Wednesday, March 2, 2016

September 9, 2015

I always imagined the light I saw before dying would be that sent from God - bright white with an angel glancing at me, tranquility- not that dropped by an aircraft.
It scares me how many times I've escaped death. I feel every breath of air I breathe is stolen. I feel like a fugitive running from death.
Have you ever touched a dead person? They feel so cold, icy. Gelid. Every missile that hits makes my blood turn cold, my jaw dangles wide open and I can't speak. I try to remind myself that once again I have fled death. Once again I have beat the odds.
Some days I am strong and invincible. Other days like today I am shattered, broken and frail.
I am trying to sleep but the thought of waking up dead is frightening me, but nobody is ever ready to die. I remember being 9 years old dreaming of my teens and how "cool" I'd be and how rebellious and flawless my life would be. Now at Sixteen all I can think of is whether tomorrow I'll be cocooned in a white cloth being placed in a hole of dirt and whether my Mother will be grieving or if she'd be right next to me getting her share of dirt.
Some days are hard and just unbearable. I feel futile and vain. I've always been that person, you know the one that cries easily just one wrong word or one wrong move engenders a fit of tears. Lately, the tears have surged, they've turned into waterfalls, vast and endless. I try to talk my self into not breaking down but I can never find the right words. Every time I gaze at the mirror I vow to myself to not get frightened. I remind myself that the moment I came to life the hour of my death was previously written. It's useless, day after day. Talk after talk. Useless, pointless and worthless.
Just a year ago all I could think of was what university I want to go to and how to score higher grades. And of course the image that has always been in the back of my mind; sitting on a porch on a sunny day with my children playing around the backyard giggling and my two youngest fighting over the swings. Now, I feel illegible to dream or hope or aspire.
Today as I was sitting on my bed cushioned in the safety of my pillows reading my book when the missile hit. I jumped off the bed and out of the room. I waited then returned. This happened 5 times in the course of 8 minutes and each time I returned to the bed I would say: Fatima! You won't move this time, but I fail myself I continuously fail myself.
Lately, all I think of is if I do make it out this alive will I ever feel safe in silence or will silence always mean a stronger hit?

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