Slow Burn

The bus screeched to a stop with a hiss that went unnoticed by the unruly children riding in their seats. Waves of laughter echoed through the vehicle along with the muted sounds of videos playing on phones.

Fatma slipped her arm through her backpack's strap while stepping into the aisle. She carefully made her way through the chaos, moving around splayed legs and bags until she reached the driver.

"Thank you," she told the driver with a smile, as she had every day. It was a substitute today, an older woman she didn't recognize but the other woman smiled and nodded back at her.

Holding onto the thin metal railing, the young girl stepped onto the street and then up to the sidewalk. The bus' door closed behind her before it pulled away onto the empty street. As she walked down the block, she adjusted her hijab around the straps of her backpack. Her scarf was black today to match her black trousers and the slate gray blouse she wore.

Habit forced the girl to glance up at the yellow house adjacent to her own. Her father, a baker with his own modest shop, often gave food to the elderly in the neighborhood and he took her with him whenever he could. Ms. Maiben was their neighbor and she was old enough to have trouble getting around by herself. The woman was her father's special project; he made extra time to care for her grounds as well as bring her food.

The old woman's curtains covered her windows, as they usually did - even during the day. She was odd. Quiet, seemingly resentful of the attention but unwilling to turn away the extra help.

As she took the first step to her front door, it opened and her father stood in the doorway.

"Fatma!" he said, bending to gently kiss her forehead. His dark beard tickled her exposed forehead.

"Papa, why are you home?" she asked in confusion. Her father worked late, despite having several employees who could run the business without him.

"Bah," he told her, taking her hand gently to lead her inside. "I haven't been home to greet you in a while and a I thought to myself, I am the shepherd to my own little flock and-"

"You forgot your laptop again, didn't you?" she chided him as she removed her shoes.

"I forgot my laptop again," he agreed. "I brought dinner for you. And Nora? Is she visiting with you today? I have extra for her if she wants it."

"She'll be here soon," Fatma said. "If you fatten me up so much, I'll never find a husband, papa."

"La samah Allah!" he told her as he followed her through the living room and into the kitchen. "How was school today?"

"It was fine," she sighed. It was not fine. She'd not done well on her calculus exam. She'd told herself she would study for it but had lost herself in the short story she was writing for English composition.

"And your - math, wasn't it?" He asked, standing respectfully at her bedroom door. "You had a test today? Or is that tomorrow?"

"Today," she answered, laying her backpack against her bed.

"Ahh, not so good?" he asked in sympathy.

"I'll find out Friday. I should've studied more."

"You're a smart girl," he told her. "Perhaps you'll be surprised."

The doorbell rang, interrupting both of them.

"That will be our Nora. I'll let her in."

Fatma watched her father go before digging through her backpack to find her composition book. She set it aside on her nightstand.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Amin," her childhood friend said.

"Nora, good to see you!" came the reply. "And it's just 'Faizan', please. You're like family."

"Forgot your laptop?"

"Yes, yes! I forgot my laptop. Go. On with you. Fatma is waiting in her room. I'll set out food for the both of you."

"I have no idea how your father runs a business," Nora said as she stepped into her friend's bedroom. She turned her head to settle a few strands of loose black hair behind her as she threw herself down onto the other girl's bed.

As always, Fatma felt envious of her friend. Nora wore blue jeans and a black t-shirt with the word "Badlands" emblazoned along the top and skeletal hand covered in roses in the middle. Her hair was uncovered and loose.

"I'm sure he's waiting for you to finish school so you can help him," Nora continued. "I'm jealous, to be honest. You can stay here, take some classes at community college and inherit his business. I'll have to go to college and find a rich boyfriend."

"Oh, stop," Fatma said, rolling her eyes at the conversation. It'd been repeated in some form or another over the past two years. "You know I'm applying for colleges out of state."

"Your father would d- waste away without you," Nora said. "He'd never stop you but he'd be so sad. What's wrong with community college, anyway? You have a good job waiting for you."

"I've lived here my whole life!"

"Okay, I don't care about your job. I just want you to stay because I want to see you and Duncan married."

"That will never happen," Fatma said, blushing as she toyed with her hijab. "Papa wouldn't-"

"I think your father would steal the moon for you," Nora interrupted. "And have you seen the way Duncan looks after you?"

