LAYLA

"I said I'm bloody fine, mum!" Layla yelled, regretting the words the very second they fell off her lips in haste. Hurt flashed across her mother's weathered face like lightning, disappearing as quickly as it had come, making Layla feel worse. Very rarely did she refer to her mama as mum but the frustration had been slowly driving her insane.

"Okay, habibti," her mama murmured, kissing her on the forehead slowly as she pushed a stray curl back. "Yallah, I'll go then. I'll leave you to it then but give either of us a shout if you need anything, understood?"

Layla only nodded as her wild curls bounced, not trusting another word to come out of her mouth until mama had left the room. She groaned out loud, both due to the physical pain she had been supressing as well as her annoyance towards herself. She hadn't meant to upset mama at all but she was fed up of being mollycoddled, feeling smothered beneath constant surveillance. She was sixteen years old for God's sake, not a six year old!

She gently lowered herself into her faded chair with a grimace, pressing down on the keyboard gently and sighing loudly. She squinted as the computer screen flickered back on, loading the essay she was in the middle of typing. Layla's fingers were shaking slightly due to the fatigue that constantly threatened to overwhelm her, hovering over her every movement like a dark cloud. With a deep breath, she began to type, hazel eyes skimming between the open book and her computer screen.

It was always difficult her for to concentrate – yet another fabulous side effect of the chemo – but she persevered anyway. Layla would be damned if she let anything ruin her chances of doing brilliantly in her GCSE's. neither of her parents had attended school when they had been young, being forced to work excessive hours in low paying jobs after fleeing their homeland Palestine many years ago. Both baba and her mama had done all they could to ensure their two children would succeed, survival being their main goal. Now in their late forties, they had finally been doing well financially and things had picked up. The Hatoum's had a nice house with a beautiful garden, both Mohammad and Layla were in a brilliant private school and the family didn't have to worry about bills anymore.

And then her cancer had come back.

Before she could dwell on the dire consequences her illness had on her family, her bedroom door swung open and her brother sauntered in with a frown and his curls standing on end. Mohammad was usually so laid back all the time, the ultimate joker of the family, so to see his eyes narrowed was an unusual sight.

"I made her cry, didn't I?" Layla mumbled, tugging on her wild locks in frustration as the guilt pooled up inside her. All she seemed to be doing recently was making everyone around her cry, tears a regular occurrence ever since that dreaded day she was re-diagnosed. Layla had beaten acute lymphoblastic leukaemia as a toddler on three different occasions but the years that had passed had ensured it had grown more aggressive each time. And now, at the age of sixteen, they were told not to have too much hope; there wasn't much time left.

"Yeah," Mohammad answered, blocking the light as he leaned against the small doorway. "I know you get annoyed at everyone bein' on your case all the time but you gotta think about what you say, Lulu."

Layla sighed, too upset with herself to bother rolling her eyes at her childhood nickname. With a finger trailing over a loose thread from her pyjama bottoms, she swore to herself she would apologise to her mother and keep her irritation at bay. After all, how was mama feeling? Nobody wanted to entertain the possibility that they could lose their child – it just wasn't right and yet, here they were.

Her brother pushed the door fully open without any warning and stumbled in, jumping down on her bed with a dramatized war-cry.

"Do you mind?" she grumbled, as her collection of matching decorative pillows bounced off the small bed. As exasperated as she wanted to be with his stupidity, Layla couldn't find it within herself to mean it. Mohammad was the only one who hadn't begun to treat her any differently, as though she was a porcelain doll about to splinter into a million pieces.

"Your ceiling is well ugly," he noted with a grin as he lay amongst fluffy lilac, making space for his lanky frame in her small bed full of pillows. In their old house, her multitude of fancy pillows that nobody was allowed to sleep on didn't look unusual but in their new tiny run-down flat, on her single bed, they looked positively ridiculous. But Layla had refused to throw them away, willing to clutch onto everything they had once owned.

It made her feel less guilty for being the reason they had lost everything.

"Just as ugly as your face," she quipped, spinning around in the office chair to face him with a raised eyebrow as one hand stayed on the hot water bottle resting against her abdomen. Although she managed to insult him with a perfectly serious expression, it was clear that she didn't mean a word she said – after all, they looked very similar. Both with naturally tanned skin, hazel eyes, the ever-famous Arab nose and a head of wild black curls, it was clear the two were siblings.

Mohammad rolled his eyes at his sister, although he was still smiling widely. "Shut up, you himar. I'm beautiful, mate. Girls love me."

She only giggled, thankful that her brother continued to treat her normally despite her body growing weaker day by day. Layla would miss these stupid conversations littered with insults more than anything else in life, she determined. "Do you even know any girls, you loser?"

He sat up with a look of mock horror, leaning forward and gently messing up her hair. Her loose curls had been cut into a short bob cut, in preparation for the damage the chemotherapy would do. "Oi, I know loads of girls, thank you very much," he smirked, wriggling his dark eyebrows up and down. "In fact, one is coming over right now so behave yourself and shut it."

Layla closed her Of Mice And Men book gingerly and pushed her brother over, settling down beside him on the edge of her small bed with a wince of pain. "It baffles me that any girl would wanna spend time with you to be honest," she replied, voice dropping the teasing lilt as she continued. "Who though, is it Hannah? You hang out with her the most at school. Aren't you embarrassed of this all? It makes me feel sick every day."

