KENAN GRABS MY HAND, BUT BEFORE WE’RE ABLE to take a step, the hospital doors burst open and five soldiers walk in. Their green military uniforms reek of murder, their rifles hanging across chests that are bare of the Free Syrian Army’s flag. One takes out a handgun and shoots a patient execution style. A little girl with an eyepatch and two mismatched hair ties.
I stop dead in my tracks and grab Kenan’s arm. We stare as the little girl slumps over, a pool of blood swallowing her small body, staining her short black hair.
A woman screams, and the sound of it tears into my gut. She falls to her knees beside the girl and hugs her close, all the while begging her to be
alive.
“Te’eburenee!” she wails.
Another shot and the girl’s body slumps back with a low thud to the floor as her mother joins her.
“Anyone else want to say something?” the soldier shouts.
The terrified wailing is instantly muted, and muffled whimpers fill the space. I can barely focus over the thundering of my heart and force myself to think. Where’s the rest of his group? The military would never send only five soldiers into FSA territory. Are they right behind them?
The soldiers fan out, strutting between patients, whacking the occasional one across the face or digging the butts of their rifles into their injuries.
“Does that hurt?” they mock. I pray the FSA gets here before the rest of the military joins them.
Kenan’s arm tenses under my hand and I know he’s thinking of Lama and Yusuf. They’re just down the hall and will have definitely woken up with the other children.
He slowly pulls me closer. “Take off your lab coat,” he whispers so
quietly I barely catch the words.
Terror freezes my blood. Being a girl and a pharmacist makes me a special kind of target. I’ll be accused of helping and healing rebels. I’ll be tortured with the very tools I use to save people. I’ll be raped.
Kenan shifts deliberately until I’m behind him, his back covering me. I grasp at my sleeves and pull them down ever so slightly.
But as I do so, my eyes catch on a little girl of about seven cowering against the wall as one of the soldiers advances on her. Her arm is in a sling, a set of old bandages wrapped around her head, and her eyes are bulging with fear. In her face I see Ahmad. I see Samar. I see how this will happen to Lama and Yusuf. I see a girl whose last minuscule shred of innocence is
about to be torn to pieces.
And without thinking, I move.
I grab a discarded basin and fling it at the soldier’s back. It promptly hits him and clatters to the floor. Silence settles over the atrium, broken only by the soldier’s grunt of pain. My arm shakes as the soldier turns slowly.
Better me than the little girl.
His gaze rolls over me and the trembling spreads all over my body.
“Did you just throw that?” he barks.
At his tone, Kenan immediately clamps his hand in mine and pulls me back, but the soldier is faster. He grabs my other arm, yanking me out of Kenan’s grasp, and I turn to glimpse the shock and terror in Kenan’s eyes as I’m suddenly slammed against the wall.
The soldier’s forearm presses against my throat, holding me tightly in place, a squeeze away from being strangled.
“You think you’re real brave, huh?” he says, spitting the words.
From the corners of my eyes I see Kenan restrained by two soldiers. His face contorts with fury, curses spilling from his mouth. One of them slams the butt of his gun against Kenan’s face, and blood spurts from his cheek. I try to get to him, but the soldier shoves me back against the wall. Hard enough that I can’t breathe for a bit.
“You work here? You’re healing these rebels? All these traitors?” he sneers.
“Get off me,” I snarl, not knowing where the courage is coming from.
But I don’t fear death. Khawf has shown me the worst outcomes. And what stands before me is no man, only an animal in human skin.
The soldier laughs and lets go of me. Before I fully comprehend what’s happening, a sharp pain shoots through the side of my head and I’m slammed against the wall again. I groan, eyes closed, trying to get my bearings through the hammering in my brain. It takes me a few seconds to realize he’s hit me with the metallic part of his rifle. I wipe my arm over my lips and find them coated with blood. It hurts to breathe, the air coming in and out in wheezes. It hurts even more to look at Kenan and see pure fear in his eyes.
“You don’t tell me what to do,” I hear the soldier snap.
“I’ll kill you!” Kenan bellows, blood dripping to the floor.
The soldier turns toward him, raises his gun right at Kenan’s temple, and
I scream.
“No!”
He stops, the gun still pressed against Kenan’s forehead. Kenan’s face betrays no fear. Not for himself. Only for me. The soldier glances at me.
“No?”
I stare at him with hate-filled eyes that are dripping with tears.
“Then how about this?” His gaze gleams. “I let your boyfriend live so he
can watch this, huh?”
Anger chokes my throat.
“We don’t have time for this,” his friend says in a low voice, yanking Kenan back as he struggles. Kenan swears and the soldier hits him in the face. “The rebels could be near. The military won’t make it here. We need to buy time until they—”
“We have time,” the soldier interrupts, and he grabs at me. My mind snaps as soon as he touches me, and I twist against him, kicking.
The patients behind us watch the macabre spectacle unfold with terrified eyes, not one of them daring to move. To say anything. And I don’t blame them.
He shoves the barrel of the rifle under my chin. It smells of blood and smoke. I cough.
