Chapter 1 - Broken Family

A Chapter by Ro Hakam

Yelling and books and Pakistani friends.

They're screaming at each other again.

I'm sitting in my bedroom with the door shut - only that doesn't block out the words being thrown around outside. I have a book clutched in my hands, and my eyes are staring blankly at the scribbles that became letters somewhere along the course of mankind, these letters becoming words, and these words becoming creatures with the ability to punch you in the gut, fill the hole in your heart, or give you the first taste of what drugs must be like.

I learned that early on. I'm only six, but I've begun to harbor an addiction to books. Any books; children's, fantasy, sci-fi, mysteries, and more. Of course, only being six, the books I read were quite simple and cliché, yet I enjoyed them anyway.

Really, books were my only escape. I never understood how to interact with people. You say the truth, they don't like it. You tell a lie, they don't like it. (Although I also learned that they only dislike it if they find out, which is preventable.) I find it easier just to avoid situations where I have to interact with other people. Interaction isn't my thing, but observation is. My mother tells me that I spent the whole first year of my existence just watching the world around me. I was a wide-eyed silent baby; I only cried if I was hurt.

At six, observing seems to be the only thing I do. I realized I notice things others don't pick up on, because they're too busy talking. I can read people's eyes really well, having learned early on not to rely on the words they say. People can say they aren't mad at you, for instance, while their eyes speak a different story. So I could see the unhappy tension between my parents before the fights started. I used to convince myself that it was just some obstacles they were going through, or some trouble with work that has my dad pent up.

But now, I've come to realize that it's only getting worse. My mom's losing her patience, and my father has none. And the fights are one-sided, mostly. My mom never raises her voice, so it's mostly my father screaming at her and she either starts crying or tries to reason with him.

Seeing your mother cry is not easy. Knowing your father's the reason behind it is even harder.

Books made it better, though. Sometimes I got to escape to a better world. Other times I got to see people who had it worse than me, and I have to admit that made it better. Books were my friends. They never got bored of you; they patiently waited until you are finished with them and put them aside. They were always there for you whenever you needed them.

Like now; huddled on my bed, hoping the door could shield me from the outside world. I realize I'm not reading as much as I'm staring blankly at the page, so I put it away with a sigh and get up, turning off the lights I could barely reach. Time for bed, I guess. It's getting late.

I get into bed, tuck myself in, and close my eyes. I like sleep.

....

Despite the fact that most of my friends are books, that doesn't mean I don't have friends. What with it being the summer before first grade, my interaction with other kids is pretty limited. Especially since we moved last year.

However, there is this one kid that lives in one of the apartments next to us whom I've grown fond of. Since he's Pakistani, I didn't really understand them at first, what with us having different languages. But our languages are similar, and I get the gist of the sentence. Besides, it's not that hard to communicate in other ways. Besides, I've always payed more attention to body language than the words themselves.

Whenever I wanted to go over and spend some time with him - I honestly can't remember his name now - I would just tell my dad and go on over. And I did just that one fine morning. So I went on over to the neighbour's and knocked.

I knocked once, twice.... thrice. No response. They usually answer the door almost immediately. I figured they were out, but wanted to make sure. I lingered outside for a while before knocking again. They were definitely out.

But I didn't wanna go back. I've already been gone quite a while, my father will ask why. I couldn't tell him I just lingered outside their door. I did that before, and earned quite a yelling. I hate yelling more than anything in the world.

I make up my mind, and sit right there in the middle of the hallway, back against the apartment door. I lean my head back against the hard wood and sigh. Some peace and quiet. I love quiet, just as much as I love time alone like this.

So there I am, a six year old sitting in the middle of the hallway. I don't want to go back to my life just yet. The hallway's pretty nice, I'd like to stay for a little while more. Just a little while more.