Some of Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Hiding and Waiting

The next morning, everything was explained, and I do mean everything. Maybe even too much. I was told even more about Allah, and how mentally sick the man was, not the Islamic view of God. I was told never to make fun of another religion’s beliefs, because it could make some people mad. God was not inside of Allah, and Allah (the man) is not holy, not at all.

I was told about how everything had gotten down here, having been pushed down the “slide”, which they called a “decline”. Then, it was all stored down here, in a very organized way. Daddy did most of the talking, including how he and Mama had been worried from the start of the story of a man being hit by a bolt of lightning that something like this might happen.

The tub by the toilet was for washing clothes, which we had a ton of water for. We also had a bunch of food, soap, medicine, and other stuff like that. I was told that we might have to stay in this room for a long time, either as long as it took for the crisis to be over, or, and this was said very sadly, until the bad people working for Allah found us.

“But,” said Daddy, “on a happier note, your Mama and I have a surprise for you. You’re going to have a little brother or sister soon.”

I just sat there in silence. I had figured that if I was going to have a younger sibling, he or she would have come a long time ago. I felt extreme happiness, but there was a shadow against the light. He or she would be born during these hard times, which meant that he/she, too, would go through these troubling conditions with us. The provisions wouldn’t last forever, so neither would we. It was a dreary thing to have to think about, but necessary all the same. I should have known this would end badly.

Most of our days were spend hanging around. There were books for me, probably more books than I would ever be able to read in my lifetime. There were supplies for Mama to paint, and do other artsy stuff. Sometimes I joined her, but mostly I read. I started a journal, documenting every insignificant little detail about our current lives. This I enjoyed greatly, I always had. I had realized long ago that my passion was in writing. Though now-a-days kids have more maturity than people two times my age, most simply didn’t like to write.

I could write about anything and everything, but my favorite was fantasy. I could dream up the most intricate and delicate worlds, with fairies and elves, and all manner of magical folk, anything to get away from the truth of the times – we were doomed. Either we would be captured by Allah’s men, or we would die. Well, I guess we’d die either way, but if we were captured, we would be able to die in old age or something like that. Sometimes in my story-travels, I would be flying with dragons, amazed by their bravery and chivalry. The she-dragons were elegant and purposeful, and all were wise beyond belief. I wish I was wise.

Then I would know what to do, to stay here or to give ourselves up, or something besides sitting around and waiting, since that’s all we were doing – waiting. Waiting to be found; waiting to run out of food or water; waiting for the baby to be born; waiting for our lives to continue, though how that could happen, I couldn’t possibly imagine, and that was saying something.

Well, one day, and I think it was a Wednesday, I was painting with Mama. We were both trying to remember what the sun on our bare skin felt like, so we were painting very bright, vibrant portraits. Mama’s was of the beach at full noon – the people lounging under huge, colorful umbrellas, the waves, and the glorious sun, so big that she could only capture a sliver of it, yet it was enough to light up the whole picture. I tried to make mine similar to hers, but, somehow or another, I ended up drawing a bunch of flowers. There was like ten gigantic sunflowers directly in the center, plus a bunch of smaller ones around them, each brighter and more colorful than the last. I was having a really good time, just relaxing and letting the troubles of today melt away.

I could tell Mama was doing the same thing. She was wearing one of her old smiles, so cheerful; you couldn’t help but smile in return. She looked calm and in control, she was in her special place. She had told me once that when she painted, she imagined she was in a special place, and that she felt like she was just painting what was around her. I didn’t quite get it, but she said it was her way to imagine herself out of our current situation. She looked so… something. I didn’t know how to explain it… just kind-of… at peace. I wished I could feel the same thing every once and a while…

I couldn’t think of any possible way for life to continue as it was before. No one would be the same, happy people we used to know. No one would be innocent from the evil that lurks just barely in the shadows. No one would be free, free to live the way they want, think the way they want, worship the way they want, to simply be they person they want to be. I could never be the old me. I used to be so happy, now I am quiet and down-trodden. I’m not free.

Mama told me that if the baby is a girl, her name will be Vanessa. If he’s a bouncing baby boy, his name will be Luke.