In the middle of the night, I visit my brother in the hospital.

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 brother'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. 

And him.

There he is. Eyes closed.

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

"I wish you would wake up." 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 remember his eyes when he was conscious: sharp and piercing, always looking into my soul and analyzing my every move.

He would take me on car rides sometimes, for ice cream. I remembered the cool wind, the dark pavement splashed with orange and yellow as the sun set. Rolling down the window and sticking my head out and my brother yelling at me to behave. We would have fun on those nights, just the two of us. 

"We had some good times" I murmur.

But then when I entered high school he became so strict and relentless.

I think back to the way my hands would tremble when he was near me. So many days, spent anticipating his arrival, spent dreading his presence. So many days where anxiety would rise up like a giant wave inside me and rise up and up and up. And when it crashed, I felt as if I was drowning. It was hard to breathe when he was around me. Everything about him became suffocating, everything about him made me feel like a trapped bird, flapping its tired wings against the rusty bars of a small cage.

Just coming home from school was a burden and meeting his questions. Which grade did I score, which class was I in, which scholarship should I apply to? Which exam did I take, which class did I fail, which teacher would reference me? Which university would I go to, which field should I pursue, which industry had the most scope?

My future was at stake. Was I ready?

"You know..." I whisper. "You made me hate myself." 

And I realize right then in that moment, that it was true. His scalding voice, 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 the best, I had to come out on top. I had to be perfect.

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

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

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 older brother. And strict. And unforgiving. I would sometimes rationalize that since we didn't have a father, that he was in fact, my father. But he was so unloving. Father figures were supposed to build you up.

"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 brother throwing my homework in my face in disgust. I still remember the look in his eyes, how disappointed he had been in me. I never knew how a simple look could make you feel so broken inside.

"This will get you nowhere. Do better. Be better."

"Why was I never good enough?" I whisper. "Was I nothing to you?"

There is no answer. Just silence. Just darkness and nothingness. He is silent, these days but oblivious, as always. Unresponsive, as always. This was how it had always been. Once his words had been spit out they would make their way into my head where they would spin endlessly. Some nights I would not sleep, I would simply remember his words, as if they themselves have become this beast inside of me always tormenting me by their presence.

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.

I feel chained, as if his words are shackles in my very mind. I feel stuck, I feel still. His tone, his words repeat over and over, until they are all I ever think about. Constant reminders in my brain, day in and day out. Every comment that destroyed me. Every remark that threw me off. Every statement that sentenced me. Until I feel as if I will burst under their weight. I feel a pressure forming in my gut, as if I may explode from within. 

His words are like whispers.

"If you can't succeed, then you deserve to suffer."

Well, I am, now. I thought. Maybe this is what he wanted.

"Does it even matter?" I yell, hurling my hands up as if I will punch him.

But who is there to fight? It doesn't matter.

How would it? It didn't matter because it never affected him. It only affected me. And there I was, all these months  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. Maybe I secretly came here, to show him my anguish. Maybe, I want my pain to wake him up from his stupor. Is it powerful enough, this pain? Is it valid enough, this suffering? Will he feel it wherever he is now, in whichever realm he is drifting aimlessly in, will he feel my broken heart: this throbbing, twisting, aching, bleeding heart of mine?

How could something like emotion feel so heavy and damning? How could unworthiness make me feel so shattered from the inside. If you were to see me, I would be breathing and smiling and walking. But inside I felt as if my blood vessels were erupting and that my heart was cracking into pieces and that my mind was spinning apart. How were feelings, which you could neither see nor hold nor measure, able to undo you?

Why couldn't he feel it, what he has done to me?

But he can't and so it does not matter.

"Who do I matter to, then?" I mumble.

And suddenly, in that noiseless, blackness, nothingness: I felt something I had never felt before. And it stops: time. I feel it stop just as my breath hitches in my throat. The rush in my head, quiets and simmers. The ringing in my ear dies down. And that's when I think about it: the silence. This whole Earth, just covered with it. This whole universe, just drowning in it. Drowning just like me. 

And there, must be, there certainly must be, someone in the silence.

Something....a thought hit me, then. 

Allah knew my pain. 

If there was anyone in this heartless world that may care about me it was Him.

I feel heard. I feel...seen.

I feel as one might feel when an understanding hand was placed on one's shoulder. I could feel something lift from me. I feel listened to, I feel 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.

Maybe it is the relief that I feel after confessing my deepest secrets in that small, dark room. Or maybe it is something else, entirely. But I suddenly feel free, as if no one can touch me now. I feel as if I have been unburdened. The heaviness in my stomach is gone. I cannot taste the bitterness in the back of my throat. My shoulders drop, my knees give out.

I just knew that He was watching me and that He understood.

Something overtook over me then and I clutch at my heart and let out a sob. As if a huge dam had burst within me and all the water was gushing out the way blood ran endlessly through veins and arteries. My heart felt as if it would break open. My shoulders heave as I sob into the room.

I cry and cry and cry.

I don't know how long I kneel there, with my hand over my heart, tears and mucus running down my face, my sobs echoing throughout the room. Everything is blurry and unclear. But one thing is certain: I feel as if I have been purified.

When I get back up, the first rays of sunlight are just peeking out the window. It is then something catches my eye. I walk over to the other side of the hospital bed where there is a chair. A diary is placed neatly on it. I pick it up and flip it open to a page. There is a sentence scribbled on it, that makes me shiver.

"To forgive is to set a prisoner free, and discover that that prisoner is you."

Maybe he would never wake up and feel any type of regret or give me any kind of apology. But I find, that that didn't even matter anymore. I would be fine without one. The fact the Allah knew everything that had happened and that He understood my pain was enough for me. The fact that he saw what I did, felt what I did, was enough.

Maybe no one would be on my side. Not my brother, not the world. But Allah is. 

Allah always will be.

I look at my brother's face and smile.

I feel free.

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