"So, I wasn't going to shoot them." I told Ms. Ackerman.

The physiatrist let out a sigh. She had listened to my entire explanation with great care, never interrupting and every once in awhile, jotting down a few notes on her clipboard. I finally fell silent and she lowered her gaze to the ground and nodded once.

"You do realize that we will have to keep you here overnight." She told me.

I had assumed that that would be the case. After all, I had just relayed an entire story of how I had almost taken my own life. I nodded, and she firmly placed her hand on my shoulder, smiling kindly. 

"Abdullah," She said, her eyes wet. "You are one of the strongest kids I've ever met."

I dont reply, instead I look away. I didn't feel strong. She sits there for a few more minutes maybe waiting for me to say something. I feel empty and depleted. She finally stood up and murmured some things about a nurse and vitals and something. I drown her out and I suddenly remember my mother.

"My mom." I blurted out.

"Oh yes, we've contacted her."

My heart lurched.

- - -

My mother crushed me into a hug when she sees me, and immediately started sobbing. I stayed still as tears of guilt leaked down my face. She lets go a few times to look at my face and to tell me how stupid I am, how glad she was that I was alive, and how she would never forgive me, and that I was the only thing she had left.

I let  her, and listen and cry.

Finally when she is done, and her eyes and swollen and red, she sits at the edge of my bed and recited Allah's name over me. When she blows on my face I feel unworthy.

"They said you fell unconscious." She sniffled. "But I could only think of the worst. They said you had a gun."

"It wasn't mine." My voice sounded far away.

"Abdullah, I know things have not been going right." She stared at her hands. "But what you almost did..."

We both stayed silent for a long time.

"I just wanted this all to end."

It made me think of Salma's words, when she told me she wanted all her pain to go away, when she told me she wanted all her problems to go away. She chose to run and I chose to almost kill myself. Humans were all selfish, I guess. We all had problems, and we all suffered, but instead of staying together to make it easier for each other we just chose to abandon one another. I blinked at my mother. If there was anyone who wasn't selfish, it was her. She hadn't abandoned me.

"What makes you hold on, ma." I croaked out.

She looked up. "Allah."

"But...He..." I stopped. 

It was like infidelity to question God. It was morally wrong, and we were taught, no it was ingrained in us to accept His word, His teachings. No buts. No ifs. 

No questions.

But here I was.

"Why does He let us suffer?"

"But does He?" My mother asked me.

I stared at her. What did she think was happening? It wasn't as if we were sitting in a field of roses having a cup of chai and watching cotton candy shaped clouds drift overhead. We were in a hospital for God's sake. We weren't happy. We were crying, and broken.

"Allah tells us again and again to trust Him." She said. "But do we? When He says come to me, do we? When He says pray to me, do we? When He says submit all your problems and worries to me, do we?"

And then when we get hurt, or a problem falls upon us, we say why did He allow this to happen? It's like smoking and then wondering why we get cancer."

"But smoking is something we do to ourselves. "I argued. "I didn't put dad in a coma. I didn't make Salma run away. I didn't make Cody come after me with a gun."

"Those were our tests, habibi." My mother said softly. "All of those things happened to me too. I never put your dad in a come. I didn't make my daughter run away. I never allowed a bully to come after my son with a gun."

I listened silently.

"Do you think Allah will give us faith and let us be?" She asked. "The most beloved man to Allah, our prophet Muhammad (s.a.w) was tested beyond our imagination. He suffered estrangement, physical harm, being run out of his own city, the loss of his parents and children and wives and companions. 

Who are we compared to him? And He was the most beloved to our God. But he held on in His name. And in the end what did he get? He will be the first person to enter Jannah. He is the most beloved of all mankind, all the Muslim's in the entire world love and send blessings upon him. All he did was hold on to the rope of faith. And he persevered."

"I'm not strong, ma." I hung my head. "I can't do that."

