Part 3 of 3
By Troy Hornsby
4
She and Papa ate in silence, their cereal crunched softly inside the invisible cloak of silence that rested over their long oak table. Papa was scrolling through the NEWS app on his phone while Nasreen was reading the latest discussion post for her Classical Music class. The soft sugary pellets dissolved in her mouth as she ate mechanically, she no longer remembered the sweet taste that she yearned for every morning.
“How are you, Papa?” Nasreen asked without taking her eyes from her phone.
“Good, my sweet one. How are you?”
“I’m good. A bit stressed.”
“I thought everything was going well,” he lowered his phone, his aged gaze caressing a soft, invisible hand on her cheek.
“It is, Papa, it is. It’s just…” she tapped her foot softly, “…it’s just my mind has been wandering, you know. William said he got my story to be published in the school’s paper, but at the same time I’m scared that my professor is going to make my life harder than it already is in his class.”
Papa had only seemed to hear the former subject of her statement. “The school paper? Oh my goodness, that is swell, my dear, I’m so proud of you.” He pulled his chair out and waddled to her, squeezing Nasreen with surprising strength for a man his age. His heart beat strongly like a bull’s, and his breath smelled of fresh milk.
Nasreen slumped against Papa like a corpse. She had been kissed. Her story was going to be published in the school paper. Why was she so upset? Was it because of Professor White, truly? She didn’t know. Anxiety coursed through her blood from some empty source. In the warmth of her home, goosebumps formed on her smothered skin. Professor White’s grin overtook the gratitude, and she shuddered.
* * *
Professor White had been showing his students an example of good character development when Nasreen thought of an idea to resuscitate her novel. She quickly scribbled in her notebook and turned her attention to the whiteboard. Willy was sick—or so he said—so she was alone, facing sporadic burning eyes by herself. Kriss was sitting at the front of the class, and all of the others that introduced themselves to her at the get-together were dispersed across the classroom. Nasreen was in the middle of a burning ocean where her fate was held by a hateful god.
Her head fell on the top of her laptop as the gravelly voice of Professor White droned on.
When he finally dismissed the class she was the first one to be packed and heading to the door. Whatever was going to happen, she didn’t want to be there when it happened.
“Miss Nasreen, can you stay here please. I’d like to speak to you.”
Damn it. Her heels skidded across the carpet as she quickly turned to Professor who held a spurious smile. She shuffled across the swamp-green carpet until she was five yards from him.
“How are you?”
Those fake eyes, fake smiles, and fake concerns. It all made her heart burn and fists clench. She never wished to harm anyone—not even Rosie—but him. “Okay, I guess. How are you, Professor?”
He nodded and walked to his desk, fidgeting with a shiny, uneaten pear. “I’m good, yeah, I’m good. I was wishing to speak to you about something I overheard this morning.”
Her curiosity piqued. “What’s that?”
“That your story—the one you presented in class a month ago—is being published in the school’s paper.” He leaned against his desk with his arms crossed. A smile came to his face, but Nasreen knew better than to believe a serpent’s tricks.
“It is.” Her answer was cold.
“Well, well, well, that is interesting to hear. I am proud of you though, Miss Nasreen, and am glad that success is growing in your future.”
“Thank you, Professor.”
“Of course, now hurry along, Miss Revolutionary.” Miss Revolutionary. His words left with such toxic verbiage. How dare he? She had accomplished something many writers dream of doing, and he had simply ridiculed her in his mind, hiding it under The Trojan Horse of pleasantries. Too political. Miss Revolutionary. She wanted to punch him, but the satisfaction would be too short, done in a flash. She needed her retaliation to be slow and grueling and just as embarrassing as his words were for her.
She needed to win, to prove that she was worth a damn. To show the world that her stories needed to be told.
* * *
Nasreen sat with her glaring three pages. Her head rested in the palms of her hands for what seemed like an hour. She was idle, she was useless as her story remained untouched.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Willy. She smiled instantly at his text which was just a GIF of Rottweiler puppies. Nasreen’s rushing blood slowed to the speed of a calm brook. Life was serene, she would make it so; it would be safe, she would make it so.