Ever since their parents had sold everything they owned, including their beautiful house, to move into the little run-down flat following Layla's diagnosis, she had been growing more and more regretful. At first, they thought the private treatments and various antibody trials may work – willing to gamble their material possessions in exchange for their daughter's life – but everything had slowly come to a standstill. In fact, they were lucky that their private school had waved the fees after the situation was explained, their grades high enough to rank them as scholarship students. Whilst Mohammad acted as though the lack of shiny new things hadn't changed a thing, Layla was well aware of how much her family had sacrificed for her.

It hadn't been worth it, she concluded, she hadn't been worth it.

Mohammad's eyes widened, clearly surprised at the way her voice had shrunk and her lashes watered. "Hey," he said, throwing an arm carefully around his sister and pulling her close, her warmth against his own. "Don't say that, I'm not ashamed of this place no matter how much of a shithole it is. No fancy house or new cars or money is ever gonna be more important that my baby sister, alright Lulu? And besides, what sort of friends would they be if they stuck their noses up at what we have or don't have?"

Layla's nose scrunched up at the way he called her his baby sister – after all, she was only three years younger than his nineteen years of age – but her cheeks warmed all the same. As annoying and as immature as he acted, her brother was full of wisdom and she truly did love him.

"Oh and it's Becky that's coming 'round."

She had to think back to recall the girl he was talking about. Layla had spent so much time on the paediatric ward in their local hospital since her leukaemia recurrence, that she had barely paid any attention to the coming and going of her brother's friends. "The black girl who always has the really nice makeup?" she asked as he nodded, finally putting a face to the name. "I like her, she's probably the only one in your class who doesn't treat any of the younger years like we're a nuisance."

"That's because you are a nuisance," was Mohammad's smart reply. In response, Layla pushed her brother off her bed, falling with a thump and a shriek of pain onto the wooden floor.

The two siblings held their breath, hoping they hadn't woken their father up. Baba had just done four twelve-hour night shifts in a row and neither of them wanted to be on the receiving end of his anger if they prevented him from getting some shut-eye. Thankfully, the sound hadn't travelled throughout the tiny flat and there was some semblance of silence around.

"So, how come Becky's comin' round then, eh?" Layla asked her brother from the floor as they simultaneously breathed a sigh of relief. "It's almost summer, surely that essay of yours is over?"

Mohammad gingerly picked himself up with a chuckle, wiping his face on one of the lilac cushions as Layla glared at him. "Yeah, that's been done and dusted for a while. She's just been havin' trouble at home or something and wanted to get away. I figured we would force the rest of the squad to stop revising like the bunch of nerds they are and go out somewhere but fat chance of that when we're this close to exams. Guess it's just us two then, unless you wanna forget your textbook for a second and chill with us too?"

Layla snorted rather unattractively at the thought of abandoning her revision for even a moment when living long enough to pass these exams was the only thing on her mind. "No thanks," she mumbled, mentally making a list of all the topics she still needed to cover before her English Literature GCSE exam next Thursday.

Mohammad shrugged, standing up just as their doorbell chimed in an obnoxiously high-pitched tune, their mother's voice rising from beneath the floorboards as she welcomed the guest in. "Suit yourself, nerd. That'll be Becky, come and say hi later on at least, alright."

Layla nodded, absorbing herself into the world of Lennie and George, writing down the most common themes in John Steinback's novel over and over again. When the pain in her joints got too overwhelming, she begrudgingly swallowed down some pain relief, washing it down with some zamzam water. Her baba's friend had recently gone to Makkah for Hajj, the Islamic pilgrimage, and brought some back solely for her. She knew it in hopes that the holy water of their faith would bring a miracle with it, just as it had for the woman who discovered it.

Prophet Ibrahim's wife had been searching for something to feed her starving baby in the midst of the desert thousands of years ago, remaining strong in her faith in God despite her desperation, when the infamous water sprang from the ground. It was a miracle that very day as well as all the days after it, the water still pouring from desert sand many centuries later.

It was said to be a cure for all ailments, a true relief.

Layla wasn't as optimistic as her family remained but she diligently swallowed it down every day, making a customary prayer as she did so. At first she had asked for her survival, for the one in a million recovery but over time, as the pain and fatigue grew, her pleading whispers changed.

Now she asked God for her parents and brother to be at peace without her, to not allow grief to overtake them when she did eventually die. She asked for her family to be happy – it was the only thing she truly wished for these days.

The sun streaming in through the open window slowly began to filter into a hue of vibrant orange, pink streaks coating the sky outside. A knock resounded on her door, her mother's head peering into the small room. "Dinner is ready, habibti," her mama said, almost whispering as to avoid another argument. Layla only sighed, her fingers automatically pressing the save button as she slowly stood up, head bowed in respect.

"I'm sorry, mama." Layla wrapped her arms around her mother tight, soaking in the faint smell of coffee and zaa'tar embedded in the fabric surrounding her. It was a smell that never seemed to disappear, no matter how many washes the clothes had been through; it was the smell of coming home. "I didn't mean to shout at you, ighfirli."

Nada Hatoum only smiled, holding her youngest child close as the two of them made their way across the cramped hallway towards the living room. "We'll be okay," she murmured, confidence radiating from her as she made a promise the two knew she couldn't possibly keep. "We'll all be okay, insha'Allah."