She always gave too much of herself, too quickly. Like a bright burning star, offering up all she had and more, shining fiercely, wonderfully, briefly. Some people could give and give and give, their light pouring slowly, steady, never wavering. A continuous, constant dependable stream of light. But not her. She gave her whole person, her whole existence, and didn’t stop until she was through. Until she was guttered out.
She watches them sometimes, in wonder. The normals, the ones free of scars. The ones that can walk out into the world and arrive home again, untouched, unscathed, undisturbed. She is envious.
Every word, every passing hurt, every raised voice, she takes it in, in in. Like a human shaped appendix, absorbing all the bad and stewing in it, until it became a big pulsating mass of unfettered resentment and fear and sadness. Until there was no more space left inside her, and the only way out was out.
His eyes are wide, innocent in their childlike wonder. “We think superheroes only exist in stories. That they have passed; like the rain on the mountain, like the wind in the meadow, like the shadow in the hills. That there never lived a man whose heart was washed pure by angels, whose touch made even a tree weep for it’s loss. That there never lived a woman who seemed to appear on every side of her beloved Prophet in the midst of battle, sword at the ready. That there never lived a boy who pledged his allegiance, with liberty and justice for all, whose hand touched the blessed hand of his Prophet, the same hand which later lay at his feet, as he stood proud and tall, even when he had no feet left, honoring the same pledge he took as a child.
“They lived. They were real. They breathed the same air, drank the same water. Just because they are not among us now doesn’t mean they never were.”
Who am I, Sami?
You’re our leader, Ahmad.
And you trust your leader?
The MSA will follow you, to whatever end.
To whatever end…where are the brothers and sisters who hunger for more? The days where they’d sweat, working for Islam? The nights where they would stay up, imploring Allah for victory. They have passed, like the rain on the mountain, like the wind in the meadow. The days have gone down in this campus, behind the hills, into shadow. What Dreams May Become, DatVon Productions