United States Minor Outlying Islands

Hi so I like to write (obviously) none of my friends really know I have this account nor that I'm into fanfiction so yeah...

Message to Readers

Basically your critiques as to what you feel is necessary as opposed to what is not, and what you believe will move the plot along more. :)

The War- Torn Ballerina

November 8, 2019

       I could feel it. I could feel the bullet. It may not have penetrated into my skull. Still, somehow, I felt it. I still felt her pain. I knew her, in a way we all did; Aaira Bahri. She wasn’t the first women to be publicly executed by Ariz, but by far the youngest. So much so that many others would call her a girl. Older than me but younger than my sister. I knew it would happen. I never understood how it hadn’t happened sooner. That’s what happens to anyone who defies them, alshayatin, my father and I called them.

      He spits on her corpse. He starts to give his usual speech as to how people who defy him are defying God. I could taste the bitterness and revulsion of his words and feel their blades. They seemed to cut deep into my flesh hitting my bone, creating a wound, of which I would never recover.

    “Let this wahasha stand as a lesson!”  He yells, like a ripper high on the kill.

      I stifled a laugh or two out of spite. Knowing that Aaira wouldn’t serve as a lesson but as a martyr. For, she stood for much more than Ariz could ever fathom. Abbad, my sister, gave me a swift kick in the shin and a look that told me not to try it.

    Finally, the crowd started to disperse. We walked with our heads down, my chador making me feel safer as I blended in with the other women and girls around me. The previous images kept replaying in my mind while at the same time I daydreamed about my Jafiaa. I always felt safer when I thought of her, my ballerina doll. My sister had given Jafiaa to me on my last birthday. She told me that she had outgrown such toys since she had a fiancé. I was nine. A year had gone by, yet I feel older than I had then.

    My father opened the wooden door into our home. The paint was chipping off the wall and the roof wouldn’t mind some love and care. My father sat down on his embroidered pillow that Abbad and I had made him when we were younger and began to read. I went into the closet and opened up our safe box. We put all our valuables into it; pictures, dried wedding flowers, and things with sentimental value. We put them there in case of a bombing; they’d be safe inside. I gleefully pulled out my Jafiaa holding her close to my heart. I fluffed out her tutu and took out some needle and thread from the closet to sew up a patch on her chest.

    The door opened.

    “Aren’t you too old to be playing with silly toys?” Khayin asked; My sister’s fiancé.

    I hate him.

    Yes, I know I shouldn’t say that; So, I’ll rephrase. If Khayin was in front of a bus and I had the option to save him or let the bus hit him. I’d let it hit him... hard. He’s arrogant and self-entitled. Papa hates him too.

    My sister came out from the kitchen, wiping flour on her faded white smock. “Khayin? What are you doing here habibi?”

     “I’m here to talk to Adel.”  

    My father looked up from his book. “Abbad, take Lillith to your room please.” He said. He seemed worried, afraid almost.

     “Yes Papa, of course.” My sister said taking me back into our room. I sat down trying to be as patient as possible. It’s never really been my strong suit. I wondered if Jafiaa had a sister and if so, if that sister had a fiancé.

    “What do you think they’re talking about?” I asked, while playing with Jafiaa's hair.

    “Hush tifl! I’m trying to listen!” My sister said pressing her ear to the wooden door trying to make out their muffled sounds. Patience must’ve not been hers ‘either.

    The sun went down, and nightfall came, and I went to bed. My sister planted a kiss on the top of my head and I tucked myself in. I began to drift to sleep holding tightly to my ballerina doll, knowing that she would protect me from all the demons in the night.


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