“Go to hell,” I snarl, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me tremble.
He smiles, inching the rifle’s mouth deeper, until it nearly punctures my skin.
Before I can blink, the rifle clatters to the floor, and he seizes my arms in
a death grip. He’s bigger and well fed, while I’m surviving on fumes. He pushes me against an empty bed and I scream, clawing at his face. He grasps both of my wrists in one hand, immobilizing me, half leaning on top of my body, facing me. He reeks of stale cigarettes and sweat.
“Let her go!” Kenan yells despite the gun being pointed at his head. A second soldier comes up behind him and slams his rifle against Kenan’s back.
I spit in the soldier’s face. My saliva is reddish as it trails down his cheek, and it only makes him laugh, wiping it away while his other hand tightens around my wrists.
“Hit him again,” he says, and Kenan lurches forward with the force of another blow, a gasp wrenched from his aching lungs.
“Don’t give up, Salama.” Khawf’s voice cuts into my mind. I can’t see him, but his tone is sharp, prompting a shot of adrenaline to clear away the hazy panic. “Don’t.”
“It’s been a while since someone put up a fight. I like it,” the soldier sneers. He runs his free hand along my body. Revulsion sours my blood and I jerk my knee up between us, but he anticipates it, pressing his own down on my thigh until stars burst in my eyes from the pain. My thigh blisters with agony and I’m sure the skin is bruised.
I hear the clink of metal along a belt, a zipper pulling down, and reality begins to set in. I twist in place, screaming until my throat is raw. He ignores me, his eyes full of malicious glee and his mouth hitched, and he sticks his hand under my sweater, touching my bare skin. I swallow a scream and, reacting on instinct, slam my head against his. There’s no room for shock to paralyze my limbs when anger is burning through me. Fueling me. Safety is two days away. I’ve lost Mama, Baba, Hamza, Layla, and Baby Salama. I’ve learned to see the colors and I’ve found my own version of happiness. I’m owed myself.
I’ll either die or get to Germany, but I will not be touched by this animal.
He stumbles back, howling with pain and clutching his forehead while I collapse on the bed, my head swimming. Is it enough? Hazy thoughts trickle like honey, thick and disoriented. My blood thunders against my skull, pounding against the bones. Every ounce of energy forsakes me. I can’t think or move, and I’m too scared Kenan will be shot if I try anything.
Kenan’s shouts and the soldiers’ yells dim and my vision blurs.
But once it steadies, I see the soldier is seething, all hints of his humor gone. An angry welt swells on his forehead. I almost laugh. He takes out a blade from his holster and jerks me by the shoulders before pressing its sharp edge under the pulse on my neck.
“You should be put down like a bitch,” he snarls and drags it along my throat.
Time slows. It comes apart at the seams one red thread at a time. And with each strand, I remember Karam el-Zeitoun. How just days ago, children were butchered in this exact way. How they must have begged and screamed for their lives. Mere children.
I think of Baba and Hamza and how they’d rather die a thousand deaths than see me tortured like this.
I think of Mama and her soft hands brushing my hair back, calling me her eyes and heart.
I think of Layla and her larger-than-life laugh, her ocean eyes.
And I think, This is it. This is how I die.
I’ll finally smell the daisies.
But his hands loosen and I fall once more against the bed. Everything goes black.
I wake up with a jolt, something heavy on my throat, and I frantically scrape at it.
“Whoa!” a voice says, alarmed, and someone grabs my arms. “Careful, Salama!”
I squint, my surroundings sharpening in front of me. Kenan’s worried face comes into view.
“You’re all right, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “You’re all right.”
I gasp in a breath; there’s a rough fabric around my throat. It’s gauze.
My stomach lurches when I remember how easily the soldier’s blade sliced against my skin. Cutting me open. I shake my head, willing the image to disappear.
My hands fly to my bare head, shock coursing through me.
“My hijab,” I gasp, shaking.
Kenan hesitates before gently taking my hands in his. “Dr. Ziad bandaged your cut. It needed small stitches. You’re in his office and it’s just us, don’t worry. No one’s coming in.” He exhales loudly. “Alhamdulillah you’re fine.”
My breaths steady. I turn my head slowly as I examine the room, which is empty save for Kenan and me. Dr. Ziad’s desk, still cluttered with yellow papers and a few syringes, is pushed against the wall, and the bed I’m lying on is in the middle of the floor. The door is closed and so are the blinds. It’s nighttime.
Kenan sits back on the plastic chair beside me, relief and exhaustion in his features. His left eye socket is a deep scarlet. He has a cut on his lower lip that’s been stitched and a mottle of budding bruises is scattered carelessly across his face. His eyes are glassy with the residue of the adrenaline, and he’s wearing a forest-green sweater free of any blood.
“What happened?” I whisper, scared to speak any louder. I can’t stop staring at his face. They hurt him. “Are—you’re hurt.”
He shifts in his seat. “Dr. Ziad checked me. I have a minor concussion, but that’s all.”