"No," she lied.

"You're blind," her friend said, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "He's been after you since our Freshman year. Do you know Elina asked him out to prom. Again! And he said no. Elina, Fatma. He's going to ask you out. He's stubborn. And handsome. I should ask him out."

"You wouldn't!" Fatma said, suddenly upset.

"Why not?" the other girl said, her expression serious. "If you won't, why should I let him get away? You're so stupid sometimes, seriously. I was talking- just talking! - with Matt. Last month Duncan was applying Stanford, UCLA and, well, somewhere else in California. Until he heard you talking about east coast colleges. Guess where he's applying to now?"

Fatma sighed. The boy was handsome with his dark skin and brilliant smile. But, it was more than that. He was always kind. He wouldn't graduate at the top of his class and was mediocre, if not enthusiastic, in sports. But, he volunteered at the soup kitchen on the weekends and was a Big Brother as well. And tall. With the smoothest voice. And his dimples every time he smiled.

"Hello?" Nora asked, waving her hand in front of Fatma's face. "Anyone there?"

"I don't know where he's applying," she answered.

"Uh-huh."

"Girls?" Faizan called out from the kitchen.

"Yes, papa?" Fatma asked, grateful for the distraction. She pushed herself out of her bed to go to her father.

"I need to go back to work," he said, scratching at his beard with his lips turned up at the corner. He looked concerned. "Ms. Maiben hasn't answered her door the past few days. I'm worried about her. Would you take the time to check on her, please? If she's home, I have a dish covered in the fridge that you can take to her."

"Now?" Fatma asked, turning to look at the woman's house through their windows.

"Yes, please," her father answered. He kissed her forehead again. "I'll be back late tonight. Your food has your name on it. Just warm it up. Study well."

She watched him go while clutching her right arm with her left.

"I'm not-" Nora called from the bedroom.

"You're coming with me!" Fatma interrupted, ignoring the groaning of her friend. "Let's just do it now. I don't want to go there when it's dark."

"You owe me for this," her friend said as she stomped loudly on the hardwood flooring.

They stepped into their trainers, bending to tie their shoelaces.

"Do you have any more kanafeh?" Nora asked as she knotted the strings. "I'll take some of that as payment."

"Yes, you cow," Fatma said, poking her friend's side. The other girl batted away her hand. It was a joke as Nora was embarrassingly perfect. She was still growing into her figure but her narrow waist curved into firm hips and she'd already had to buy a new, larger bra this school year. "Let's just go."

Tapping her back pocket to make sure her old phone was there, she grabbed a set of house keys from a dish by the door, closing and locking it behind the both of them.

"She's just so old, you know?" Nora said as she followed her friend to the house next door. "My grandmother was horrible to my mom but turned into the sweetest old lady. That's just natural. Ms. Maiben - she's mean."

"No she's not. She's just not used to people being nice to her."

"Mean," the girl reaffirmed.

They both stopped in front of the woman's door. It'd been red at some point but the paint had almost all chipped away. Shaking her head, Fatma adjusted her hijab before knocking.

Although she didn't knock hard, the door opened on surprisingly quiet hinges.

The two girls shared a look but Fatma's hand reached to push the door open.

"Don't," Nora said, grabbing her friend's wrist.

"She could be hurt," she said, pushing through to step over the threshold.

The house was as dark as she remembered with a strong scent of myrrh permeating everything.

"Ms. Maiben?" Fatma called out. "D- Dorothy?"

"I've never been inside," Nora said, looking around the living room. An old paisley couch faced a fireplace and a stained mantelpiece. A single, faceted vial was centered on the shelf. Light flickered within the vial, drawing the young girl's attention. "What is that?"

"Don't touch anything!" her Fatma whispered. "Help me look for her."

Ignoring the other girl's advice, Nora gently took the glass bottle, turning it to observe the bouncing light. It glowed red before fading to dark yellow and back again.

"Ssst! Put it down!" Fatma said from the other end of the living room. "That's disrespectful! She could- Ms. Maiben!"