"No one said you had to be like him." My mother told me. "Allah doesn't want your perfection. He just wants you to believe. Just believe that it will all be okay...just believe that every problem ends and after every hardship there is ease."

"I...I do."

She smiled. 

- - -

In the middle of the night, I realize that I was in the same hospital as my father.

I slip out of my bed, grabbing a pair of hospital slippers that were tucked behind a wastepaper basket. I enter the brightly lit hallways, blinking against the sheer light. I make my way up to my father's rooms, taking a deep breath before entering. There were only a few people awake at this hour, mostly night shift nurses who were busy in their own duties. I close the door behind me. The room was dark, and the same as always. There was a small desk in the corner. Two chairs right beside the bed. And him.

There he was. Eyes closed.

I slowly walk up to his still body and stare down at his face for what seemed like an eternity.

"I wanted to kill myself today." I tell him. My voice sounds faraway.

He, obviously, did not answer. I study the lines on his face, the scruff of his beard. His long, tan arms that were motionless besides him. His bushy eyebrows right above his small eyelids. I remembered his eyes: sharp and piercing.

"You made me hate myself." I whisper.

And I realize right then in that moment, that it was true. His final commandments, his overbearing attitude, his endless lectures, his punishments. All of it was engrained in my mind, his words, his hands. All of it replayed itself over and over in my head until all I knew was that I had to succeed, I had to be perfect, I had to come out on top to make him proud.

I'm glad he couldn't hear me, right now.

"You made me feel so weak, dad." I mumble, stepping closer to him until my hands were just near his. 

I brush his thumb with my index finger. His skin is rough. It reminds me of all the times he would go on about how he worked hard for his family. And he had. In essence, he had been a hard working father. And strict. And unforgiving.

"You made me feel like I was never going to be good enough. That I was a failure. That I was nothing."

His monitor beeps quietly. The tiles shone, as hospital tiles did, gleaming under the moonlight that filtered in from the windows. Without realizing it, my eyes water. I remembered coming home one day and my dad throwing my homework in my face in disgust. I still remember the look in his eyes, how disappointed he had been in me.

"This will get you nowhere. Do better."

Or the time he told me that he had given me a place in this world, and that in order to repay him, I would need to become a successful engineer or doctor or whatever he saw fit.

"Was I only born to please you?" I whisper.

Or the time he threatened to kick me out after a teacher called from school.

"Was I only good enough if I got good grades?"

Or sitting in my room rubbing ice on my arms and back. 

"Was I nothing to you?"

There is no answer. Just silence. Just darkness and nothingness. He is unmoving, as always. Oblivious, as always. Once his words had been spit out they would make their way into my head where they would spin endlessly. But him, oh, him. He probably did not even remember. He went on and lived his life and did his work and ate his meals and everything was fine.

But not for me. 

"Does it even matter to you?"

How would it? It didn't matter because it never affected him. It only affected me. And there I was, all these months and days later still stuck in the loop. Still full of questions and doubts. Still chasing for validation, for perfection. Still yearning for him to wake up, even right now, and tell me he was proud of me and that I was the son that he had always wanted.

"Who do I matter to then, if not you?"

And suddenly, in that noiseless blackness I felt something I had never felt before. 

I felt heard. I felt...seen.

I felt as one would when an understanding hand was placed on one's shoulder. I could feel something lift from me. I felt listened to, I felt like I could scream and I would be met with consideration. There was someone - something - there that cared about me and I could feel it. Right there in the room, watching, listening. 

Right there with me. 

Something took over me then and I clutch at my heart and cried. My heart felt as if it would burst. My shoulders heave as I sob into the room.

I cry and cry and cry.

I don't know how long I stand there, with my hand over my heart, tears and mucus running down my face. 

The next morning, a nurse informs me that my father had passed away during the night.

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hi hello, I hope you enjoyed this chapter :') Also please don't ever feel alone. Allah is always with you. If you have no one to talk to, talk to Him :) He listens, I promise.

My inbox is also always open if anyone needs a listening ear :)