about her all day—which explains why I don’t finish the outline of my economics essay on the euro.
It’s a nice day. The sun shines on the square, almost giving it an air of cheerfulness in spite of the dog poop and dirty papers littering it. I look at the books that are open on my desk. Suddenly I’m tired of constantly studying. I need some fresh air. I look at my watch. Djelila should be back soon. I put my head scarf on, adjust it with pins, and slip my jacket on.
“Mom, I’m going out for a walk,” I say. “Do you need anything?”
“No, dear,” Mom answers from the kitchen, where she’s giving Taïeb and Idriss their afternoon snack.
I open the front door and shut it behind me.
I hear a dog barking. A dog howling.
But it is not a dog.
I run down the stairs. All the way down.
The howling is coming from the basement. I push open the door and rush in. All I can see are flames—flames and your body twisting. I hear your screams and see your body collapse. I see Majid and your burnt body. Everything else I register without really seeing—the matches, the dirty green can. I am on top of Majid and I hit him. I hit him with all my might. My fists clenched, I hit his face, his eyes, his mouth, and I howl. I howl too.
Howling. This need to howl is still in the pit of my stomach. To howl with fury and pain.
I’m glancing at an article about my sister’s death. I couldn’t bring myself to read any of them, but I bought all the newspapers. I kept them without ever looking at them. I’ve taken this one out of the drawer almost involuntarily. On one side is a picture of Djelila, the familiar school ID picture; on the other side is a picture of Majid at the time of his arrest. I do not remember any of it. The picture is blurry, the frame small. His hoodie covers his head, so it’s difficult to make out his face. He is handcuffed. A man, a police officer probably, is holding his arm.
The article mentions a phrase that the police—without any doubt—fed to the journalists following the murderer’sfirst questioning: “I swear on my mother’s head, I wanted to teach her a lesson, so I had to do something big.”
My eyes scan the first lines of the article.
A sixteen-year-old girl died yesterday, burnt alive in the basement of the Lilac housing projects .
The alleged murderer, a minor who knew the victim and lived a few buildings away from her, offered no resistance and has been arrested. Paramedics and emergency room doctors could do nothing to save the victim .
Everyone in the Lilac projects demands justice .…
“Dead.” “Burnt alive.” “The victim.”
All these words are about my sister, Djelila.
For nearly a year now, I have retreated to my room. I come out only to eat and run some errands at hours when the projects are empty. For nearly a year I have created this jail to punish myself for not saving you. I have created this refuge so I won’t have to think that you are no longer here—and that you will never be coming back. Never. I thought about running away. I wanted to forget you, to stop the pain. But it isn’t that easy. Wherever I go, whatever I do, your memory haunts me. Djelila.
Today a ray of sunshine comes through my bedroom window, our bedroom window, and floods your comforter. Just like on the day you died. Yes, there was a day when you died. That day exists. You are dead. I close my eyes, trying to forget, but I cannot.
This morning a letter came for me in the mail. I put it on my desk without paying attention to it. Now I push thenewspaper back and open the envelope. It is a letter to all seniors enrolled in correspondence courses, reminding us to register for the final-year exam. The exam I was unable to face after your death and put off for a year.
No use trying to work any more today. I am in no mood to understand what I’m reading; my mind is simmering with fears, doubts, and anger. I grab my head scarf from the back of my chair and adjust it on my head with
It’s a nice day. The sun shines on the square, almost giving it an air of cheerfulness in spite of the dog poop and dirty papers littering it. I look at the books that are open on my desk. Suddenly I’m tired of constantly studying. I need some fresh air. I look at my watch. Djelila should be back soon. I put my head scarf on, adjust it with pins, and slip my jacket on.
“Mom, I’m going out for a walk,” I say. “Do you need anything?”
“No, dear,” Mom answers from the kitchen, where she’s giving Taïeb and Idriss their afternoon snack.
I open the front door and shut it behind me.
I hear a dog barking. A dog howling.
But it is not a dog.
I run down the stairs. All the way down.
The howling is coming from the basement. I push open the door and rush in. All I can see are flames—flames and your body twisting. I hear your screams and see your body collapse. I see Majid and your burnt body. Everything else I register without really seeing—the matches, the dirty green can. I am on top of Majid and I hit him. I hit him with all my might. My fists clenched, I hit his face, his eyes, his mouth, and I howl. I howl too.
Howling. This need to howl is still in the pit of my stomach. To howl with fury and pain.
I’m glancing at an article about my sister’s death. I couldn’t bring myself to read any of them, but I bought all the newspapers. I kept them without ever looking at them. I’ve taken this one out of the drawer almost involuntarily. On one side is a picture of Djelila, the familiar school ID picture; on the other side is a picture of Majid at the time of his arrest. I do not remember any of it. The picture is blurry, the frame small. His hoodie covers his head, so it’s difficult to make out his face. He is handcuffed. A man, a police officer probably, is holding his arm.
The article mentions a phrase that the police—without any doubt—fed to the journalists following the murderer’sfirst questioning: “I swear on my mother’s head, I wanted to teach her a lesson, so I had to do something big.”
My eyes scan the first lines of the article.
A sixteen-year-old girl died yesterday, burnt alive in the basement of the Lilac housing projects .
The alleged murderer, a minor who knew the victim and lived a few buildings away from her, offered no resistance and has been arrested. Paramedics and emergency room doctors could do nothing to save the victim .
Everyone in the Lilac projects demands justice .…
“Dead.” “Burnt alive.” “The victim.”
All these words are about my sister, Djelila.
For nearly a year now, I have retreated to my room. I come out only to eat and run some errands at hours when the projects are empty. For nearly a year I have created this jail to punish myself for not saving you. I have created this refuge so I won’t have to think that you are no longer here—and that you will never be coming back. Never. I thought about running away. I wanted to forget you, to stop the pain. But it isn’t that easy. Wherever I go, whatever I do, your memory haunts me. Djelila.
Today a ray of sunshine comes through my bedroom window, our bedroom window, and floods your comforter. Just like on the day you died. Yes, there was a day when you died. That day exists. You are dead. I close my eyes, trying to forget, but I cannot.
This morning a letter came for me in the mail. I put it on my desk without paying attention to it. Now I push thenewspaper back and open the envelope. It is a letter to all seniors enrolled in correspondence courses, reminding us to register for the final-year exam. The exam I was unable to face after your death and put off for a year.
No use trying to work any more today. I am in no mood to understand what I’m reading; my mind is simmering with fears, doubts, and anger. I grab my head scarf from the back of my chair and adjust it on my head with
Similar Books
