THE TWO OF US were at the police station, again. Even if it did reek of rust and sweaty men, I didn't really mind. Anything was better than the overwhelming stench of bleach that screamed 'Welcome back to the ER'.
Normal people would have come to this BrickleBrooke Police Station to report a crime or be the one who is taken under custody. However, we, the abnormal ones, were just here for a sense of security. Well, for the most part. My only fear was bumping into someone from college. I had made the mistake of forgetting my makeup kit in my car, so the purplish bruises staining my knuckles were evident. I twirled the silky gray scarf—though partially ripped—around my shivering fists. Next to me, a beautiful, young brown lady in her late twenties folded her raven-black hijab into her purse. This made her long wavy, dark locks—similar to my own—fall carelessly on her lovely face. Sadly, nothing could hide the trail of tears or the puffy bloodshot eyes. Seeing her like this made my blood boil. My fits tightened. "It wasn't your fault. I didn't mean to get you involved.” She gently placed her warm, slender hand on mine. A sigh found its way out of her as her finger brushed my chipped nail. "I didn't want you to see that. I am sorry, I called. I – I was scared." I closed my eyes and made my head lie on the back of the metallic chair. "Don't be a moron, Aalia. You have never bothered me. “Diya …” “Shut up please … I don’t want to start this conversation again. I just –" I sighed, "I'm just glad you're safe, Aalia." Aalia...it wasn't her really name. I swore to never use her birth name again. “Thank you, Diya." Aalia half smiled, looking at our touching hands. "I'm a disgrace of a big sister using you as a knight in shining armor." "Hey, you don’t get the chance to deliver a punch to a thirty-three-year-old man every day?" I laughed as she weakly smiled at the words. "I guess we both have our faults. And I might have a broken hand..." My dearest sister giggled at my sarcasm and placed a small peck in the middle of my forehead. "I love you, Diya." Aalia had the most authentic angelic smile. However, I hadn't seen it in over four years since, her wretched husband, Hakim stepped into her life. Instead, she bore this synthetic one instead. Then again, most of her facial features were man-made. My heart faltered. "Maa misses you, and Daddy too. You should visit them already." The desperation in my voice was thick and that forced her to retract her hand and distance herself from me. Nevertheless, I fought on: "Maa beautifies your grave every morning. Daddy even cries on your birthday each year...it's getting harder for them." It was getting harder for me too. My sister's genuine smile disappeared altogether and had been replaced with a more hurt, but solemn, one. "They can rot in hell for all I care," Aalia said so sourly, before biting her bottom lip. When she released it, a raw pink cut marked where her teeth had been. "I've always been dead to them." I knew that I was pushing it, but persistency took the best of me. I shook my head. "Okay fine, but why didn't you tell me, Aalia?" I asked in a low tone that was painted in hurt, "How many weeks has Hakim been doing this to you?" As like most of my questions in the past, my sister ignored them. "I should be going," she said too quickly, gathering her things. "This was a bad idea." She got up from her seat, but I pulled her skirt. "Answer me, Aalia." With her back to me, she yanked the extended material from my grip. "It's not your concern—" "That he treats you like a piñata!" I snapped, a little too loudly, grabbing the attention of a few passersby in the reception area. I had every right to get an answer from her. My mind had about had it. It has been three exhausting years since she ran away from our Hindu home to this abusive Muslim man who she found so dear to her brainwashed heart, but, in reality, did nothing but harm. Islam is a sacred practice of peace but like all religions, it can fall victim to those with ill intensions. I was tired of keeping this a secret from our parents. It had been eating me alive since ninth grade. "Just please stop seeing him," I begged as my vision became blurry and a single hot tear streamed down my cheek. "He's not good you. He's sick in the he—" "He's not sick!" she interjected shaking me a little with the cold and explosive tone. After, angrily, whipping the hijab from its pocket, Aalia dropped her head and wrapped the thin material around it. Avoiding any sort of eye contact with me, she hissed, "You shouldn't say that about other people's men. You don't know him, but you judge him so quickly." I tried to speak, but—like all the other times—she stubbornly shook her head. Reaching out my hand to her, a slicing clap echoed through the room forcing everyone to fall silent. The back of my hand was glowing red. My eyes widened in disbelief. "Aalia..." I trailed off, shocked by her sudden violent outburst," I can't believe you ... Aalia?" My sister's angry expression changed drastically as she noticed the welt that had stained my hand. I tried to reach for her but, with a miserable shiver of fear, she jerked back out of my reach. "I'm so sorry... Hakim was right. I made the mistake of still keeping in contact with you." Like a twist of an embedded knife to an open wound, before I could utter a word, Aalia ran out through the front entrance and left her scarf. She left me.
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