I compel myself to think, even if every stream of thought seems to pool only into misery.

I’ve had too much time on my hands since we arrived in Rexdale — settled down in a barren basement where I thought our dreams would take form. With this time, I have taken it upon myself to look into Western philosophies and literature. I stumbled upon one declaration that stuck with me. It suggested that my capacity for thought can be used to prove my very existence. Something about the sentiment comforted me so, yes, I compel myself to think because, sometimes, I forget. Those are the most troubling times.

I think a lot about my husband, Abdul. We’ll be celebrating our eleventh anniversary tonight, so I think about the day we met underneath the Karachi sun. He approached me, clad in his well-pressed clothes and polished loafers. Each follicle of his lined beard followed the shape of his sharp jaw, and his silky head of hair was swept back like a cresting wave catching the light. He was a big man, with a chest that imbued the buttons on his shirt with a purpose. I liked that, which made me feel shallow. However, I knew there was more to him. His words were selective. His demeanour was welcoming. His smile was kind and bright and that was a bright day. It was a vibrant time. I try to crystalise it and preserve it in memory but it’s fragile.

It cracks easily.

This basement is cold. The wallpaper is peeling, and the thick air makes each breath an act of labour. The overhead light is abrasive even with the colony of dead flies in the shade dimming the bulb. I find respite in a sansevieria plant growing out of a glass vase. It sits in the corner and I water it every day. In return, it purifies the space, which is worth the frivolous purchase and the earful Abdul gave me for it.

I give it water and take a handful of steps to the kitchen. Abdul will be home in an hour, and I must have dinner ready. For tonight — a very special night — I have been eager to surprise Abdul with kata-kat, an old favourite of ours. My mother always said a woman had a duty to the man in her life. It’s times like these in which I can fulfill it.

I grab an onion from the pantry and my favourite kitchen knife from the cabinet and slice it julienne while the pan heats on the stove. I slide the strips of onion into the oiled pan and sauté them. There’s goat offal thawing on the counter, and I feel very lucky for that.

The wait for the food bank today was long. I wore three layers but the wind still knifed my face with vigour. I stood outside for thirty minutes at the end of a line that wrapped around the block, clutching tightly to my grocery bags. An older woman ahead of me suggested I purchase a foldable shopping cart, not unlike hers. I’ll have to consult Abdul.

By the time I was inside the building, I felt no sensation when I touched my face. I couldn’t tell if it was my fingers or my cheeks that were frozen. Most likely, it was both. I was still not free of the irritating chill, which wafted its way into the building through the open door. I hurried through registration and then each table. I was nearly out when a girl at the meat counter asked me if I’d like some offal because she was trying to clear out the freezer. I took it slowly, cautious for no reason in particular. I ran through a list of Gods to thank for my fortune but wish I had thanked that girl, too. I just couldn’t form the words.

I enjoy the fruits of her kindness as the offal simmers on the pan, adding a heap of dahi and sprinkling various masalas over it. In between, I pass the time by working my way through a book of poems. The writer is Natalie Diaz, and her English confuses me and she seems to assign her own meanings to certain words, but I am fascinated by the search for that meaning.

“What we hold grows weight,

becomes enough or burden.”

This, I believe I understand.

As the kata-kat nears completion, I begin to warm the naan on an adjacent burner, flipping it with my bare fingers like my mother did. I used to tug at the waist of her dress when I was a girl, begging her to let me flip it. Doing it now reminds me that I am a girl no longer.

Everything’s ready.

I prepare two plates of the dish and set them on the small dining table we’ve placed in the gap between the kitchen and the living area. I set the pan of extra food atop a placemat and light candles. They add atmosphere and give me a reason to switch off the murderous overhead light.

Then, as he always does, Abdul walks through the door at eight o’clock sharp, the heavy steps of his boots signalling his arrival.