She pulled out the note she wrote in class from her pocket and nodded. She then deleted every page until there was nothing and started anew.
* * *
Nasreen’s heart hurt at its rough throbbing. Willy had gone to get the paper, and she was left in the library, inside the warm building that hugged her tightly. She had long finished Gulliver’s Travels and her class had moved onto Dante’s Inferno.
The words were not comprehended, only scanned over to fade from her memory. She didn’t care if she’d be behind by a few stanzas, soon her own words would be reread by her in dark printed words. Her dry mouth was difficult to moisten; her racing heart did not stop, even as she grew lightheaded from the rushing anxiety.
Nasreen could do nothing but wait in uncomfortable silence.
It was another five minutes when Willy returned, a scowl rested on his face and his knuckles were nearly pale while he gripped the paper in his hands.
Oh God. “Willy, what happened?”
He slammed the bundle of papers on the table and cussed. “That fucking bastard. He fucked you, Nasreen, he fucked you. He took your fucking story from the goddamn paper.”
She jumped to her feet and held Willy’s head in her hands. She hushed him like a mother would to a crying child, hoping for his anger to dissipate. “Okay, talk to me, Willy. What do you mean?”
Willy took a deep breath and sat down. “I was going through the paper to look for your story, but I couldn’t find it at first—even though I was told this issue would be the one with your story. So I called my friend and asked him why it wasn’t there.” He scoffed, “he told me that a member of the faculty convinced the head editor to omit the story from the paper.”
Her saliva burned as it traveled down her throat. “Did he say who?”
Willy shook his head. “Did he need to? He was told that the story was ‘too political for the school paper,’ and that it would ‘simply split the entire campus in half.’”
Nasreen fell into her chair and sighed. No. No tears. Please, no tears. There would be no tears in that moment, but there was an uncomfortable stillness in the library. The rustling trees that shook in the hanging gray of the campus had stopped their extreme dance. All feeling in her body had ended abruptly as those cursed words returned to her. The murder of crows had squawked at her: too political …too political…Miss Revolutionary is too political. She slumped in her chair, biting the inside of her cheek as Willy wrapped his arms around her neck. The tears came then, slowly falling against her brown cheek and falling silently onto her blue denim jeans.
* * *
The house was upturned when Nasreen returned with dried eyes and a cold chocolate milkshake in her hand. The living room table was upside down, their sofa was torn with its stuffing thrown across the room, and the television that sat on a mahogany stand was cracked with yellow, red, and purple streaks stretching from the horrible cavern of darkness in the center. She dropped her backpack and slammed the milkshake on the small table by the door.
“Papa!” She screamed as she dashed through the house.
Her entire being numbed. Everything was silent as the cavern of her mind reverberated her racing heart and ringing ears. He wasn’t in the kitchen, though that section of the house remained untouched. She raced up the wooden steps, climbing the spiral with speed she never realized she had. The loft was also left clean, though Papa’s door was wide open with a startling hole in its center.
“Papa!”
She ran into his room, her feet sank into the carpet where she stood, dazed. The bathroom light was on, and from its entrance a red handprint greeted her. Her eyes burned, her limbs shook as she believed she would collapse any second. She made her way to Papa’s bathroom and found the beautiful tile that acted as a mirror was dirty with smeared blood. Papa sat against the tub—also stained with bright crimson—at his feet were blood-stained scissors.
Nasreen couldn’t scream, she couldn’t cry. A pulsing red came from his wrists, adding to his ruined pajama pants and gray tank top. Nasreen took her phone from her pocket and called the police.
5
The white light of the hospital offered her no comfort as she waited. A fat couple beside her had their own duet of coughing fits, the clicking of the receptionist’s keyboard rattled in her ears like beads of a maraca. Nasreen massaged her sweating palms, attempting to fight the vomit that was growing in her throat.
Why did he do it? She asked, why would he do something like that? Her heart burned as she remembered the blood. Oh God, the sea of blood that dirtied the bottom of her shoes and trailed behind her as she left behind the swift paramedics. Tears bubbled in her eyes, but she did not let them leave.
