Contrary all evidence. (1)

First of all, I am extremely sorry for the blackout, I got a little carried away with the summer vacation LOL. 

Second, as it may seem, I'm facing a huge writer's block regarding Confessions. And I lack the inspiration as well. So I thought that if I started this very VERYY short story, it may get the inspiration going. 



THIS STORY, was inspired by an event I'm sure some you may have read about in the newspaper or through twitter. If you have any details regarding it, please share them with me on twitter, ask, or Kik (Confessiveblog). Any little detail may trigger a lot more thoughts. 

I have no intentions in recreating the original events, I'm only trying to spread a message (which, hopefully, everyone will get). 

Reading about it, and knowing the people who were damaged, moved something in me, and I am sure it will move most of you in the very exact way. 

AANDD, I don't want any names mentioned. They will be deleted and the person will be blocked. So please, let's respect other people's privacy. 

Enjoyyyy xo
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7 years.
2556 days that I have kept it to myself.
All the details, the pain and the sorrow that comes along, all bottled up inside.
I refused to let myself cry. I refused to speak about. It was my weakness, and I refused to let it takeover.

I thought I was strong enough to move past it, but never. The memory will always and forever haunt me. It stitched itself to my brain, having its hold on me. And every time I grew, it grew along with me, until it became a permanent part of me, my reality, and my past.


Its something about memories and the reason we hold onto them, the reason we refuse to let ourselves forget them. I found it was because they provided us with the semi presence of a lost soul. And that was, somehow, all I needed.


The scars that rested on my arms, the constant reminder to my fears and weakness. They were nothing but a count for times I almost gave up. The burn marks and wounds spreading all over my back, were only gates for the public into my story. A story I never dared share, until today...


Until 7 years later. I sat across from him on the table assigned to us in one of the best restaurants in New York. I only met his gaze a few times, but they were enough to know what he was about to ask me. I fidgeted with the sleeves of my sweater, pulling them in order to cover my hands. I balled my fists and dug them under the red sheets of the table, so the sleeves won't crawl up my wrist and reveal what I've been trying to hide.


"Give me your hands." he said, pushing away the plate that was in front of me and stretching his arm towards me. I stared at his hands, we never held hands. I don't remember the last time I held anyone's hand. I closed my eyes and shook my head, indication a no. I pulled the sweater further up to cover my fingers, to stop myself from scratching my hands in public. I had to stop it.


He couldn't help but sigh, "I don't know what's wrong with you. You're on your honeymoon AND in New York. Do you know how many girls wish for a honeymoon like this? Why are you not happy?"  he whispered with direct annoyance towards me. He huffed and started looking around for a waiter. I kept my eyes closed, not wanting to face the truth I lived.


The waiter hovered above us, and I let Wahab make all the food decisions. I looked up at the waiter and smiled, "Its nice to see you again Mr.Wahab.", he said and then gave us his back and walked away. "I'm a well known customer." Wahab said with a slight smile. I faked a smile and nodded.


We sat in silence as I watched the candle placed between us twitch with every breath we took. It triggered so many memories, ones I hoped I would put to rest, at least for the time being. Pain started throbbing in my head, but I wouldn't take my eyes off of it. My fingers were shaking under the table and I tucked them under my thighs, hoping to stop the shaking. But it was not long until Wahab noticed me staring intensely at it. Tears streamed down my face and, for the first time, I felt weak and far away.


Wahab quickly got up from his seat and crouched down next to me. He pushed my seat back a little and forced me to face him, but I still had my hands underneath my thighs. He pushed my hair back, tucking it behind my ears and revealing the hideous burn marks I hated so badly. Tears blurred my vision, but I could clearly see his expressions. His kissed my forehead and pulled my hands, holding them tightly in his. "Its okay. You'll be okay. I promise." he whispered, and maybe, he sounded convincing and heart warming. But I was numb to it all.

The food, I cannot judge it because I didn't even touch it. It annoyed Wahab so much, but I couldn't help it. Something was making me uncomfortable, making me shift in my own seat. I kept looking behind my back, making sure my sweater covered everything.


It was nice cold night in New York, we decided to walk all the way back to our hotel. It wasn't a long walk, but I didn't enjoy it as much as Wahab did. It was a crowded street, and as we were about to cross it, I felt Wahabs arms touching my back and pulling me slightly closer to his side. It was nice, but there were no butterflies, as I expected.


As soon as we got to the hotel, I locked myself in the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. The burn wounds I spent 7 years hiding behind my side swept bangs, were visible. I was too scared to touch them, because I secretly hoped they were only there in my imagination.


But there was no denying it, it was real, along with everything else on my body. I took  off my sweater, and let it fall down to the floor. I gave my back to the mirror and stared and the wounds also stretching all around my back and the right side of my body. Looking at them was as painful as it gets.


"Farah! Your phone is ringing!" he said, and I could feel him standing behind the door. Maybe he thought I was crying, and he wanted to check if he could hear any sobs. But I wasn't. I quickly put my sweater back on and unlocked the door, rushing to my phone. But as soon as I reached it, the caller hung up.


I sat on the bed, with a frown on my face. "You do realize that your sweater is inside out, right?" I heard Wahab ask, and when I looked down at my sweater, I couldn't help but laugh. I was in a hurry, I must have put it on without realizing it was inside out.


"Farah?" Wahab whispered my name, I didn't answer, but instead lost myself in his eyes. "What's your story? Why are you always upset? Tell me, please. It can be our burden instead of yours."


I wanted to tell him. But how do you tell the person you are supposed to share your life with that you take the blame for the death of your father?


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It's not as long as I thought it would be, sorry:(.

This is only the introduction. Please let me know what you think on ask, www.ask.fm/confessiveblog.

Or let me know directly through kik (confessiveblog.)