Page 2 of Diamond
The look on their faces when they caught sight of me. Rushing me. Grabbing my top and pulling it hard against my neck, me biting them, screaming.
Of help arriving, but not before Laila's body had gone far too still.
The violence in the man's face yesterday was the same. An assurance that what he did, anything he did, would have no repercussions.
Men and their violence are the reason Laila's family won't let me see her again. Why they keep her locked up, blaming me instead of the men who did it. It's why my own family decided to do thesame, and why there is going to be an even closer watch on me after I slipped out yesterday.
I sigh and sit down, letting my palms rub over my sheets, seeking comfort, though finding none.
A lone tear threatens to fall as I stare at the framed picture of twelve-year-old me and mybaba, but I wipe it away, grab the picture, and run a finger over his smiling face.
He was always so quick to offer a smile, a witty joke, or his rich, bellowing laugh when anyone needed it. The crow's feet at the corner of his eyes and always-visible dimples were my favorite features on his face. Always pleasant, and he hoped I would be the same. It was no wonder he named me Nasrin… charming and pleasant. He expected me to live up to it, but here I am, being the exact opposite of agreeable.
But what else could I be? I can't be blamed for being as incessantly curious or willful as I am because I got all those qualities from him. He let me hide out in his study with him and use his computer, and he made sure I was educated.
If I only knew then just how cruel providing an education could be. The recipe for creating an imprisoned, angry woman.
I don't realize I'm clutching the frame too hard until the cracking of the glass brings me back to reality. "I'm sorry,baba," I mutter, kissing the frame and placing it back on the stool.
No. I can't bring myself to regret it, or truly blame him. He simply wanted the best for his daughter. It's not his fault other people don't see the world the way he made me see it. I allowmyself to stare at the photo for a little longer until I hear my brother's wife Bibi calling me to eat.
My brow furrows, since it isn't evening and the children aren't even here. Then I shiver. Anything to do with food becomes a fight, leading to a discussion of how I'll never get a husband looking like "a pregnant cow." Or how I must be stealing food from her children's plates since I never lose much weight, no matter how much she restricts my diet. As if I would ever steal from children. Not that she listens, she just keeps screaming about how disgusting I am.
Allahknows I could do without that for another week—or for the rest of my life, really.
As mymamanalways said, this is the weight my body wants to be. I never really believed her before coming here, so I guess I have Bibi to thank for something.
It wasn't always like this with Bibi and me, but now the distance between us feels like a chasm. The very ideologies I am fighting against, she endorses and agrees with. But I push that thought aside and focus on thinking of mymaman.
I willfully ignore another call from Bibi, seeking solace from heavy thoughts as mymamanwould, with movement. Bibi will scream no matter what I do now.
I'm mid-spin on a rather sloppyAttandance, mykamizflaring out, when a sharp knocking at the door of my room interrupts me. I throw a scarf over my head and scurry to the door. When I open it, Bibi's knuckle collides with my nose, and she lets out a chortle while I rub my face.
It seems unlikely it was an accident, though I suppose she does seem out of sorts.
"Forgive me, Rin. I was just excited. The children are with my mother and it's just us girls in the house," she chirps, and it takes me a moment to understand what exactly is going on.
Last time we talked, she was spitting on my face as she screamed at me for destroying her husband's reputation. Why is she suddenly being nice?
I look at her face, her freshly henna-colored hair peeking out from under her hijab and the sparkly look in her green eyes. She's excited about something, and I don't think I want to know what it is.
She's staring at me excitedly, waiting for an answer, so I wipe the surprised look off my face and replace it with a tight smile. "I'll be down in a few minutes," I say, and she nods her head, the look of pure joy still plastered on her face as I shut the door.
When I hear her footsteps retreating, I breathe out a long sigh and fall back on my bed. My ceiling fan is turning in lazy circles and I stare at it, wishing that it would break me out of the trance that is my stupid life.
The joy of dancing is rapidly retreating, the sense of freedom long ahead of it. Forever out of reach.
I know exactly what "us girls in the house" means and that there are a bucket load of chores for us—well me—to do while she leans against the kitchen door frame, throwing snacks in her mouth and spouting gossip I don't care for.
A groan leaves my lips again, and I look at the picture ofbabaand me. I can hear him telling me to seize the day in a mirth-filled voice, with a loud chuckle following.
"I'm trying,baba, I really am," I mutter in the direction of the picture before looking away.
The thought of having to live the same day over and over, stuck inside this place, sends frustration crawling through me, and I feel it about to jump out of my mouth in a scream. I swallow it down and press my warm hands to my face.
I can't let myself mess up again. My brother and his wife are barely tolerating me as it is, and none of my outbursts or angry rants will help. Especially not after I snuck out and did exactly what I was told never to do again.
I can't get married as a way to escape, though that would just be another cage. I will need to keep my head low until I can get out of here, somehow. The pounding of my heart and that persistent voice mocking me for thinking I have any choices aren't helping. I must ignore reality, or I will break.