He wears his gray security outfit, and the brim of his cap casts a shadow over his eyes. His face turns toward me, then the food. He barely lifts his feet as he walks into the bedroom, like a ghost gliding longingly through its haunt. I wait at the table patiently until he comes out in his nightgown. His eyes are red and encircled by dark rings. His hair is knotted and dry and has given in to gravity without any products to give it stature. I’ve noticed he’s become leaner, and I worry that I’m not doing enough to take care of him.

“Happy anniversary,” I say as he sits down.

He replies with a sharp inhale and a soft smile before tearing a piece of naan and beginning to eat. I follow his lead and quickly outpace him. I’m always hungry lately, it seems.

On his second bite, Abdul’s nose crinkles as he reaches into his mouth and retrieves an inedible clove. With it comes a mush of half-chewed goat parts and a wet mound of naan, which he plops back onto his plate. He sits quietly before saying, “Not very hungry today.”

He pushes his chair out and retreats into the bedroom.

I sit in the candlelight and finish my plate, using his leftover naan when I’m through with mine. After sitting still and digesting, I take Abdul’s plate and scoop the mushy blob off of the food and into the compost. I pick out the tiny bits of refuse in the crevices of the offal and scoop the good food into a plastic container, along with whatever was left in the pan, and put that container in the fridge. At the sight of leftovers that are better to save for tomorrow, my stomach grumbles.

I get to thinking again.

I think about how I hate this constant slushing and grumbling in my stomach.

I think about how I hate not having my body to myself.

I think about how I hate this cursed thing growing inside me.

I think about this long and I think about it hard. But, no matter how long and how hard I think, I never feel any more real.

#

Today, I walk to the community centre in search of something to do.

Anything, really.

I feel out of my depth browsing the notice board. I’m too old and likely too destitute for most of the classes, and I know too little to teach. So, I wander aimlessly through the centre, which is quiet save for the faint chattering that wraps around its corners. The lights shine bright white, and the dull gray of the walls is sporadically interrupted by colourful murals depicting the surrounding neighbourhood. An unpleasant sensation travels up my spine to remind me that Abdul would be enraged if he caught me taking classes or — forbid — working a job while carrying his child. The guilt makes me drag my feet.

I peer into the gymnasium and the swimming pool and the dance studio. Parents wait idly on their phones for their children’s vitality to expire, for the hour to run its course. I wonder about these parents. If they have any regrets. If they have any aspirations that have been put on hold. Surely, they’re on hold. They’re spending an hour on a Thursday evening to rot here.

I travel between floors until I stumble upon a flyer posted on the window of a meeting room. It’s printed on purple paper and reminds me of a sign that was posted on the window of a department store in Karachi, advertising a job opening. I was a child then, no older than eight years. Still, I wanted to work. The strategies other children employed to pass time only bored me. So, I went into the store and told the owner I was applying. No, no résumé to speak of. No, I’ve never worked before (I’m eight years old). Fine, after ten minutes of whining, I’ll leave you be.

But I came back the next day. And the day after that. And, for a week on end, I would stand outside that door, and I’d frighten customers away by shrieking at them like a rabid animal. If someone dared to walk in with a résumé, I’d snatch it from their hands and retreat into a maze of alleys and markets. Eventually, the owner caved to my juvenile demands. He gave me my first job: cleaning up and running errands for some rupees every week. He was incensed, but all he ever said to me was, “You sure know how to get what you want.”

A voice in the present asks, “Are you here for a meeting?”

I’m startled by the sudden appearance of a young woman. Her hair hangs down in dreadlocks that transition from brown to blonde at the ends, and her wide smile glimmers.

I see now that the flyer is for a domestic abuse survivors’ group.

“No, of course not!” I say, quickly.

The girl seems confused and I feel immediately regretful of my tone. “I mean no, sorry.”

Her smile returns and she says, “Please, don’t worry about it. I didn’t mean to catch you off guard. My name is Idil. I run the group. I saw you looking at the flyer and thought we might be able to help.”

