Within the Sins

١١ Domestic Flashbacks

عشان خاطر عنيك هأعمل المستحيل.

It has been over a month since Yazid has had the chance to allow a needle to love him. Nader and Majed supplied him with a few every here and there, but they stopped a while ago. Only now does he realize that it was his father's money—the money Hasan worked day and night to earn just to feed his four children—that helped him temporarily satisfy his need for the needles.

Nowadays, Yazid's head pounds so much that he is starting to grow numb from it. The constant anxiety that makes his heartbeat accelerate, palms sweat, and fidget in his spot is only worsening his situation. Ever since last evening, he has been having flashbacks.

"Please don't take my children away from me," Cynthia breathed.

"Court rules," Hasan replied.

"But you still have the choice to keep them with me."

"I already bought the plane tickets."

"Please don't do this to me. . .you know I've just made a mistake—nothing more. I love and care for our kids, Hasan."

"Care? How in the world do you care for them?" Yazid heard Hasan ask with his thick accent; he stopped on top of the stairs to hear the argument between his parents in the living room.

Cynthia sighed. "Do you think I'm oblivious to all of this?"

"You are! Your children—"

"You don't understand—"

"No, I do understand!" he rolled the letter r. "You are the one who doesn't! What woman drinks and smokes in front of her children?" He rolled his hands into fists. "Our youngest is a newborn! Do you realize how pathetic it is that you are harming your own baby with your addiction?!" He walked around aimlessly, staring at the ground with furrowed eyebrows. "Pathetic," he repeated, pronouncing the p as a b. "It's pathetic. . .what you are doing is pathetic. It is wrong, and it is dangerous. Our children come first, Cynthia."

Yazid heard a whimper leave his mother's lips. At that, his heart dropped, for he had never heard such a dreadful sound come out of her. He rushed down the stairs and jogged towards where she was sitting. He kneeled down in front of her. With a tear moistening her cheeks, Yazid grabbed her hands and rested their intertwined fingers on her lap. Cynthia lost it at that point. Her eyes watered even more and, soon enough, she started to sob as tear after tear wet Yazid's hands. Frowning with wide eyes, Yazid tried to swallow, only to find that it was too hard to. He slowly turned his head to eye his father; he found him staring back with frowning eyes. They stared at each other for a few more seconds before Hasan looked away, closing his eyes, breathing through his nostrils loudly.

"B—Baba. . ."

Yazid, Hasan, and Cynthia—who was still crying—look in the direction the innocent voice came from.

Hasan rushed toward Sandra. He kneeled down. "Habibty, leish btibkee?" he breathed horridly, brushing her light brown wavy hair away from her face, tucking a few strands behind her ears.

Yazid looked his younger sister up and down. She was staring at their mother, her legs shaking, eyes fearful, fingers in mouth. He felt the exact same way she was feeling. His parents hardly ever argued, but when they did, it was never loudly. . .that was until his uncle died three years ago. His mother turned to alcohol as a coping method. When she finally overcame her grief, she decided to stop drinking, but she realized it was too late; she was already addicted and could not bring herself to stop—not even near the children she protectively held in her womb for nine months.

"Why is Mommy crying?" Sandra asks in a shaky voice, tears falling down her cheeks.

Her father gently carried her and rested her on his hip. "It's time for you to sleep. Come on." As he walked up the stairs, he kissed her forehead.

About fifteen minutes later, Cynthia managed to stop crying, and Hasan came back downstairs. "Cynthia, where are the suitcases?"

"In the attic," she said breathlessly, staring at a bookshelf with red eyes.

Alarmed, Yazid looked back from his father to his mother. ". . .Suitcases?"

His father nods.

"W—why? For what?" he muttered in fear, hoping what he was thinking was not true. He did not think his father meant it when he said he bought tickets.

"You, your sisters, and I are. . .going back home for good."

Cynthia kissed Yazid's hands. "I love you. Never forget that. I love you, baby. I love you."

"I—I love you too," he whispered, kissing her head.

Yazid sees reality repaint itself in front of him as the picture of his mother's head fades away. He reaches for his hair and pulls at it until it hits him: his vision is blurry because he has been in tears and sobs all throughout his recalling of the past—the past that haunts his dreams and life.