The old woman was stretched out in her hallway. She feebly reached for the young, hooded girl with her right hand. As she grew near, Fatma realized that the left side of her face was drooping. Spittle lined the old woman's lips but her throat moved as she tried to speak. Yet all that came through was a stuttered 'k- k- k-' sound.

"Lie still! I'll call for help." She grabbed her smartphone from her pocket, waking it with her fingerprint while pulling up the dialer. "Nora! Get in here!"

"Coming!" Nora said. She set the bottle on the mantel and walked away.

The light inside the bottle slammed against the side. The little vial lay precariously on the edge of the shelf, already rocking slightly in the still air. Again and again, the light pounded on the glass, pulsing with each strike.

Poised as it was, the bottle tipped over. It landed heavily on the floor but the smokey lead glass held as the slim stopper began to slip free.

"I'm here," Nora said, crouching to touch the old woman's left arm. "Is she alright?"

"I think she had a stroke," Fatma said before leaning into her phone. "Yes? Yes, I'm calling from 320- umm, 3203 Swallow Lane. It's my neighbor's house and I think she had a stroke. Yes, I'm with her, yes."

The old woman's glazed, distant eyes focused with a sudden intensity. She stared past the two girls as her mouth opened in a silent scream. She convulsed, eyes rolling back in her head. The frozen side of her face moved glacially to match her right side until it became of rictus of horror.

A raspy wheeze escaped the woman's lips as her hand fell to the floor beside her.

"I don't- wait," Fatma said. "How do I-? I think- I think she's not breathing! How do I tell if she's breathing?!"

Nora placed two fingers against the woman's wrist while leaning in until her cheek was an inch away from the woman's mouth.

"Fatma-" she said quietly while sitting back. "Fatma, she's dead."

"But, she was just- I was just-"

"Give me the phone, it's okay. Just give me the phone."

The girl took the phone from her friend's hand. "Yes, hello. I checked for a pulse at her wrist but there's nothing. And I can't feel her breathing. At her temple? Okay."

Fatma sat back, staring sightlessly as the emergency operator ran Nora through a few simple tests. Just blocks away, the blaring sound of an approaching medic unit cut off as they received the updated call. She eventually felt hands around her as one of the responders led her away from the body. They sat with her, checking to ensure she was alright until she heard a familiar voice.

"Fatma!" her father called out, rushing to her side.

He spoke to her gently, soothing her as he walked her out of the house and into their own. She leaned against him until he brought her to her bed. They sat together and she cried into his chest while he patted her back, his hand rubbing in little circles until she was exhausted from crying. He pulled her blanket back as she lay down and then brought it up to her shoulders before kissing her forehead.

The young girl stared at the ceiling. She saw her face in the flat, white paint. The way she looked at the end - terrified as she breathed her last gasp.

it's your fault

She shivered, blinking away tears. It felt like her fault. If she'd just been faster when calling emergency services. If she'd taken the first aid workshop her school had offered.

she died because of you

Her conscience tugged at her insecurities, taunting her as the worm of self doubt began to gnaw on her mind. The old woman's visage was lodge into her mind's eye. Never, in all of her eighteen years, had she seen anyone look like that beyond some melodramatic actress in a horror movie she'd watched through the gaps in her fingers with Nora laughing next to her.

Whether the woman felt her end drawing near and the realization frightened her or she caught sight of the gates before the abyss of Jahannam, she'd been terrified.

fire and eternal slow torture pain until they dream of it welcome it to feel alive

I seek refuge in Allah, she intoned mentally, closing her eyes while touching the tip of her pointer finger with her thumb on her right hand. She was alive and she hated the feeling of relief that it was Ms. Maiben dead but not her. The thought tortured her as an image began to form from the fragments of her dreams.

The visualization of Hell felt incredibly real to her. She could see Maalik roaring at her, the fiery winds stripping away her flesh to reveal bloody red muscle beneath. Behind him, the heads hanging from Zaqqum turned to see her. And they nodded as if recognizing her.

Her thumb pressed against her index finger as she continued her litany, tapping each finger in sequence. I seek forgiveness from Allah. I seek refuge in Allah.