“Miss Ismail,” a tall, stern-faced man with a fresh-shaven beard walked out of the long hallway with a clipboard in front of his face.
Nasreen shot to her feet and sped to the doctor. She was numb to the eyes of the waiting room that stared at her curiously. The doctor closed the door behind her and the two of them walked slowly through the long, beaming hallway.
A man in a wheelchair was being pushed into another room, a doctor and his nurse were talking at a desk in whispers, and a young boy was screaming in fear of getting a shot. Nasreen’s heart only quickened at the strange sights and dusty smell that attached itself to her clothes.
“You’re the daughter, correct?”
Nasreen nodded. Any verbal answer would lead to tears and a puddle of throw up.
“Well, Miss Ismail, your father is lucky you came at the time you did. If you had come thirty minutes later his condition and blood loss might have been too great to fix.” He sighed, “he’s okay right now, all stitched and bandaged, though he is asleep.”
A cold hand of relief settled on her. She nodded again, the tears fought harder. “Thank you.”
“Of course, Miss Ismail. He’s in this room. Visiting hours end in an hour, okay?”
The doctor opened the room and lying on the bed was Papa. A shining white gauze was wrapped on both of his arms. Nasreen nearly collapsed as she ran by his side and gripped his arm, ignoring the plastic tube poking his bicep. Her forehead brushed against the rough bandages and her knees grew cold against the gray tile, but she didn’t care. The dam in her eyes crumbled, and her tears escaped with a terrible scream. The doctor, with a deep frown, scurried out of the room in silence.
* * *
“Oh my God, Nasreen are you okay?” Kriss shrieked outside of their class.
Nasreen cared little for her appearance. Her hair was tangled and unruly, her eyes burned with sagging bags underneath, she massaged her dry lips with her drier tongue, and stretched her aching limbs that rested in a turtleneck sweater and black sweatpants.
All eyes were on her. They whispered, but not with the usual poison, there was sympathy. Even Rosie held a lasting glance with a raised eyebrow. Ashly and Kriss rushed to her side, tears were boiling again.
“Where’s Willy?” She choked.
“He said he was running an errand, and he’d be back in a minute.”
Nasreen nodded.
Professor White opened the door with a bright smile, and the congregation of whispering students shuffled into the class with quick final glances. Professor followed the gazes of his students and met the burning retinas of Nasreen. His eyes carried joy, not for her suffering, she wondered, no one could be that cruel—maybe?
“Miss Nasreen,” he waved.
“Professor,” she grumbled.
He gave her a quick nod and disappeared with the door clicking shut behind him. Hot tears strolled down her damp cheeks.
“When’d Willy say he’d be ba—”
“Nasreen, why are you crying?” Kriss asked as she pulled the sleeve of her jacket to her hand and prepared to wipe the fallen tears.
Nasreen didn’t fight. The soft cotton scratched below her eye. “My dad, he—um—tried to kill himself.” Beads of sweat and tears fell to the carpet at blinding speed. Her weakened legs could no longer carry her as she fell onto her knees. Ashlyn and Kriss fell beside her, each of their arms rested on her shoulder as she bawled like a child—just as she did when her mother passed away.
* * *
Papa and Mama had often pushed her to make every class she ever took. Perfect attendance was a common occurrence for Nasreen, except for very miniscule exceptions like a terrible flu, a case of head lice, or a death in the family.
Her stomach bulged as the very concept of missing class on purpose was foreign to her. But Professor White was not her teacher, he was an enemy. He was merely an object she needed to overcome, somehow. But how? If one man had the ability to halt her pursuit of greatness, what good would fighting him be?
Nasreen basked in the darkness of her hood, hoping for the library’s lights to not bother her. Nothing needed to bother her. Not a book, not a person, not a thought. She craved the void of existence, there’d be no Papa, or enemy, or even ideas that would plague her mind to no end. She was simply nonexistent, just as she wished to remain.
The sound of the chair across from her being dragged outward brought a frozen river of chills to her body. Please don’t let it be him.
“N-Nasreen?” The soft voice across from her spoke.
Why?
“Um—I-I heard what happened earlier. Do you want me here?”