“No,” I say. “I’m all right, thanks. It just reminded me of something. I’ve spent the day looking for something to fill my time with. I’ve had too much of that lately — time.”

Idil laughs. “Oh, believe me, this place could always use some help. We could fill that time and then some. As a matter of fact…” She waves at a cast on her forearm. “I could use some help setting up the room for our meeting. I broke the damn thing playing pickup in the gym.”

“I-I don’t think I should,” I say. The sentence trails off strangely, because I’m looking for a reason not to do it and can’t find it.

“Come on,” Idil says. “Give it a shot, just for today. Help me set up the table and lay out some food and then you can listen to the girls talk. It’s a nice way to spend an hour, really. And, if it suits you, you can come back next week, too.”

Her words are comforting. Maybe it’s the way she speaks them. They make me think this is okay.

So, I say, “Okay.” There’s a short pause before I remember to mention, “My name is Amal.”

#

I eagerly await every Thursday.

I make my way to the community centre in haste, sometimes arriving as early as thirty minutes before the meeting. I arrange the chairs and set up the folding table and the plastic appliances that we use to serve the food that the ladies bring each week. When I dispense chai into the plastic cups and set them on the table, the scent transports me, reforms me into a child sprinting through a dhaba and trying to make the most of my allowance.

The room itself is sterile, in compliance with the aesthetic of the building as a whole. However, it brightens when the ladies come in and take their seats and begin chatting with one another about nothing and everything.

Over the course of weeks, I have come to know these women and their stories like I know few people. They have shared with me their courage and their fear. Idil walks them through their stories steadily and patiently, accompanying them into the cruel depths of their pasts without ever letting go of their hand.

We walk with Denise. Her boyfriend grew anxious of the time she spent without him. He would follow her when he said he’d be at work or with friends. One night, after her shift, he saw her with a co-worker who escorted her to her car. He appeared from the dark like a vengeful apparition and beat the man into the ground. When Denise tried to stop him, he laid those same hands on her. She left him that night.

We walk with Kushi. She was leaving a party — a classy affair, with champagne glasses and designer suits and dresses. She was with her two children when the whining of the youngest pushed her drunken husband over the edge. He raised his hand to the child but Kushi took the blow for him, something she was not unaccustomed to doing. Even then, she didn’t back down, scolding her husband for his behaviour. He snatched her car keys from her hands and threw them across the length of the parking lot. He had brought his own car and left in it as well. Kushi knelt down on the jagged concrete in her $300 dress. She and the children searched for the pieces of her keys in the nearby shrubs, slowly putting it all back together again. She began divorce proceedings the next day.

We walk with Sarah. Her partner suffered a crippling cocaine habit, leaving her alone in taking care of the apartment and paying the rent for it. Fed up with him, she combed through the closet and grabbed his “stash”, flushing it down the toilet. When he couldn’t find it, he flew into a frenzy. Sarah walked into the room to find their clothes strewn around the room, and her boyfriend screaming into their pillows. He saw her and pinned her against the wall, demanding an explanation. When she explained, he beat her. She doesn’t know for how long. It felt like an eternity. All she knows is that every affront to her body made her increasingly sure that she couldn’t stay.

I hear these stories and I feel inspired but lesser. Like a writer must feel reading the work of their role models. Idil’s without her cast this week, and I worry that she’ll tell me she no longer needs my help but, as of yet, she’s said nothing. So, I sit and listen again.

Someone finishes telling us about her new partner and how she struggles to trust him, and Idil encourages her to be careful, but not self-destructive. Idil thanks her for sharing and asks if anyone else would like to speak. “We have time for one more person to share.”

A young girl, who first appeared in last week’s meeting, begins weeping. She sniffles with a clogged nose.

Idil looks to her from a couple chairs away and says, “Destiny, do you have something you want to get off your chest?”

The girl wipes her nose with her sleeve but the tears continue to trickle down her face. “I-I’m so embarrassed. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Idil says. “This is a safe space. You’re free to feel whatever you feel.” She shoots me a quick glance, one that I don’t understand the connotation of.

