One Year Left (3)

(https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/5u9yi6/one_year_left_2/?ref=share&ref_source=link)

A kick to the ribs wakes me from a nightmare: one in which I forlornly wander among cemeteries, vaults, and mausoleums.

I manage a sharp intake of air and roll over to protect my belly. I must have fallen asleep on the floor last night. Now, brilliant sunlight streaks through the window and illuminates the crisp linens that lie, untouched, on my bed.

With a sick feeling in my gut, I realize why my father is upset. I've obviously missed morning prayers, which is an inexcusable discretion in my parent's eyes. Also, Laleh must have blabbed to one of them about my withdrawn behavior. There is nothing she enjoys more than my frequent mishaps, which portray her in an ever more flattering light.

“Dad, please!” I beg him, scrabbling backward until I reach the bed and leap onto the comforter to safety. “It's been a dark week, I know! But I didn't mean to shirk my duty to Allah--”

In one swift, fluid motion, Dad grabs a handful of my tousled bed-hair and yanks. For a moment, I see stars and am dizzy. “Dad, don't! I'll do anything. Look, I'm getting up right now, see?”

My father stands like a sneering gimlet, flaring the nostrils in his prominent Arab nose. His black eyes stab the soul inside of me, and I can see the flush in his cheeks, even though his skin is browner than mine.

I look exactly like Ahmed. Inside, I hate it.

With a grim smile, Dad extends his hand and opens his palm, displaying the thick bunch of hair he's managed to tear from my scalp. “You think I am rough with you? You think this is bad?” he taunts in stilted English. “In Iraq, you would know your place. In Iraq, you would be a slave to Allah and worship as though your head were on fire. Here, Western values have brainwashed you into behaving like an infidel. Giving up praying! And if you think you will escape punishment--”

“I'm sorry! How many times do I have to keep saying I'm sorry?”

Dad looks down his nose and sniffs. “You will never be able to apologize enough,” he says calmly. His voice is even, measured. Cool. “It is bad enough that you were born a girl. But at least with Laleh, she doesn't do foolish things that make people talk and try to destroy the reputation of the Al-Khalil family. Laleh is clever, smart. She can read the Q’uran by heart and never leaves the house without her hijab. But you--” he gestures disdainfully in my direction and turns his back.

I sit in helpless humiliation, hugging my knees and trying not to let these hot, salty tears spill onto my nightie. Both of my parents treat Laleh as if she can do no wrong. But Dad showed not an ounce of feeling toward me when I came into this world. He was always cold, ignored my childish requests for attention, and barely acknowledged me even at the dinner table. I am a source of shame to my father. And my mother, whom I love fervently and who loves me even more, is helpless to stop his abusive behavior.

Today is the first time Dad has actually laid his hand upon me.

As much as I want to confess everything and throw my arms around his waist in desperation, my palate locks and my lips purse. I want to tell him what Laleh did to me. I want to tell him that if I look into a mirror, I may not see myself looking back. I want to tell him that a hideously crumpled old woman came onto our property last night, swaying in that sickening way, pointing a sclerotic finger...calling my name.

“Well? What have you to say?” Dad crosses his arms.

I shrug listlessly.

“May Allah curse you to the pits meant for demon spawn!” he snarls. “There will be changes in the Al-Khalil household. You will spend this Saturday morning on your prayer mat, begging Allah for his forgiveness, and there will be no food for you.”

“No food?! I--”

Dad holds up one hand. “Noor, it is time you grew up and accepted the role your sister and mother embrace so naturally. You will pray five times a day. You will do so remorsefully, and when you aren't on the prayer mat, you will be either studying the Q’uran or using your prayer beads to contemplate the ninety-nine names of Allah. No after school activities, no library--” and here, he leans in: “--and no friends. You are Allah's slave now. Understood?”

Before I can stop myself, the words pop from my throat like a starling out of the nest. “Dad, Laleh has cursed me!” I blurt. “I've had so much zoology homework that I forgot all about praying. Laleh shamed me, telling me that Lilith will come and that I only have the rest of this year to live and outside last night there was an old woman--”

“Enough lies!” Dad barked.

“It's true,” I stammered, “and I can prove it. Come with me to the bathroom. Please, Dad!”

“Proof?” he sounded bemused. “Very well. Show me.”

I am practically skipping down the hall in my anticipation. At last, he'll know. And maybe then, there would be time to find a way to sever my ties with the Lilith-Thing that had rapped on my window for over an hour before recessing into the dawn.

“When Laleh cursed me, she said that I would be marked, and 365 days from then, the guardians of Hell would yank me down. And my mark,” I blurble, pushing open the bathroom door, “was my reflection. Lilith stole it, Dad. She actually stole my reflection!”

Both of us peer expectantly at the bathroom mirror. It is as I've feared: there is still no image of me. Dad stares and is silent for at least a full minute.

He knows, I think with glee. He can finally see it!

But Dad only looks at me incredulously. “I don't see the problem,” he says shortly.

“But-- but it's right there!” A rock is beginning to form in my throat. Can it be that he actually isn't aware my reflection is gone? “Dad, I--”

“Back to your room,” he interrupts. “We are putting a stop to this now. You will kneel, and you will pray. And when your punishment is over, you will apologize to Laleh.”

While I gape, Dad withdraws a key from the pocket of his kakhis.

My bedroom key!

“You will remain here until I see fit to let you out. I suggest you begin your repentance.”

“Dad, no!” I fly across the room and try to throw myself between him and the door, but am too late. The door slams shut. On the other side, I hear the clink of that key turning in the lock. I am trapped here now, while Laleh's silent words mock me and the promise of more danger skulks outside.

Could I slip out of the window and make my escape? Where would I even go? And could someone-- maybe that Thing-- still be waiting?

Trudging back to the bed, I heave myself onto the mattress and cry. And cry.

And cry.