Chapter 15

I was out of the house in no less than five minutes. Fear had seized my heart, and it thudded loudly in my ears, drowning out my thoughts and making me painfully aware of my surroundings. My feet slapped against the cold pavement. It was early morning, and the birds were chirping, and the sky was flushed pink and orange as the sun lazily made it's way up the sky. My fingers trembled from worry and cold and fear.

Salma's shock was still imprinted in my mind, her mouth agape in a gasp, her hand drifting up to her face.

Ian's blonde curls were shorter in the picture, I thought suddenly, out of the blue. My mind raced as I made my way to the bus stop. It was the same hospital as my father's, I realised as the bus finally arrived and I finally got on and when the hospital finally came into view, but I was still froze in shock and fear and I was praying that the he was okay.

He was in the emergency rooms, and he was lying in his stretcher staring at the ceiling when I shoved the curtain aside. I had gone through hell trying to find him as there were EMT people scurrying around making my heart jolt every time I saw their neon yellow uniforms, and causing the worst conclusions to jump into my head. I could smell blood and sweat and bleach and scrubs and it made me dizzy and exhausted; it made me remember my father and endless visits at the hospital, overnight stays and tasteless food and the cold professionalism of dealing with enthusiastic nurses and the dreadful, hushed talks with expressionless doctors and their offhanded way of giving out information like:

"Your father is in a coma," but it came out sounding like "the sun is out today," or "tonight's dinner is fried vegetables with soup,"

But all I heard was: "your father may or may not die."

Ian's mother was sobbing on a small chair beside his stretcher. A mask was attached to his face, which was attached to an oxygen tank. My chest rose when I saw his eyes open and his heart monitor steady and his wet, fingers grasping his mother's hand. My chest rose and fell, and I erupted a relieved sigh and my legs shook while I leaned down, out of breath but so, so grateful because Ian was alive.

A little while later, when he blinked and looked around and came to realise that he was in a hospital, his eyes focused on mine and I was once again, holding my breath, apologies and regret stuck in my throat. Recognition flickered in his eyes and hip lips tighten into a thin line, maybe in anger, maybe in resentment, but I don't care in that moment: I was so glad he was okay.

"Abdullah, what are you doing here?" He asked, voice weary and tired.

"I saw --" I began, but stopped, unsure and I felt his mother's eyes on my face. "How much do you remember?"

"Uh," His voice cracked. "Oh, so I really am alive?"

His mother lets out a loud sob at this, and my heart lurched. It was in the way he said this, the surprise in his voice, the confusion. There was not a single trace of relief in his voice and I am, suddenly, horribly, guilty.

"What do you mean?" I asked, softly. "Of course you are."

He closed his eyes. "Too bad."

"Why?" His mother moaned. "Why is it bad? Why would you do that."

He was silent, eyes closed like he was trying to sink into the bed and disappear and maybe he really was trying to because his face scrunched up in concentration and denial and despair.

"Why?" His mother screamed.

"Why not?" He yelped, eyebrows furrows, face scrunched up in pain.

He placed his hands on his ears and I only watched -- I was only ever watching -- as tears leaked out his eyes and down his face and into the curve of his ears and neck. He cried and his mother wept and I watched, heart breaking.

"Ian, please." His mother cried. "Why would you do this to me? Why would you do this --"

"I don't know how to fight." He suddenly cried. "I don't know how to fight, I don't know how to fight. I don't--"

"--Ian --"

"-know how to fight. I don't know how to--"

"--Please just--"

"--fight--"

"--please stop."

But he continued, eyes screwed shut, hands grasping his head, mouth open.

"I don't know how to fight. I don't know how to fight."

 - - -

It reminded me of a cramped shoulder shoved against a wall, and legs buckling underneath me, making me fall to the floor, the sound of books and binders thumping onto the floor, echoing in my ears. Next, hoarse laughter and jeers, and the muffled sound of someone spitting, and then darkness- -- darkness and pain as a hand came down to push my face into the floor.

Confusion. Fear. Pain.

The ache of helplessness. Arms coming up to push the hand off, but to no avail, as they are easily shoved aside. The hand trailing down to my neck and pushes, holding me in place as a body pinned me to the floor and a gasp escaped my throat, tears springing into my eyes from shame and embarrassment and hopelessness.