“Not this,” Destiny says. “I shouldn’t be feeling this. He hurt me, y’know? He treated me like shit, and he put his fucking hands on me. And every day that I was with him, I wanted to hurt him back. I-I wanted to kill him. I’m lucky I even managed to leave him.”

“That’s natural.”

“But, now that I’ve left, I miss him. What is that, huh? Who feels like that? I feel like I don’t even know what I want, but I can’t want to be with him, right? I can’t. I feel like such a terrible person. I feel like I did the wrong thing.”

She breaks into a sob and the girls next to her comfort her with gentle shushes and pats on the back as she hunches over and cries into her hands.

The room is quiet save for her weeping until I say, “Don’t look back. Ever.”

Her crying slows and she looks up at me. Everyone turns to me, expecting me to say more but I don’t know why I spoke at all. I remain quiet.

“She’s right,” Idil says. “It’s an incredibly brave thing to leave a situation like that. I’m sure you’re feeling confused, but everyone here thinks you did the right thing. You’re a brave girl, Destiny, and that means great things for your future. There’s nothing left for you in the past.”

Destiny’s crying subdues, leaving her with reddened eyes and a glistening nose. She looks to Idil and says, “Thank you,” then looks to me and mouths the same words. I look at her, not knowing how to respond.

The hour ends there. The ladies say their goodbyes and most of them get up to say a word of thanks to Idil as they usually do. I make my way to the folding table and begin cleaning, disposing of empty plates and cups. Idil assists me and asks, “Amal, how’ve these last few weeks been for you?”

“I’ve been happy to help. It’s good to do something worthwhile with my time.” She gently moves me aside to fold the table that I’m struggling with and shoves it into the storage closet.

“I could’ve done that, Idil. You only just got the cast off your arm.”

“And you’re pregnant.”

I look down at my stomach. I suppose it’s difficult to keep it a secret now — a hill rising from the plains of my body.

“Look, Amal, I don’t want to pressure you into anything but, if you have something you want to say to the group, I really do encourage you to say it, okay?”

“I’m sorry?”

“For its sake,” she says.

“Excuse me?” I say. “If something was wrong, I would do something. Not come here and speak to strangers and pretend it away.”

The corners of Idil’s mouth are dragged down into a painful frown.

“Oh my,” I say. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it, really.”

“It’s all right. It’s unfair of me to ask. But I will say that the choice between doing something or simply talking about it isn’t a choice at all. You’ve gotta do both. When I was younger — not by a lot, but younger — I ran away from home. From my parents, more specifically, and their bottomless hatred for each other. Fell in with a bad guy and we travelled the countryside in a beater shooting dope and shoplifting from gas stations. But it wasn’t the adventure I set out for. I was more of a stress ball than a partner and, pretty soon, we weren’t any different than the people I’d run away from. Only real difference was that we took the show on the road like a fucking carnival. One morning, I snuck away. Hitchhiked toward no destination in particular. But that wasn’t the day I saved myself. I spent a year totally lost, not knowing what to do or how to get out of my own head. How to take control of my life again, y’know? It wasn’t until I found a group like this one that I could work my way through those things. It isn’t until I sit in that chair every week that I save myself. When I tell my story, I…I guess I become myself. That’s why we speak.”

I look at her pitifully, but her expression is sure and asks for no pity. She’s a young girl still, despite what she may think. But I cannot deny that she speaks as though she’s already lived a woman’s life. “Thank you. For sharing everything.”

“That wasn’t everything,” she says. “I don’t know the whole of it myself, honestly. None of us do. That’s why we’re still talking. Figuring things out.”

We finish sweeping and part ways. I set out for the walk home but find myself drawn to a bench at a transit stop. I sit there for some time, no longer mindful of the cold. Buses come. Some drop passengers off and some stop with the sole intention of picking me up.

I don’t step through the open doors, but I like seeing them so close.

