Five Minutes, Four Years

This blog's purpose is to showcase any and all of my creative works. This is the piece I would say that I am most proud of, it having received a First from my university tutor.

Five Minutes, Four Years

Sunlight. A hard-boiled egg yolk in the crisp, cobalt sky. Nothing marred the wide expanse of blue, not even the faintest wisp of a cloud. Children were playing in the fallen piles of leaves, their screams and whoops of joy echoing through the streets of the quiet town. Mothers gossiped together on park benches, their hijabs fluttering slightly in the wind. A young couple sat on the grass – lost to another world.

Nadiya stood, taking it all in. The rich scents of spices from the food vendors outside the park’s entrance intermingled with the smell of the damp earth in her nose; the vivid colours of passers-by’s clothing – royal blue jeans, blinding white trainers, a camel coloured trenchcoat – almost an eyesore in their multitudes.  The rumbling car engines and the rattle of a train from the far off city were ever present, a soundtrack to the idyllic scene. Occasionally cutting into that were the snippets of everyday conversation Nadiya would catch as she moved further into the park.

“And oh, Sharon’s new…”

“You have to try this vegetarian restaurant!”

“Did you hear that rumour about the new government…”

“Mummy said if I do all my…”

“Let’s go play on the slide!”

“…really fancy one of those samosas”

There. Over on that bench. Their bench. He was there already. Just like always. Every Saturday at 10am – regular as clockwork, reliable as the ground beneath her feet. Her rock, Danyal.

A smile gracing her lips, she began walking purposefully to their bench, everyone and everything else fading into the background. All that mattered was him, that bench, and the 30 foot distance between her and them.

25 feet. She could see his wonky smile – the left side of his mouth quirking higher than the right – and those gorgeous pearly whites, flashing in the sun. 20 feet. Would it be this time? She wondered, fiddling with the buttons on her coat. 15 feet. They’d been together 3 years as of yesterday, lived together for 4 and been friends for at least 10. 10 feet. It felt right. She’d even met his family and was ‘Auntie Nadiya’ to his adorable little nephew Pasha. 5 feet. She wanted him to ask. She loved him, and knew she would for the rest of her life. It would definitely make a certain revelation far easier to handle she thought, her smile turning wry.  

They were so close now. Excitement shot through her veins. He had stood up, arms outstretched, preparing to hold her to him. Her left hand slid down to cradle her as yet unnoticeable bump, and grinning widely, his name ready on her lips…

  

*

“Danyal!” She bolted upright, the forbidden name exploding out of her with the force of a bullet. Her heart almost beating out of her chest. The alarm shrieked, loud enough to force her out of her dream, and back into the real world.

Panting, she slumped back against the cold stone wall, and shut her eyes, vainly attempting to stave off a headache. Slowly she opened her eyes again to take in her surroundings. Grey walls, stone floor, thin blanket, cardboard mattress and tiny, barred window.

Still in prison then.

She ran a hand down her face. It had been a long time since she’d had a dream so pleasant and realistic. Even longer since she’d slept deeply enough to dream at all.

The guard outside was beginning to pace. She could hear the shuffling of his feet and his baton tap tap tapping lightly on the door. The metallic sound echoed softly throughout her cell. She didn’t know which one was guarding her today, but she did know that if she didn’t start getting up soon…

It didn’t matter anyway. She was getting up.

Soon.

She wanted to think on her dream a little longer. Anything to distract her from her miserable reality. Something to make her smile.

Even in this awful place.

Four years. Four, horrific, nightmarish years since that day in the park. The last perfect day she would ever get with him. They had awoken the next day tangled up between the sheets and their own limbs. He had kissed her, gotten out of bed, dressed and disappeared to the shops.

“5 minutes” he had promised, flashing that beautifully wonky smile at her. He wanted to make her chilli cheese breakfast flatbreads. They had just needed the eggs.

Almost as soon as she had heard the sound of that old car of his fade around the corner, the front door had been kicked in. Glass and wood rained down on the hardwood floor in a rainbow of shards, the cacophony of it accompanied by the heavy footfalls of the jackbooted thugs who had taken her – naked – from their bed and dragged her into the back of their black van.

“Get up.” The low grunt of the guard took her by surprise. So caught up in her musings she had failed to notice the silencing of the alarm, the click of her door opening and the tread of the guard to her side.

Panic racing through her, she leapt out of the bed. Guards were known to hit first and ask questions later – especially new guards. Especially if they thought she wasn’t complying with orders. She was surprised that this guard had woken her so gently – it would have been less of a shock had he run in baton swinging.

Blinking the spots from her vision, she stood, naked before him. Exposing her most intimate self to this stranger… she hated it. That feeling of sin, of being dirty in a way that no shower would ever be able to wash away.

There were not words, in any language that could reveal just how much she hated this lack of privacy.

It was strange. Maybe it was just because this guard was clearly new, or at the very least new to her, or maybe it was just that her dream had reminded her of her old life, but she felt that spark of ire – that hot tongue of anger flickering to life again.

“On the ground.” Even the monotone voice, its lack of emotion, of empathy for another human being, made her angrier.

“No.” That raspy squeak couldn’t be her voice. “No.” she repeated, louder. Stronger.