Yes. No. I don’t know, Willy. God. Why did it have to be you?
She rose her head from the darkness and faced the concerned face whose soft eyes almost cured her with the faintest glance. Nasreen attempted a smile, but failed. “Where were you?”
He puffed his cheeks. “Running an errand, I’ll tell you all about it later. Do you want me here?”
Again, he asked. Yes. No. Damnit. “I don’t want you to bother yourself with me.”
“It’s not a bother, Nasreen,” he spoke quietly, “I want to be with you right now. I completely understand you in this situation.”
Nasreen sniffled. “Someone in your family attempted suicide?”
Willy nodded with a sincere smile. “M-My auntie. Unfortunately she reached the finish line with her attempt.” He coughed and chuckled, “she also made this face to me when I was a kid. She’d stretch out her cheeks with her fingers and bulge her eyes and for some reason I always found that amusing. She was one of the main reasons I wanted to be a screenwriter. I mean she had me watch The Shining and Psycho when I was ten and told me that I had the chance to write great stories like those ones.”
Nasreen nodded. “I’m sorry, William.”
“Don’t,” he shook his head, “this is about you. I mean, is he okay? Are you okay, Nasreen? Don’t lie to me.”
Her throat clogged. “H-He’s okay.”
“And you?”
Her head fell into her hands as the horrors of her mind returned. Mama’s cries of pain, Professor White’s destructive words, the blood that drooled from Papa’s arms, and the horrible drawer that called her every night. Her cries echoed in the personal cavern of her dried hands. “No.”
He stretched across the table and wrapped his arms around her. He smelled of cinnamon, and slowly Nasreen stopped her crying. She brushed the snot from her small nose and the tears from her cheeks.
“It’ll be okay, Nasreen. Whether it be tomorrow, next week, or next month, it’ll all be okay.”
She nodded.
“If you need me here I’ll stay, okay?”
“Thank you,” she squeaked.
“I know you’re going through a lot right now, and I know not a lot could help you at the moment, but I have something to tell you.”
“What is it?”
A soft smile came to his own empathetic face. “So I printed out your story and—with the help of some friends—had it spread throughout campus.”
“What?”
“Almost every door room, faculty room, classroom, and bathroom has your story perfectly positioned for someone to read it. Since the fucker decided to limit your words, I thought someone might as well fight to push it out. Seeing how life has been treating you though, I doubt this is the last thing on your mind.”
“W-Why?” Nasreen was on the verge of tears again.
“A revolution isn’t one person, Nasreen. It’s a system; a body. You’re the heart and the brain; I’m attempting to be the blood and nerves, the section that spreads to the others. You have a unique gift that shouldn’t be silenced for the insecure bastards in power.”
Nasreen gripped Willy’s smooth face and pulled his lips into her own. The solitary kiss ended and Nasreen smiled. “How many times do I have to thank you?”
“You never needed to.” He chuckled and stood up with his hand proffered. “Come on, I’ll take you to the hospital. You need to be with your dad right now.”
Nasreen shook her head. “Take me home first. There’s something I need to bring to him.”
* * *
Papa was awake when Nasreen walked into his room with a thousand-pound three-ring binder under her arm. His glassy eyes stared through her with no subject residing in his dark pupils. She shuddered and sat down on the stabbing plastic chair by his bed.
“My dear,” he spoke with a dried voice, “how are you? How was class?”
“It was good, Papa.”
They were silent.
Why would you do this to yourself? She wondered this since the day she stepped into the red pool underneath her.
Papa sunk into the cushions of his bed and sighed as his eyes faded. “I saw your mother.”
Nasreen didn’t answer. She massaged the bumpy cover of the binder and bit her cheek.
“I am grateful that you were not there to see our homeland when your mother and I came to America. We witnessed massacres and death. Constantly, I was asked to join the men who would charge to their deaths—I did not wish to do so.” His breathing shook. “Today, my love, I can perfectly describe the scent of burning flesh, and what a friend of mine shouted before his death. It was endless, Nasreen, and pointless. They despised us for land that belonged to us, and now we must suffer because of it.”
