Deen Queens

four [layla]

LAYLA

"I said I'm bloody fine, mum!" Layla yelled, regretting the words the very second they fell off her lips in haste. Hurt flashed across her mother's weathered face like lightning, disappearing as quickly as it had come, making Layla feel worse. Very rarely did she refer to her mama as mum but the frustration had been slowly driving her insane.

"Okay, habibti," her mama murmured, kissing her on the forehead slowly as she pushed a stray curl back. "Yallah, I'll go then. I'll leave you to it then but give either of us a shout if you need anything, understood?"

Layla only nodded as her wild curls bounced, not trusting another word to come out of her mouth until mama had left the room. She groaned out loud, both due to the physical pain she had been supressing as well as her annoyance towards herself. She hadn't meant to upset mama at all but she was fed up of being mollycoddled, feeling smothered beneath constant surveillance. She was sixteen years old for God's sake, not a six year old!

She gently lowered herself into her faded chair with a grimace, pressing down on the keyboard gently and sighing loudly. She squinted as the computer screen flickered back on, loading the essay she was in the middle of typing. Layla's fingers were shaking slightly due to the fatigue that constantly threatened to overwhelm her, hovering over her every movement like a dark cloud. With a deep breath, she began to type, hazel eyes skimming between the open book and her computer screen.

It was always difficult her for to concentrate – yet another fabulous side effect of the chemo – but she persevered anyway. Layla would be damned if she let anything ruin her chances of doing brilliantly in her GCSE's. neither of her parents had attended school when they had been young, being forced to work excessive hours in low paying jobs after fleeing their homeland Palestine many years ago. Both baba and her mama had done all they could to ensure their two children would succeed, survival being their main goal. Now in their late forties, they had finally been doing well financially and things had picked up. The Hatoum's had a nice house with a beautiful garden, both Mohammad and Layla were in a brilliant private school and the family didn't have to worry about bills anymore.

And then her cancer had come back.

Before she could dwell on the dire consequences her illness had on her family, her bedroom door swung open and her brother sauntered in with a frown and his curls standing on end. Mohammad was usually so laid back all the time, the ultimate joker of the family, so to see his eyes narrowed was an unusual sight.

"I made her cry, didn't I?" Layla mumbled, tugging on her wild locks in frustration as the guilt pooled up inside her. All she seemed to be doing recently was making everyone around her cry, tears a regular occurrence ever since that dreaded day she was re-diagnosed. Layla had beaten acute lymphoblastic leukaemia as a toddler on three different occasions but the years that had passed had ensured it had grown more aggressive each time. And now, at the age of sixteen, they were told not to have too much hope; there wasn't much time left.

"Yeah," Mohammad answered, blocking the light as he leaned against the small doorway. "I know you get annoyed at everyone bein' on your case all the time but you gotta think about what you say, Lulu."

Layla sighed, too upset with herself to bother rolling her eyes at her childhood nickname. With a finger trailing over a loose thread from her pyjama bottoms, she swore to herself she would apologise to her mother and keep her irritation at bay. After all, how was mama feeling? Nobody wanted to entertain the possibility that they could lose their child – it just wasn't right and yet, here they were.

Her brother pushed the door fully open without any warning and stumbled in, jumping down on her bed with a dramatized war-cry.

"Do you mind?" she grumbled, as her collection of matching decorative pillows bounced off the small bed. As exasperated as she wanted to be with his stupidity, Layla couldn't find it within herself to mean it. Mohammad was the only one who hadn't begun to treat her any differently, as though she was a porcelain doll about to splinter into a million pieces.