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 istwodays 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’mowedmyself.
I’ll either die or get to Germany, but I willnotbe 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 abitch,” 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.