As she repeated the small prayers, a headache formed behind her eyes. It began as an annoyance but grew in intensity until she stumbled with her prayers, forgetting the words. The relief was almost instant. She sighed, pressing her palms against her temples, rubbing them in slow circles.

consumed her soul sent below to what she deserves trapped but free now free

Despite the lessening, the pain consumed her and she knew she deserved it. Her guilt trapped her and she knew she wouldn't be free until she could clear the black mark on her soul.

A flickering red flame appeared above and behind her head as she nestled her face into her pillow. It cast no light and made no shadows as it descending.

blessed blessed blessed blessed blessed blessed

It lowered until it rest less than an inch over the middle of her forehead. She sighed, stilling herself while it flattened against her, spreading to cover her brow. Her headache faded and she sighed once again at the relief. As the fog cleared, she realized how blessed she was. Alive, safe, loved.

She rubbed the sore tips of the fingers on her right hand as she finally opened her eyes.

The veins stood out in the sclera of her eyes until the white held a red tint. They twitched as if tiny tentacles, pushing and pulling against her iris. The pressure compressed her pupils, crushing it until they were subtly ovoid.

weak hungry

Sweat welled from her skin. She felt feverish and weak with her head still throbbing and her joints aching. Worse, she felt empty. The girl thought back, realizing that she hadn't eaten since her light lunch. She remembered her father saving food for her but the thought of eating food made her nauseous. Tossing back her blanket, she lay in the cool air with her fist against her stomach. Her hunger confused her.

Turning her head, she opened her mouth, nearly panting as she overheated.

The rounded circumvallate papillae at the back of her tongue quivered. They lengthened into rough points that massaged the roof of her mouth when she swallowed. Dark violet coloring tipped each of the new papillae. The color streaked down like miniature lightning strikes until it coated the small, previously pink flesh.

Sleep took her. She twisted and mewled with her dreams. They were formless. Primordial things existing as flashes of color (red, so many shades of red, muscle and blood and fire and-) and emotions (anger and hate and guilt and shame and-) and desires (lust and power and pleasure and violence and-) that left her groaning and clawing at her stomach.

---

"Are you sure you're feeling okay?" Nora asked, her eyes darting over Fatma's exposed face. "Your eyes are still really red."

"I'm fine," Fatma said, rubbing at her eyes. She hadn't believed her friend until she looked at herself in the girl's bathroom. Her eyes were bloodshot and she'd received a few strange looks as well as snickering jokes about her hotboxing marijuana. But she felt fine. In fact, she felt great. Rested and alert.

lie hide hungry too hungry yet

Just hungry. She rubbed at the roof of her mouth with her tongue, relishing the odd scratching at the back of her throat. Her jaw was sore, from the roots of her teeth to the joints beneath her cheeks.

"I wish you'd stop mentioning it. I was just restless last night," she lied, rubbing the sleeves of her arms. She carried the brown bag her father had made for her for lunch while they hunted for a free seat in the crowded lunchroom.

They sat far in the back and Fatma tugged at her hijab to hide her irritated eyes. She opened her bag, taking out the food one-by-one until she found a small folded note in the bottom.

Her father's neat handwriting covered the scrap of paper: Daughter, I wish you'd stayed home but I admire your courage for going. La Hawla Wala Quwwata Illla Billah!

As she finished reading, her hand cramped, crumbling the paper in her fist as pain formed behind her eyes.

lies simpering excuses

La Hawla Wala Quwwata Illla Billah! There is no might nor power except with Allah.

She felt herself bristle at the sentence. It felt weak, as if to excuse her own strength in dealing with Ms. Maiben's death. A lie told as a crutch to deal with the emotional pain of the situation.

Nearly invisible wisps of smoke curled between her fingers as the edges of the paper within her hand turned black before flaking away under the pressure of her grip.

No, she told herself, pinching the bridge of her nose with her eyes squeezed shut. It's just this headache that keeps coming back. Papa means well.

Nora chatted while Fatma picked at her food. Her father's home cooked meal was excessive and rich but she found she had no appetite for it, despite the angry void growing within her body.

"Oh. Eh-hem," Nora said, glancing up before studiously looking back down at her food.

"Hey, Fatma," came a deep, smooth voice from behind her. "I heard what happened. Are you okay?"

She turned to find Duncan to her side. His face oozed concern as he held his lunch tray. She admired him as he stood there, from his trim body, his large hands and his wide shoulders.