#

I’m rushing home.

It’s too late to make dinner. Far too late. Abdul’s home already. He always is at this time. There’s nothing else to do, except come home at the end of the day.

I hurry into the basement from the side door of the house, only to find him sitting at the dining table, eating from his McDonald’s Happy Meal.

“I’m sorry, Abdul. I lost the time.”

“Why were you late?” He bites into a burger and maintains eye contact with it.

“I was just w-walking.”

“Where’d you go?”

“Around the neighbourhood? Where else?”

“Yeah? You can take the same walk again? Show me the route?”

“Abdul…”

He stands up now. “I come home to no food! Ten hours I’m at work, and I come home and I have to buy junk to keep myself fed. What the hell?!”

“I’ve made you food every day, Abdul. This won’t happen again, I promise.”

“Oh, yeah?” You make food every day? I go to work every day! I bring home money every day! I don’t complain, though, right?”

“You don’t let me do anything, Abdul! Don’t hold that against me!”

In one movement, he pushes the dining table aside and steps toward me. His eyes are bulging and his breaths are heavy. His chest heaves with each one. I’m paralysed looking at him. My body stiffens, unable to conjure a response to the fear. It’s weakness. Helplessness.

Abdul’s breaths calm and he retreats into the bedroom without saying a word. I sit for a moment. I’m shaking. I don’t want to be shaking. I don’t need to be shaking. Everything will be all right tomorrow. I will make everything all right.

I get up and clean the mess he made of the table before trying the door to the bedroom. It doesn’t give way. It’s locked.

“Abdul—“

“SHUDDUP!”

My hand jerks away from the doorknob as if it were scorching. With nothing left to do, I water the plant and take a seat on the couch.

Two hungers tremor inside me.

#

My body is fragile. It is a composite of brittle bones and tearable flesh. For this reason, I must keep my mind strong. I must keep it clean. But it swirls with thoughts and feelings that muddy it and render it useless. Guilt and resentment and imbalance are storming inside my splintering skull. I do not want to exist.

“Amal, are you okay?”

I’ve been staring at Idil blankly. Now, the entire room has turned to me.

I feel a compulsion. I shift in my seat, unable to find a comfortable posture. “I actually have something I’d like to say, if that’s okay.”

Idil looks almost guilty, but she has nothing to do with my decision. “Amal, are you sure?”

“Of course. If it’s okay.”

“Please,” she says after a moment.

I take a deep breath and observe the room. Destiny smiles kindly at me.

I begin.

“When I was younger, I met the man I would go on to marry. He walked into my father’s electronics store, inquiring about an external hard drive for his laptop. I was there dropping off lunch for my father. He saw me from over the counter. He was well dressed and handsome, the type that’s hard to resist. But I was strong. I did resist. I wasn’t interested in marriage or the kind of thing that other girls strove for. At least, the kind of thing they were made to think they strove for. I would come to find out that this man’s father owned a software engineering firm. He had influence, even over my strong-willed father, who he worked with to arrange our marriage. I had little say in it, but it wasn’t my place to complain. It changed things for my family to be tied to someone like him. We never had much, so our wedding and life thereafter were relatively grand, unlike anything I’d ever dreamed of prior. Yet, I came to realise that I am perfectly content with my own dreams. The reality was that he wanted children, I didn’t. He wanted me to stay at home, I didn’t. He wanted me to mingle with his friend’s wives, who better fit the mould he was trying to fit me into. I didn’t. How could I go along with such tedium? The longer I spent trying to be my own person, the more resentful he became. He would try to intimidate me. Put me back in my place. I refused. I refused over and over again and I didn’t ask for permission. And he would hurt me, in many different ways. It got worse when we moved here. See, wealth there is not the same as wealth here and, regardless, he would refuse whatever help our families could offer. He was a man with something to prove but without the capacity to prove it. It was when I saw this that I regained my control. I became myself. And I left. Yes, I left.”

Now my stomach storms just as my head does.