Finally. Some emotion. The guard’s eyes had widened slightly in shock. Not much, but it was at least something.

“I told you. On the ground. Now” Defiance felt good. She stood taller, that reignited fire in her belly warming her better than any central heating. Pushing the short, greasy strands of her hair away from her face, she met his eyes (whiskey brown, like… no. He’s dead. Focus) and squared her shoulders. Her body was weak, ribs and shoulder blades protruding from underneath tissue paper skin, bruises painting her tanned flesh in an array of peacock colours.

She was standing up for herself. Her body may be weak, but she wasn’t, and she would let this guard know it. Him, the officials running the prison, the ‘new world organisation’ that had put her here. Everyone.

No longer allowing herself to feel the shame of her nakedness, she took pride in her broken body. Her battle scars. It told her story, better than she would ever be able to. The discolorations from bruises told of the multiple beatings she had endured day in, day out for four years, just for wanting to wear a hijab. The malnourished state of her small body from the weeks of starvation they had forced her into, just because she prayed to Allah. The silvery scars on her stomach from when her dead son had been pulled from her failing body.

All of this just for being a Muslim in a world that had given into its fear of the unknown.

The guard crossed the two small steps between them and stood, towering above her. He didn’t say anything, nor did he touch her. Just stood, staring into her eyes. She met his stare, fire in her gaze, expecting pain and welcoming it. Slowly he reached down, into the canvas bag at his side, what was in there? A whip? Chains? Only to pull out the bog standard uniform every prisoner wore.

“Put them on.” The emotionless grunt issued from his mouth, as he threw the shapeless mass of grey material at her feet and turned his back to her. She could feel her eyebrows furrowing, where was the beating for non-compliance? Where was the delighted grin as she cowered, blood stained, in the corner of her cell? Confused, she reached slowly for the wad of material, expecting an attack at any moment, muscles tensed, hands balled into fists. He turned his head “Are you deaf? Put them on.” Those unnervingly familiar eyes stared out at her from underneath the white hood that completed the guard’s uniforms.

She really didn’t want to. She’d found her anger, her passion. She had stopped feeling so dead inside. Now she was fire and hate. Righteous and alive.

But those eyes.

They wrenched at her soul. He was dead. He had to be. It hurt too much to imagine him out in the world still. To think of him in this prison, or any other, being treated as she was. As less than dirt. Less than human. Or worse, if he were still free, running and hiding from the governments of the ‘free world.’ If he had left her, alone, to suffer in ways she had never even realised people could suffer. It was better if he were dead. For him and for her.

She pulled the jumpsuit on, taking care to pull the zipper up to the top. As soon as she was properly covered he turned back to her, producing handcuffs from his belt. In silence he locked them onto her fragile wrists, his gentle grip so at odds with the brusque tone of voice she had heard.

Gentle. The strangest concept. Four years and she had forgotten how it felt to be touched gently. Someone holding her hand, not to crush the bones there, but just to hold her.

Tears, unbidden, sprang to her eyes. Ellahi, I need to get out of here, she thought to herself, not for the first time. Blinking furiously, not wanting yet another guard to see her tears fall, she looked stubbornly up at him, wanting him to know that she would not fall for his ploy.

Staring back at her, those eyes reflected her sadness. Whiskey pools overflowing with the tears she herself had not allowed to fall. Stunned, Nadiya could do nothing but stare back at him, her wrists still caught in that gentle hold.

“Why…?” the whisper escaped her without her even knowing what she was asking him. Why so gentle? Why me? Just why?

He shook his head, the tears disappeared and his whiskey eyes dulled. Once again the emotionless statue from before stood in front of her, but her fire of rage had died. His grip on her wrists tightened and she sagged like an old balloon. Suddenly she felt very tired, and old beyond her years. What was the point? One guard decided not to beat her and she was weak again. Where was that fiery temper Danyal had always loved? Where was that fight to defend her rights that Allah had instilled in all peoples?

Lowering her gaze, she felt the hot prick of tears sting at her eyes again, this time allowing a single tear drop to slide quietly down her face and drop silently to the grey, stone floor. The guard moved his grip to the chain holding her wrists together, slowly dragging her out into the corridor. Stopping at the door, he quickly rummaged in his canvas bag – Nadiya could hear the rustle of cloth on cloth. She didn’t know nor did she care what he was looking for. After all, it wouldn’t have anything to do with her so why should she?

As he led her into the white tiled corridor she kept her gaze to the floor, feeling the weight of her four years more heavily than ever before. It was just another day. Another long, laborious day of being put to work “for the benefit of God’s chosen.”

At least today any new bruises on her skin would be from the sewers, and not the guards.

The feeling of the guard’s cold, rubber glove slipping inside her clenched hand almost made her gasp aloud. Suppressing it, she looked sharply up into his hard, serious eyes.

“Good Luck.” He whispered, swiftly unlocking her cuffed wrists and striding purposefully along the corridor, leaving her alone and confused.

Furtively, she looked down at the small metal key he had placed in her hand and unfurled the little paper scroll it had been wrapped in.

OUTSIDE. 20 MINS. DON’T BE LATE.

Fire ignited her veins once more. She didn’t know what was going on. But it had to be better than this.