He turned to her, a single trailing tear fell to the bridge of his nose. “When I smile and laugh, Nasreen, I see the men I grew up with dying to fire and bullets. I hear the echo of gunshots and the roaring of trucks and flames. There is smoke and crying children and death. I live with this, my love, and there are times where it is truly unbearable.”
Nasreen nodded.
“I am sorry that I have given you an image so horrible. I did not wish to do such a thing.”
She bit her cheek and opened the binder to a dry old paper.
“What is that?”
“The stories I wrote,” she choked, “for Mama when she was sick. She always said it made her feel better, but she was probably lying. The pain had to be too much.”
“Oh, my sweet bird, your stories would make your mother forget the pain, don’t make yourself believe such a lie.”
Nasreen defeated the arriving tears. “Do you want me to read one?”
Papa nodded. “Please do.”
Nasreen read the first story titled: Two Monsters in the Clset. The story was terribly written with no commas, no structure, and an overflow of misspells. But the two of them laughed with renewed life coursing through them. The drawer no longer mocked her and a new sense of rehabilitation formed inside her heart. Nasreen Ismail would not be able to get the job finished, but Miss Revolutionary, and the blood that flowed within her, would.
6
There are moments in conflict where an adversary—no matter how hated—is given credit for an accurate calculation or strategy. Such a situation was forced upon Nasreen as she entered her campus to find multiple groups spread across the grass screaming at each other with bullhorns. Signs were lifted over their heads as they verbally fought each other.
FIRE PROF. WHITE, one of the signs read. DO NOT BOW DOWN TO THE WOKE MOB, an opposing sign deferred.
“Willy, what did you do?” Nasreen fought her bulging throat.
Willy smiled, “I might have written a paper at the end of it, stating that Professor White pushed to omit your story from the newspaper.”
“Why did you do that?” Nasreen inhaled deeply.
“People will empathize with your story, and that is important, but if it’s also shown that this story—that also mirrors true experience—is being shunned and hidden in The States, then it shows the corruptness of the people in control.”
It made sense, but Nasreen’s stomach recoiled at the vile words spoken across the grass, flying with the wind through trees and buildings like poisonous arrows.
“Did you use my name?”
“No, I made sure to keep you out of it until you felt you were ready to take the helm.”
Nasreen nodded. Amongst the crowd that defended Professor White—a crowd of white with a sprinkle of brown-skinned men and women—was Rosie, who joined the chorus of “terrorist supporters.” The separate crowds that remained under Nasreen’s banner—a more diverse crowd, she noticed—spewed their own violent words: “you support baby killers,” a man screamed; “you’ll burn in Hell for supporting a genocide,” a woman yelled close behind.
God, oh God. Teachers, staff, security, and fellow students all stared at the bickering groups with intrigue—the security officers’ eyes burned as they awaited for any sort of escalation. Warm air caressed Nasreen’s nostrils as she inhaled and stepped forward into the dry dirt; the colosseum of dueling ideals. Her chin was held high as she stormed to the young woman with long black hair that reached to her hip. Her glowing copper skin made Nasreen assume the woman was Native American though she remained unsure, even as she was within close range of the bullhorn while the woman shouted.
“May I see it please?” Nasreen asked with a smirk.
The woman ceased her yelling and nodded to Nasreen. “Let the bastards have it,” she croaked in a hoarse voice. The plastic bullhorn was forced into Nasreen’s hand and there was power. Power to change lives and the world around her, the same power that flowed through her with every story she wrote. Now was the time to act, she thought as she held the trigger, should she become a revolutionary, it would have to be now.
“Excuse me,” she screamed to the crowd across from her, “I am the woman who wrote the story you see plastered all over the school. My name is Nasreen Ismail, I am an American born with the blood of Palestine, my mother and father’s homeland. They both have seen massacres and death, most of which was illustrated in the story you all have read. These are true stories told by survivors, survivors plagued with guilt and trauma and would do anything to rid themselves of it.” She took a deep breath.
