The Guardian
The Guardian

I woke up to the sound of weeps and shrieks. My home was on fire. My bed was on fire. My sister’s “Winnie, The Pooh” bag was on fire—my pretty Barbie dolls, my big, blue balloon sofa, the pink walls—all consumed by the blistering flames. I was afraid to get out of the room. I heard my mom wail out my name in refuge. Heart slippery between shivering legs, I looked for my sisters. I looked for my brother. I couldn’t find anyone. My name was blurted out again—in muffled sobs. Doorknob black like charcoal, I pressed it with tiny, bare hands only to open the gateway to hell. I lowered my gaze as to protect my eyes from the violence of fiery blazes. I heard the voice of my dad. I became hopeful—the Guardian of our realm. I followed his voice.

I approached the entrance of our home in alarm. I found my family. I found my sisters and brother. They had been long informed of the accident. They stood still—on fire.

They all wept—on fire. My big sister was infuriated—on fire. My second sister was shocked—on fire. My little brother was quiet—on fire. I stood next to them. I was disappointed. We all watched the scene before us. We all wept.

The flames caught me too. I was disappointed—on fire.

My mom and dad stood before the entrance door. They were in the circle of fire. Everything was on fire—except for that exact spot where they stood—where he stood—the Guardian.

My mom was on her bare hands and knees. She cried. My dad stood on top of her, hands clenched around her neck. He pressed and pressed.

We all wept—on fire.

My mom sobbed, “The kids, Ya Brahim.” He pressed and pressed. He grit his teeth in aggression, “I told you. I told you to stop—stop.” He grinded.

“Stop,” he pushed.

“Stop,” he struck.

“Stop,” he slapped.

He opened the entrance door and got out of the circle of fire—out of our home.

The fire ceased inside our home. The walls were white again. The curtains were flowing with color. Pictures on wooden round tables were—new—vibrant with glee.

The four of us stood still before the weeping of my mom. The five of us kept on burning—though the fire ceased inside our home.

We are still burning.
['Nour Kobrosly']
['Children Rights', 'Womens Rights', 'Domestic Violence', 'Physical Abuse', 'Violence']