A Brighter Fear Read Online Free Page A

wanted there to be a knock at the door and when I opened it, for Mama to be standing in front of me with a smile on her face, the sun reflecting off her black hair, her green eyes glinting with love.
    I wanted her to pick me up off my feet and hold me tight, the smell of her wrapping round me, her warm breath on my skin, her eyelashes fluttering like butterflies on my cheek.
    And I wanted time to stop at that moment, and never start again.
    Papa said very little for the rest of the night and when I woke in the morning I was lying on the mattress pressed into the corner of the basement, a steaming cup of tea left on the floor for me.
    As I walked around the house that day, thoughts of Mama rushed around my head, and for the first time in a very long time I saw the shadow of her memory; fleeting, hiding in the edge of my vision. She breezed through the door after a day at work. She stood at the cooker, turning her head to smile at me, and strolled towards me while I sat at the table. I closed my eyes and felt her presence. I kept my eyes closed because I knew that when I opened them, she wouldn’t be there. Would she ever be there?
    I felt desperate to get out of the house, so I closed the door behind me, leaving those memories of Mama inside, and I called for Layla. Together we walked down to the river, barely a word shared between us, because the only words that came to my head were those of war and sadness.
    And as we walked I hoped that my friends would be there, that they were alive, as I always assumed they would be, as I used to assume Mama would be. It went without saying. Just as you assume your house will still be standing when you wake in the morning, the windows and the doors, the rugs and the curtains, were all there when I went to bed, as was Papa that day and my friends. Why shouldn’t they be there in the morning?
    Change was hanging over my city like a black cloud. I wanted to tell Layla about Mama, but the words weren’t there. I wanted to ask her about her family, but was scared to hear the answers. Instead we walked in silence, words not necessary, our friendship holding us together.

Everything became so wretched. Bad news came every day and to everyone. Good news was if you awoke in the morning, and if you survived the day. We lived as animals, thinking only of survival.
    How did I feel? Like I was living on a knife edge. Like there wasn’t enough air to fill my lungs. Like I should be grateful for being alive. Like I should be making the most of my life because it could so easily be taken away. But there was no way to do this. I was scared. So scared.
    Papa’s friend was killed and I cried although I barely knew him. He was running home, through a residential area, and a bomb landed. Not on him. Not close enough for him to be lifted off his feet with the force of the blast. But close enough for a piece of shrapnel to hit him in the stomach.
    He died in a hospital bed among hundreds of others, all waiting for a doctor or a nurse. He died with a six-year-old boy on one side of him, half a leg missing, his face and arms covered in dirt and blood.
    Rumours flew around like grains of sand. Americans killing civilians and children because they were in the way; Iraqis targeting their own, bombing their own civilians, yet blaming the Americans.
    Two of my friends’ houses were destroyed. They survived but were forced to live with relatives, their brothers and sisters sent in different directions, families divided. Those who left the country, I don’t know what happened to them, I wish I did.
    Then Baghdad fell.
    My city, my home, was occupied. Americans were everywhere. Tanks. Guns. Soldiers.
    It scared me. I didn’t know how to feel or what to do. My life was on hold. I wanted to go to school, but couldn’t, and worry filled what space was left in my head. What about my exams? My application to university? But there was nothing I could do about it. Everyone I met, everyone I talked to, had a million