“You all denounce and rebuke the story of my people, calling us all terrorists when—for thousands of years—we have been wanting to protect our home. It is just like The Native Americans whose home was taken from them, they fought for generations and were called savages. Savages? For wanting to keep the land their ancestors held for generations, it is ridiculous. But you do not see it; I doubt any of you people with your silver spoons and nightly parties even care. You all will defend terror and injustice if it means you will live comfortably for the rest of your lives—or at least live in the illusion of comfort. In the light of Allah my people’s stories will be understood, and you all will look like idiots in the end of it.”
There was murmuring from the opposing group but cheers from distant onlookers and the crowd that surrounded her. The sun broke through the gated clouds and shined down upon her. A divine spotlight encircled her and lifted her lips to a smile. No, she would no longer be Nasreen Ismail, she would escape the cocoon of irrelevancy and enter the realm of revolutionaries, just as Allah intended.
“Shut up, terrorist bitch,” a gruff voice shouted from afar.
The sun dimmed. “Excuse me?” Nasreen shouted in the bullhorn.
“I said,” the gruff speaker was a tall man with moppy black hair and a thin frame, “Shut. Up. Terrorist. Bitch.”
There was laughter on the other side of the grass sea that bent westward with the strengthening wind. The tall man stepped forward with Rosie at his side. He brushed away the black strands from his eyes and pointed his long, bony finger at her. “Soon your people will be exterminated from this planet, just like you deser—”
In a blink the thin man was on the hard ground with a figure on top of him. His eyes were wide as a fist connected with his cheek. A moment of silence ensued, and the world was still as the man cried out.
Chaos followed.
The two crowds charged towards each other. Signs flew with the strong gust of wind. Nasreen fell onto the cold grass and the bullhorn was crushed underneath a man’s spiked boots. Oh God. I’m going to die, this is the day I die. A cold hand grabbed her shoulder and pulled her to her feet. Kriss was sweating with a gaping mouth.
“Let’s go,” she shouted as she pulled Nasreen out of the rear of the crowd.
There were shouts and heavy thuds of fists on bone and skin. Whistles screamed from all across campus as cheers further rang out around the edge of the dueling crowds. Gladiators, Nasreen reminded herself, they saw them only as gladiators with brains instead of swords. Mud stuck to her hands as she propelled herself from the jeering crowd of swinging legs and fists. She took a deep inhale of fresh air, away from the stench of deodorant and sweat.
Before she could descend to her knees, another (rougher) hand clasped on her shoulder and pulled her away from Kriss.
“Hey!” She shouted as she twisted her neck to face the stern security officer with gray beard stumps on his chin, a pointy chin, and eyes hidden behind the black curtain of sunglasses. His bald head reflected the sunlight that attacked her eyes as her feet twisted underneath her. “You’re going after the wrong people, sir.”
“Got other people for that,” his breath smelled of cigarettes and it nearly gagged Nasreen, “it’s you that needs to be put under control at the moment.”
“For what?”
The man was silent as he dragged her towards a large building that most likely led to The Dean’s Office. This’ll be fucking great, she thought as she winced at the man’s tight grip on her shoulder.
* * *
The Dean’s Office was a large room with a wide glass overlooking the campus. The dueling crowd had long dispersed, and many students were being apprehended by security. The Dean’s multiple degrees were hung neatly high behind his outstretched oak desk that shined like uncovered gold. On one side was a dormant United States flag and the other was the Oregon state flag. Their black flagpoles matched the dark carpet that acted as quicksand underneath Nasreen’s unruly feet.
She did not sit on the plastic chairs at the wall beside her, she stood in front of the seated Dean who stared at her with curious brown eyes. His gray eyebrows rose as he examined her, his thick lips twitched whenever she would move an inch. His thick fingers tapped his desk one finger at a time, not once did the mini limbs leave their given order. A group of papers rested in front of him beside the golden plate with the name: DAVIS, embroidered.
“Who are you, Nasreen Ismail?” He finally asked, rubbing his shaved head with his right hand while keeping his left hand tapping.
“Well you said it right there, sir: Nasreen Ismail.”
He shook his thick neck. “Who are you, Miss Ismail.”
She didn’t expect any metaphorical bullshit. “The daughter of immigrants who came from an active warzone.”
