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 feltsohelpless. 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’llbe 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.
