By Noor Ahmed
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When I was five years old, I thought my father was cheating
on my mom. When he came home from work late at night, he and my mom would
argue. Every night, muffled screaming traveled through the cracks in their bedroom
doorway.
My father was not a sinner. He just worked too far into the
night: 12 a.m. most nights. Sometimes he would be out until 2 a.m.
I only woke up for a glass of water. I was thirsty. I hugged
my blanket for comfort before starting the terrifying journey through the dark.
Under it, I asked, Could the darkness speak? Could it tell me why my
parents’ whispers turned to screams when the rest of the world was quiet? I
shook my head and got up.
After some slow, careful steps, I made it to the kitchen. I
flipped the crusty light switch, and the overhead light buzzed and flickered
on. Blinded, I stepped onto the cold, papery tiles that littered the kitchen
floor. When my eyes finally adjusted, I saw the roaches. They were on my fridge
door, under the cabinets, in my head. I asked God to say hello for me, as I was
too weak to give them my usual greeting: a high-pitched shriek.
Together God, the roaches, and I listened to my parents
meaninglessly yell at each other. I strongly disliked their company, but they
were all I had. My mom’s bat-like voice rang through my ears, giving me a
headache. My father’s voice rattled my tiny, bitten body. His hands shook the
whole house.
I sat on the trembling floor and gulped my water down, the
big lumps sending a shooting pain down my throat. The roaches probably
crawled in this before. I set the glass down.
I remembered that my mom told me I was with God before I was
placed inside her belly. I shakily held my clammy palms together. Please,
Lord, if you can hear me, take me back to you.
At elementary school, our uniforms were simple: red, black,
or white top with a khaki skirt, shorts, or pants. I never wore shorts or a
skirt. My mom told me God would be angry if the little boys looked at my legs.
I didn’t understand why He would put His anger on me instead of the boys, but I
just agreed with her. It was safer that way.
During recess, I would find myself drawn away from the
others. I’d walk along the concrete sidewalk, kicking away stray wood
chips and gravel. I remember the sky being blanketed with clouds of various
greys. I’ve tried to imagine that playground with the sun filtering its
honey-suckled rays through the trees surrounding it, but it seems the sun was
unremarkable to my young eyes. I watched the other children play freeze tag,
compete on the swing, and build sand dunes in the sand pit.
Once, I joined some girls playing in the sand. I knew I
didn't belong there, but I stayed anyway. About an hour later, we looked back
and the whole class was gone. We panicked and banged on the double doors near
our classroom. Another student opened it, looking furious. Apparently, we were
almost reported missing. I had to change my behavior clip from green to red for
the first time. That was the only time I cried in front of my peers. I thought
to myself, Look at how I was punished for trying to make friends.
The one thing I enjoyed was making pretty birds’ nests on
the ground. I’d take pine straw, sticks, and sand to build the foundation. Then
I’d use rocks and pinecones to decorate them. The birds never liked mine. They
lived in the other girls’ nests, but I didn’t care much. I knew those girls
deserved it more than I did. They were happier. The birds must have felt it.
About the Author
Noor Ahmed is a reader and writer in her first semester at ICC. She hopes to transfer to UIUC and double major in English and creative writing. She spends most of her free time frustrated with her penmanship. She loves her cat, Sunny, who always jumps off her lap while she writes her in-progress books.