Davis nodded. “May I tell you something, Miss Ismail? Something that is true but it is a rather unfortunate truth.”
“Free country, sir.”
Davis smirked, “yes, you’re right. Well, there is a faculty member who is pushing for your expulsion.”
Nasreen smirked. “Professor White.”
“I’ve voided this faculty member’s request, but they are quite insistent.”
“Because of my rebellious nature?”
“Because inciting a riot and violence on campus goes against our policy, Miss Ismail.”
“But I didn’t do either.”
He grimaced and stood up. His tapping stopped and he made his way to the window where the sun entered through the corner. Pellets of dust circled around him as he stared over the sight that had once carried chaos. “You are an intelligent young woman, Miss Ismail. Your father is a successful man who seemed to do well with the little cards he was dealt. Now my only question is this: why risk a good academic career here for something as silly as a story?”
Nasreen bit the inside of her cheek until there was nothing but pain flowing in her nerves. “Sir, with all due respect it’s not just a story. This framework of prose is just one of millions of experiences through the war brought to Palestine. Professor White told me the story was ‘too political,’ and it irritated me. You’re an African American, sir, what if someone told you that if you wrote a poem or a story about slavery or a man suffering under the weight of Jim Crow laws? It’d anger you because it’s not just a story, it’s a piece of your heritage and your blood. So no, sir, I’m not risking a good academic career here for a story, I’m doing it to protect my people from across the sea, because it seems that a lot of people aren’t willing to stand in front of the bullet to do it.”
Davis turned to her, chuckling. “You are a radical, Miss Ismail. That’s good, it’s a species nearing extinction, you know?”
She nodded.
“I won’t expel you, Miss Ismail, I hope you know that.”
“Will you fire Professor White?”
He shook his head. “Unfortunately he has connections too great. Firing him is a double-edged sword, Miss Ismail, do you understand?”
“Yeah, I do.” She raised her head to Davis whose eyes went wide when he met her gaze. “I would like to withdraw from this school, sir.”
Davis nodded and turned back to the window. “I do believe it’d be best for you as well, Miss Ismail. I do wish you good fortune in your future endeavors.”
“Thank you, sir.” She turned and pushed open the wooden door that led to a long hallway of injured students that were seated in plastic chairs against the wall with security guards over them. She did not give Davis a leaving glance, he didn’t deserve it. He would not jump in the way of the bullet in the name of a better future, and that was okay. But she had no need to spend energy on a population that would not bend for a progressive world. Her heart did not hurt as she asked for her withdrawal, it only tore the chain from its ankle and spread its wings to take flight.
Willy was seated with three security guards over him. His elbows dug into his thighs as he faced the ground. Nasreen pushed by the vulture-like guards and knelt beside him. “Willy?”
He looked up and smiled. His lip was swollen with a puffy eye socket and cheek. There was blood covering his nose and lips, and yet he smiled. “Hey, think I can get a modeling contract with this?”
“Shut up,” her eyes watered, “are you okay?”
“Eh, I’m fine, might have a few bruised bones but I’ll be okay. That guy that called you a terrorist though,” he grit his teeth, “he got it worse, made sure of that.”
“But you’ll get in trouble. If not by the school then by him. He could press charges or—”
“Won’t do that either,” he laughed, “I know a thing or two about a thing or two. He won’t squeal unless he wants to go to jail for a few years.”
“You sure?”
“One-hundred percent. Besides, fuck this school. I’m leaving this bitch as soon as I leave The Dean’s Office.”
“Looks like you’ll be in second place then,” she chuckled, “I just told The Dean I’m leaving.”
“N-No shit.” He leaned backward and winced, holding his ribs as he did. “Look at you, Nasreen. Acting like a full revolutionary right now, fighting for the good of mankind.”
Her heart fluttered. “And you’d be my second in command?”
Willy smirked, “always, Nasreen.”
She gripped his hand that was covered with open wounds and dry blood and smiled back at him.
* * *
The healthy flowers of Spring bloomed by the time Papa’s wounds healed into white scars. A warm wind had replaced the burning chill of Winter and had allowed comfort to reside in The Ismail Household.