His voice is casual; he’s trying to lighten what he’s saying.
“Minor?” I repeat loudly. “They hit your back. Your chest. Are you okay?”
He doesn’t reply, instead taking in a deep breath. I notice that his hands are shaking. “Are you thirsty?” he asks.
I cough, suddenly aware of how parched I am. I nod.
He stands and gingerly fetches a water bottle from Dr. Ziad’s desk, then helps me drink.
“You’ve been asleep nearly the whole day.” He holds the bottle. “After that soldier—There was blood everywhere. I thought… I thought you died.
But Dr. Ziad burst in at that moment with about ten Free Syrian Army soldiers. He had slipped through the back door and contacted them. Three surrendered, but the one who hurt you and another didn’t. But they were outnumbered.” A cold, satisfied tone takes over his voice. “They’re dead.”
He reaches over and squeezes my fingers. “Dr. Ziad rushed to you and was able to stop the bleeding. You woke up then, do you remember?” I don’t answer, so he continues. “Dr. Ziad gave you something to sleep. Your
cut isn’t deep. It didn’t sever an artery, alhamdulillah, but you needed blood. One of the Free Syrian soldiers was able to give you his.”
I shudder. I was a whisper away from being six feet underground. “Why were they here?”
“They were able to find a way through a weakened spot at the borders with the Free Syrian Army. Go on an easy murder spree at the hospital before the rest of the military joined them.”
“So the fight is getting closer?” I ask.
He nods sadly. “The FSA have high hopes. Their faith is strong and they
have their weapons, but… I worry.”
“Me too.” Then I gasp. “Lama? Yusuf?”
He puts a hand on my shoulder, calming me. “They’re okay. The soldiers didn’t make it to their room. They’re sleeping now and—” He stops, his voice breaking, tears trickling down his cheeks.
“What?” I say, panicked, my mind jumping to the worst of conclusions.
He sits on the edge of my bed and hooks his arms under my back before pulling me to his chest.
“I almost lost you.” The words come out choked, dry sobs shaking his shoulders. “God, I felt so helpless. When he cut you, I… I can’t bury you, Salama. I can’t.”
He tightens his hold, and I sink into him, eyes brimming with tears. “We made it.”
He presses a kiss to my cheeks, my forehead, and a soft one to my lips.
“Bury me before I bury you,” he whispers in prayer. “Please.”
I clasp his face between my hands, brushing away the teardrops. “I—”
“I love you,” he says before I can. I smile. It only takes a few words from him to untangle the vines gripping my heart. Kenan is magical that way. I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. I need to believe that. I need to look at the colors instead of closing my eyes to beauty and hope.
Even when it’s hard to do so.
“Tell me something good,” I whisper and scoot over to make room for him. He slowly lies down on his side and I face him, our legs tangled.
He threads his fingers through mine and kisses my knuckles. “I’ve wanted to draw you even before I met you.”
“What do you mean?”
“My uncle lives in Berlin. I remember seeing pictures of it on Google a
few years ago. The architecture is breathtaking. They have this monument called the Brandenburg Gate. I always fantasized about taking my wife there. Have her sit right in the middle while I drew her. As if the whole place was built just for her.”
In this eye of the storm, his words come alive in my mind. I see us strolling around Berlin, hand in hand, while he balances his art supplies on his shoulder. I’d pick carnations from the local florist and fashion them into a crown. On certain days, when the sun shines through the clouds, rays scattering over the fields, it would remind us of Homs. Of home.
“I’d like that,” I murmur.
Kenan lets go of my hand to twirl a lock of my hair around his finger. “I feel like I’ve known you all my life, Salama.”
I smile. “Everyone knows everyone in Homs. Odds are we must have met before.”
“As children? I spent most of my time in the playground, playing football and making a mess in the sandpit.”
“Oh, then we didn’t meet. See, I was either on our balcony gardening or playing Barbies with Layla.”
He smiles. “It might sound cheesy, but I’m sure our souls met way before they found their way into our bodies. I think that’s where we know each other from.”
Heat rushes to my face. What he’s saying is part of our faith. Souls existing beyond mortal bodies. Yet hearing him say that makes my ears and face burn.
He chuckles. “Tell me something good, then.”
I pick at the cuff of his sleeve, appreciating how he distracts me from feeling flustered. “Studio Ghibli inspired me to write,” I begin, and he looks at me with awe. “After watching Spirited Away when I was ten, my mind became hyperactive. One day I thought, why not write my stories down?”
“Did you?”
I shake my head. “Never a full story, no. School happened. But I never forgot them. Especially when I fell in love with botany.”
He nestles closer. “Would you tell me one of them? It’s all right if you don’t want to.”
My blood must have recovered somewhat because it rushes to my face.
My heart pulls. “It’s silly.”
He looks offended. “Silly? How dare you call my wife’s stories silly?”
I bite back a laugh. I know this moment of happiness will trickle by like sand in an hourglass, but I want to make each second count. I want to keep
the pain at bay for a bit more.
“Fine.”
