'aa for something, I'd give you two. But if you asked me why I wore the hijab, I'd tell you, well duh, because it's fard, and I'd expect no further questions after that. Obviously, this isn't a sufficient answer for a non-Muslim; I didn't understand that. If you asked me my views on the trinity, I'd have no idea what you were talking about. Point is, I had a solid Islamic education, but when it came to giving da'wah, I was all stammers, blank face, and baffled stares. In a way, I knew everything (not even) and nothing at the same time. But anyway, I digress; if you wanna read a little more about my experience at Marist, just click here.

Entering college was just another step on the journey. I liked the college atmosphere much better than I did the high school one. People were more mature, less judgmental, all that good stuff. And in the occasional event someone did make a snide remark about my hijab, the first few weeks at Marist had already hardened me against that, and I didn't respond with anger or tears; I was more rational, alhamdulilah. Hijab did that for me; it showed me the real world and it made me stronger, and above all, it made me fall in love with my deen over and over again.

Walking into a lecture hall on the first day of classes and seeing another hijabi is a very comforting feeling, you men don't even know. It's like I automatically have a friend in the class, because it's totally cool for me to go and sit next to her, smile, and introduce myself. She'd automatically know that I chose to sit next to her because she was also wearing the hijab, and it wouldn't be something weird. It's like the hijabi code. That's part of the reason why hijabi's tend to "flock" together. We're all on the same journey, and yet, we're on different ones. It's really somethin' else.

Hijab has made me a better person, too. If my years at Marist taught me anything, it's that if you wear the hijab, you're automatically labeled as a Muslim. I mean, it's different with men and the Sunnah beards, because that's not necessarily exclusive to the Islamic faith. Hijab, on the other hand, is. My hijab is the reason I make sure to take the extra few seconds to hold the door open for someone. My hijab is the reason I'm patient with rude people and women drivers (joke, ha ha). My hijab is the reason I really try to bite my tongue when I'm angry. My hijab is the reason I volunteer to do things even though I reeeeally don't want to (y'know, to get the image out there that Muslims aren't complete hermits).

My hijab is a constant reminder of who I am, and of the religion I am following. It has done nothing but improve my character. But you wanna know somethin' else? My hijab changes the people around me, too. Sometimes a classmate will refrain from cracking a dirty joke around me because I'm Muslim (as evidenced by my hijab). Sometimes people will apologize profusely when they curse in front of me for the same reason. My hijab has taught me to respect my religion, and myself. And consequently, when you have respect for yourself, people start having respect for you, too.

Hijab is so beautiful, just absolutely beautiful, and I can't see a hijabi as anything but the reflection of that. Is it really a wonder why I get so aggravated when girls use sub par analogies to describe their hijab? Enough with the "hijab is like a shell, and a hijabi is the pearl" nonsense. We can do so much better than that!

Makes me that much stronger,

Makes me work a little bit harder,

It makes me that much wiser,

So thanks for making me a fighter.

Made me learn a little bit faster,

Made my skin a little bit thicker,

Makes me that much smarter,

So thanks for making me a fighter.

I love my hijab, alhamdulilah.

Choose Your Own Adventure: Hurricane Sandy

Nothing makes you feel more uneasy about an upcoming storm than going to a Home Depot and finding out that they're all out of sand bags, generators, and flashlights.

I mean, this whole thing started off as "Tropical Storm Sandy" and then before you know it, phrases like "category two hurricane" and "coastal flooding" and "damaging winds" flooded the local news station, and everyone is split evenly down the middle between "It's no big deal" and "OH MY GOD GET IN THE CAR, WE'RE EVACUATING".

I stood in the long line at the cashier with the last two packs of AA batteries (one of which was open and missing a battery) and 7 feet of chains in my basket to tie stuff down, still trying to decide which side I was on. In front of me, I could hear the conversation of two teenage boys with identical mops of brown hair.

"I'm telling you, this is just a conspiracy to get people distracted," the shorter one said.

"Distracted from what?"

"I don't know, more important stuff. The elections. It's slowing us down."

The taller boy shook his head. "I'll start taking it seriously when they cancel school."

The shorter one snorted. "Yeah, like that'll happen."

In the next lane over, I watched as a Home Depot employee helped an older couple with their cart. Behind them, a father with a his brows knit in a worried frown tugged at his toddler's sleeve, who kept trying to grab at the candy by the register.

My peripheral vision caught sight of something moving on the ceiling. I looked up and stared at the hanging light. Either it was moving very subtly, or my eyes (and mind) were playing tricks on me.

"You saw that?"

I turned around and looked into the wide, cerulean eyes of the young woman standing behind me. "What?" I asked.

She pointed at something above us, and without even looking at what she was pointing at, I knew she was talking about the hanging light.

"You saw it move?" She asked.

"I'm not sure. I thought I might have been imagining it." I felt uneasy.

"I don't think so." Her wide eyes shifted from mine and settled back on the hanging light above us. I saw her touch two fingers to her right shoulder, then her left, then forehead, and finally the center of her chest. She was crossing herself, and for some reason, her fear was contagious. I turned back around to face the front of the line, and in spite of myself, I glanced one last time at the hanging light above me. I wished people would just hurry up so I can get out of here.

And that's when the lights flickered and then went out. Aside from the wind howling outside and a sudden "oh my God" muttered by someone a few lanes over, an abrupt hush settled over the occupants of the store as everyone held their breath and stared at the lights hanging from the ceiling. I could hear the young woman behind me reciting Hail Mary frantically. The sudden darkness inside the store made me acutely aware of how dark it was outside as well. I looked at the glass doors at the front of the store and saw angry clouds rolling in, fast.

The lights came back on just as suddenly as they had went out. The two high schoolers in front of me laughed nervously, and the girl behind me paused in her recitation briefly. People didn't resume their conversation though. Everyone was warily eyeing the lights above, which swung slightly every now and then - this time there was no doubt about it. The tenseness in the air was thick enough to cut through with a butter knife.

As soon as the cashier rang up my items and bagged them, I made a beeline for the doors, hurrying to get to my car. I wasn't really prepared for what I was about to witness.

As soon as I stepped out, the wind whipped at my clothes, pushing me back towards the automatic doors. I gasped and gripped my plastic bag tightly. I clutched my sweater closed and hustled to my car. The wind slammed the door behind me, and as I sat there behind the steering wheel, staring at the sky, I was suddenly overcome with fear.

The clouds were unnaturally dark, and they lingered low in the sky, heavy with rain. It reminded me of the way the sky would darken in the Harry Potter movies when Dementors were about. Just along the horizon, I could see where the dark clouds ended, and it made me think only NJ was going to suffer the brunt of this disaster. The wind nudged the side of my car, screaming at me through the window panes. There was so much paper and leaves and empty chips bags flying around in the air, swept away by the violence of the gusts. Lightning lit up the sky, turning the darkness into the brilliance of a morning in July, if only momentarily. I counted seconds until I heard the thunder, and when I didn't get past four seconds, I started laughing hysterically. What was it, three seconds to a mile? So this, this thing was only a mile away? The thunder was loud, and I saw two women crossing in front of me crouch down in a knee-jerk reaction and stare at the sky as the thunder ripped through the atmosphere.

I could go home. I mean, would it be safer than here? Bayonne is surrounded by water. But I was fine during Hurricane Irene. Maybe this would be the same.

I could leave, too, I guess. Head more inland. Blairstown maybe. Or I could leave Jersey altogether. Go to Philly or something. But would I make it there in time? What if I got caught in the storm?

...to be continued.

If you chose to stay, click here.

If you chose to evacuate, click here.

[I'll update soon. In the meantime, think about your path.]