Despite Nasreen’s initial fear of confessing her withdrawal from her university to Papa, she was taken aback at his excitement at her announcement at the hospital.
“Thank Allah,” he cheered, “I’m sorry you had to suffer there for so long.” He wrapped his bandaged arms around her, scratching the nape of her neck with its rough material.
“It’s okay, Papa,” she chuckled with remnants of tears in her eyes, “it’s all a long story but I’ll tell you.”
He smiled, it was pure and reminiscent of her childhood. “I think it’ll be your best one, Nasreen.”
While she did not agree with Papa on it being her best story, she did write her experience in a fictional veil and sold it for one-hundred dollars—all without the threat of Professor White’s faculty status to void it. The story was set to be published in the first week of Spring and worried nerves stretched through the limbs of the household.
“What if I wrote a screenplay about a black man that enters a world that leads to a flipped version of 1950’s America? So like…Black people are in power and the whole meaning of ‘Colored Only’ is in a whole different context.” Willy asked as he stared into the ceiling on the carpeted floor.
Nasreen laid beside him, the smooth roof had always been pleasing to stare at, but further satisfaction lingered as she stood by the man who bloodied his fists for her. “I think that’s a story only you can tell, Willy,” she chuckled.
“That’s what I said,” he responded with a laugh. “Give it time, Nasreen, we’ll both be writing our names in the stars with legends. Just give it time.”
She smiled and closed her eyes, imagining Mama in the sky, gifting fortune and love to her as her legacy burned into the Earth and Heaven. She was floating with millions of warm hands underneath her, carrying her to her destiny. It would all begin with one. All revolutions began with a step, a scream, a gunshot. Her actions on campus, she realized, were the simple breath a revolutionary takes before entering The Realm of No Return. Her own writing, the detailing of the events and her pursuit in publishing The Judge, would be her cry to the world beyond and a gunshot to those who would not listen.
“Mister and Miss Revolutionary,” she smiled and opened her eyes, “two visionaries.”
“Hell yeah,” Willy turned to her.
They were silent as their eyes danced in the short space between them. Willy’s warm breath of chocolate tickled the base of her nose.
“Thank you, Willy.”
“Of course, N-Nasreen.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Why the stutter?”
His smile faded as he turned back towards the ceiling. “I had a question for y-y-you.”
Her heart sank. “What is it?”
A nervous smile crept to his lips. “W-Would y-you l-l-l—fuck—like to b-be my gi-girlfriend?”
Her heart shot up to her throat and fluttered as her mouth stammered to answer. “Y-Yes,” she smiled, “what took you so fucking long to ask,” she slapped his shoulder.
“Too damn nervous, Nasreen.”
She jumped on top of him and wrapped her arms around his chiseled neck and held him tight. His arms wrapped around her back and held her just as tight. They were stuck for a moment, an incomprehensible, beautiful moment that nearly brought Nasreen to tears. All she wished for was to remain in the same moment of time forever and never allow it to escape her grasp.
An idea arrived as swift as a blade. She smiled and rested her forehead against Willy’s. “I think I finally got that idea for the novel.”
His soft lips kissed her nose. “Well, don’t just sit here now, you got work to do, Miss Revolutionary.”
She smiled and kissed his forehead gently and retreated from his warm grasp to the dark computer. In her reflection was not the same dark-haired, brown-eyed Palestinian girl only a year prior. No, she was Jane Austen, Chinua Achebe, George Orwell, Natsume Soseki, Toni Morrison, and Ralph Ellison. She was a revolutionary, the one who would represent the few and battle the bullets that may come their way.
Nasreen turned her computer on, traveled to the file and began writing in earnest. The words of grief and love traveled onto the digital page with ease. This will be my passageway to the world beyond, she thought as she smiled. The stories of her childhood stared at her from behind the glasses of their plaques, cheering for her, just as Mama did long before.
Troy Hornsby is an African American author of three books (a novella, a short story collection, and a full length novel) aw well as a contributor to Pulp Lit Magazine. In addition to his writing, he is also pursuing a degree in English and Creative Writing to spread his love and knowledge for the written art.
Dominique 
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