And suddenly -- I stopped, going limp, lying there while the cruel laughter spilled over me, taunting, biting, kicking at my sides and face and I closed my eyes -- screwed them shut -- and hold back the urge to just scream myself hoarse.

I didn't move when the hand scrapes it's nails into my skin, I didn't dare to twitch at the mouth at my ear, darkly whispering obscenities and spiteful remarks. I didn't blink as it withdraws, and along with it, all the voices, as they fade into the darkness and I could finally make out my steadying heartbeat, my sore muscles, my cold body.

I felt pathetic. So weak. Helpless.

Unable to fight back.

- - -

Salma offered to go along with me the next day, and I briefly wondered if that was a good idea, knowing how flustered Ian could get around my sister. Instead, I just nodded and she quickly changed into something warm as I waited by the door, while my mother started the car, suggesting that she could drop us off to the hospital, as she wanted to stop by our father's room anyway.

Oh right, I thought after a moment of confusion, it was the same hospital as my father's.

The ride was silent and awkward and glancing over to Salma who was staring out the window, I remembered her reaction the day before. She'd never seemed to care about those whom she didn't invest time in, but I knew my sister had emotions and could feel guilt and remorse and I wondered if she was perhaps trying to redeem herself by visiting Ian, for being unnecessarily rude to him in the past.

Ian had been moved to an actual hospital room and I was thankful as we stepped onto an elevator. The emergency floor reminded me too much of the day of my father's accident and the flashing lights and his bloody, hurriedly bandaged head and the rushing nurses and the loud commotion. Hospital rooms were safer and quiet in the sense that they were devoid of noisy beeping and sobbing, but it was a bleak trade as their was almost no distraction to fill the painful silence and just you and your thoughts.

That was how I felt, bombarded by loud, intense thoughts when I stepped into Ian's room, knocking lightly and entering a brightly lit room with large windows and one small Ian looking tiny and lost in his giant hospital bed. There was a needles attached to his arm. His eyes were fluttering open and closed slowly, staring at the ceiling, expression so vacant of his usual cheerfulness -- so empty -- that I felt like sinking into the ground.

"Hey." I greeted, mustering up the courage to speak.

His head tilted towards me and his expression didn't change. He blinked, not answering.

"Uh, so..." I continued, moving aside to let Salma in. "Salma is here with me."

Something -- like the slow realisation you feel when you wake up -- flashed in his eyes. Salma doesn't notice this and smiled, waving her hand.

"Hey, Ian." She chirped, and I was slightly surprised by her tone. "I brought you something."

She pulled out a card from her purse and a small, wrapped gift. Flushed under his intense and unblinking gaze, she puts it on the side table and sat down, while Ian's eyes followed her movements. His eyes grow slightly wider when she leaned down and put her hand on his wrist.

"I hope you feel better soon."

Ian blinked, and slowly nodded his head.

Half an hour of awkward silences and even more awkward attempts to fill those silences later, Salma stood up and declared that she was hungry. She offered to buy something for Ian who softly shook his head. He hadn't said a word since we'd arrived, hadn't given Salma's get-well -soon gift a second glance, hadn't even lifted his eyes to meet mine. Salma left, looking slightly disappointed.

The room promptly fell into complete silence only disturbed by the occasional shuffles and quiet conversation of passing nurses and visitors from the hallway. Ian resumed staring at the ceiling, and I fiddled around on my phone, deciding to wait for Salma to get back so she could make unsuccessful attempts at conversation. I didn't expect Ian to be looking at me when I glanced up from my phone.

"You were right." He croaked, after out eyes meet.

My heart stopped beating as I wracked my mind. I couldn't, for the life of me, understand what Ian meant.

"What?" I said, confused.

"When you said I was weak." He sniffed. "You were right."

I felt like scum. Worse than scum. It rushed back to me, the words I'd shoved into Ian's face back when we'd argued, the impulsive, cruel, untrue statements I'd made about him. I wanted to kneel down and beg for forgiveness as I realised that if this was what Ian had been thinking about this whole time, than it was as if I'd pushed him into the river myself.