Destiny leans forward. “When did you know you had to leave?”

Idil catches her. “Destiny…”

“It’s okay,” I say, but I have trouble filling the gaps in my fiction. Funny, all those stories I silently criticised for lacking a satisfying conclusion. Perhaps, it’s harder than I imagined.

The door to the meeting room swings open and smashes against the concrete wall.

Abdul steps through.

But how? How could he have known? He should be at work. Or did he follow me? Did he know the whole time?

He stands at the door with a calm demeanour. Nearly imperceptible twitches betray his anger. “Amal. We’re leaving. Now.”

As he approaches our circle, Idil stands and says, “You can’t be here, sir! Turn around or I’ll call the cops.”

He doesn’t listen to her. I spin out of my chair and meet him in his stride, throwing my hands toward him to get him to stop. “Abdul, please—“

He grabs me too tightly by the wrist and begins to drag me away. Destiny jumps out of her chair and smacks him on the middle of his back, which is as high as she can reach. He releases me but turns and raises a hand at her. I can’t let him hurt her.

I summon whatever strength I have to push him away.

“Abdul, please! I’ll come home. Just… please.”

He looks at me. I’ve learned to be cautious of his silence. He stomps out of the room and, when he’s gone, I look back at the group. Their faces are struck with fear. Their heavy eyes gaze past me and beyond this moment. I’ve sent them back to a time they’ve tried so hard to leave behind. I’ve hurt them all over again.

Idil looks at me as if to say that everything is okay, but I know it’s not. I won’t come here again. Not with this in tow.

I chase after Abdul. Destiny calls my name but I don’t look back.

I don’t look back.

I find Abdul outside and trail him home. Initially, I try to convince him to stop and speak to me. I promise that I can explain everything and make things right and that he’ll understand. He marches on silently, leaving me dejected. I’m leashed to him, following him with my back hunched over, my head hanging down toward the snowed-over pavement.

When we arrive home, we take off our jackets and our shoes and he walks to the middle of the room and says, “You embarrassed me.”

“I’m the one that should be embarrassed, Abdul. You grabbed me in front of all those people!”

“You were talking that garbage, throwing mud on my name, after all I do for you?” Then, he actually counts with his thick, calloused fingers. “I do my job, every day, for you. I bring you into my family, and share with you our wealth. I give you a child! My child!”

“Fuck you, Abdul!” He steps back, looking at me with confusion. “You gave me this child? Then, fuck you! It’s a curse — a damned curse! I hate it. It’s eating me from the inside, sucking on my life. And the worst part is that it is yours! You’re trash, Abdul! Your bloodline deserves to go no further, and yet I’m stuck helping you carry it on. I hope this child dies inside me, even if I have to go with it, you bastard!”

“Goddamn bitch!” He raises his hand and slaps me viciously across the face. I bite my tongue and taste the blood gushing from the cut. Abdul looks down at me with a quivering lip. I spit blood at his chest.

So, he hits me again. He slaps me wildly across the face. He clamps his gorilla hands around my arms, leaving bruises and the red imprints of his fingertips. He grabs my hair and pulls it out from the root when I turn away. We both scream in anguish and I think of  home. I try to find a better time but cannot escape the overlap between the memories and the present. He finishes by grabbing me with both hands and throwing me against the couch, where my stomach hits the armrest and leaves me winded before I roll onto the floor. I don’t have it in me to get up.

The outside world knocks at the door.

Abdul looks down at me, warning me to mind myself. He answers the door and sees two police officers. “Hi, sir. We’ve received a call about a disturbance here.”

Was it Idil who called? Maybe the tenants upstairs? I don’t know. I don’t know what good it’ll do.

“Everything is okay,” Abdul says. “Thank you, officers.” He tries to close the door but one of the officers holds it open and cranes his neck inside. He sees me, sitting on the sofa, and I turn to him with the side of my face that isn’t battered.

He’s suspicious but says nothing.

“Try to keep it down, all right, folks?”

They leave and Abdul paces around the room, his hands on his head. I watch him from the sofa, unsure of what comes next. He makes his way to my Sansevieria plant, lifts it above his head, and screams as he slams it to the ground. The vase shatters and soil spills across the floor.

A jagged shard of glass cuts his palm, and he shrieks and he starts to cry but I don’t think it’s the pain begetting the tears. He drags himself across the room and into the bedroom and crawls under the covers, leaving a bloody trail behind him. The covers shake to the rhythm of his weeping.

I hoist myself up from the sofa using both arms and sweep the remains of my plant into a dustpan. I shift the table and the sofa to make it seem as if our scuffle never occurred. My entire body aches, and blood drips from my injuries onto the floor where I’ve just wiped smears away. There’s a large gash across my brow.

When I finish cleaning, I enter the bedroom with our first aid kit. Abdul is still crying, but he’s out of the covers now. I join him in bed, taking his hand and treating his cut with disinfectant and a bandage. When that’s done, he slowly rests his head in my lap. His ear is pressed against our child. I wonder what he hears.

I stroke his hair gently and know now that my duty betrays me.

#

The Humber River has frozen over.

I came here to think. Think to the tune of rushing water. I am met with nothing. I know that, eventually, the ice will crack and melt. The river will return to what it once was. I envy that.

I’m seated atop my packed luggage at the base of a grassy knoll, looking out at the river. The sun is just now beginning to peer over the horizon, banishing the darkness. An avalanche has slid into my shoes, my feet planted deep in the ever-rising snow. It must be hours that I’ve sat here with nowhere else to go. Looking for somewhere without all the hurting.

I can’t recount the thoughts of mine that have occupied these hours. They pass like things carried on by a stream.

I long to feel something.

I get up and stomp the ground beneath me. My foot drives through the snow until it disappears, and when I bring it back up, the snow comes with it before falling again. I ache and tire quickly and place myself back on my luggage. Its ridges cut into my skin.

New thoughts don’t come to me amid the loneliness. There’s nothing to think about but memories and I search hard for the good ones. All I can come up with is a sound. The sweet, gentle sound of Idil’s voice. I wish I could hear it now. I wish I could forget how it trembled when standing against Abdul.

“What have I done?” I say to the elements. “Where do I go?”

Words begin to flow — a waterfall at the end of the stream. “I was supposed to be stronger than this. I knew what I wanted. I never wanted this. What have I—”

There’s a sensation in my stomach.

A gas bubble possibly. No, not quite.

A kick.

My child kicked. So eager to escape its confines. So oblivious of the life that awaits it outside. The world is unkind and a confine in of itself. You will not realise this until you’ve grasped at the stars in a time of need and see that they cannot do anything to help you. Is this what you want to be born into? I can’t imagine so.

I begin to weep. The tears are warm on my frozen cheeks. The guilt resurfaces. I feel it for this child. I cannot bear to bring it into this. I must do something. Something to make it all better.

“I-I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. It was a moment of weakness and in that weakness I let him hurt me for so long and so hard. I can’t imagine it. Where I went wrong. All I ever wanted was to be my own. All I want is to go back home.”

Though, I suppose “home” is where this all began.

I look around me. There’s a world out there, just over the knoll. I grab my luggage and drag it by the handle. “This must be a good life,” I say. “A real life.”

My head peeks out to see a road, near empty as they always are this early in the morning. I see them now for what they are. Connectivity. An escape. A return.

I walk along the sidewalk to the bus stop across from the community centre.

“Let’s find a home.”

The bus arrives and I hesitate for a moment before boarding. I take a large breath when the wheels begin to turn and we drive west. I don’t know where exactly we’re going.

Uneasy eyes fall upon me as I continue to speak softly to both my selves. I tell of my life. My mistakes and my joys. The moment I lost myself, and the moment I was reclaimed. I speak, and I keep speaking.

I speak before I think and I speak myself into existence.