"N-No." I said, voice cracking, wavering, desperate. "I didn't mean it like...I was just..."

It was too late, a voice in my head screamed. I'd said it, the words were already out, the damage already inflicted, no take backs, no refunds, no re-dos. It didn't matter if I had been angry, it didn't matter if I hadn't meant it like that, it didn't matter if I had been offended and nursing my fragile, bruised ego because it was already said and done.

I'd hurt him and I had no excuses.

I hung my head.

"I am so sorry." I said and even to me, I realised that those three words would never make it up to him.

He was silent for a moment, and I was desperate for any type of reply.

"It's okay." He finally said, bitterness in his voice which made me cringe. "You were right, after all."

"No. No." I said, frustrated, not wanting that. That self-pity. That bitterness. "I was so wrong. So wrong. You're not weak, Ian. You're so strong. You're alive. You're alive and that means you are strong, okay?"

"What if I don't want to be alive."

"No, don't say that."

"What's the point of being alive if I can't even fight."

There it was again, that word. Fight. Last night, he had been uncontrollably wild, screaming and sobbing and kicking. "Fight. Fight." The word still rung in my ears, in Ian's high pitched screams. A nurse had to restrain him and give him a shot to calm him down. It had been the most frustrating break down I'd ever witnessed, standing right there and not being able to do anything but watch.

"Fight who?"

He stopped, and fixed me with a look and like a strike of lightning -- like a jolt of an electricity that made my hair stand up on end and goosebumps pop up along my arm -- it hit me. My hands came up to cover my face as I let out a low, pained groan. No.

No.

"Are they still bothering you?" I whispered, desperately hoping that I was wrong.

Please no.

"Yes."

Oh my God.

"Why didn't you tell --" I started but of course, of course, he couldn't.

How could he, when I didn't so much as try to apologise, try to make up for my words, try to talk to him again. I'd selfishly carried on ignoring him, going about my own business, out of anger and bruised pride. Where had that gotten me? There he was, miraculously alive after jumping off a damn bridge, his eyes staring up at me in accusation.

"I'm just--" I didn't even know how to begin to apologise. I didn't even think I could convey how deeply regretful I felt in that moment. "I'm so sorry."

I sat there, head down, bombarded with guilt. Ian doesn't reply to me, and I'd wondered if he hadn't heard. I didn't blame him for not wanting to hear my words. When had I switched from the one watching to the one pushing. I felt pathetic, for being the reason why Ian had tried to end his life.

"Oh my God," I whispered to myself, as this thought really, finally, occurred to me. "You don't need to fight, Ian. You need support and help and people who care but you don't need to physically fight."

I looked up to see him side-eyeing me. "I thought if I could fight them back they would leave me alone."

"But, you--"

"Like you."

"What?"

"Like you." He said again, voice rising. "Because you said I was weak. So I thought if I could fight -- like you -- then they would leave me alone."

"I didn't mean-"

"But, look." He gulped, harshly, tears shining in his eyes as he raised his arm, and his sleeves fell back to reveal blue, purple, red bruises marking his ivory skin. "It didn't work."

And I felt cruel laughter bubbling in my stomach, shame upon shame at myself, because when had anything I've done -- outside of academics -- ever actually worked. I knew, better than anyone, that violence didn't solve a single damn thing, and still ended up trying to solve problems with my fists, as if defending Ian with the same methods that'd hurt him made any sense. 

When had it come to this, I thought, brokenly. First my father's sharp hands and forceful commands, and then classmates jeering and kicking and shoving, and now watching my friend suffer from my words, my actions, my fault. And who could deny that it wasn't my fault, for causing Ian to fight back and be unsuccessful and turn to other, more permanent measures.

Tears spilled from Ian's eyes which accused me, blazing with fury.

"Do you still think I'm weak after I tried to fight back?"

__________________________________________________________

This was hard to write.

Please just never, ever, try to kill yourself. Please, take it from me: it DOES get better. It does, it really does. If your gone, I promise you there's no chance for it to get better but if you stay then there is always, ALWAYS a chance.

Please, if you feel this way: talk to someone, get help, pray. make dua. It works, it helps. Stay strong. 

Maybe, nothing we can do can ever change anything. But Allah can, so keep having faith in Him.