Hala Hamad

Hala Hamad It was the same dream that woke her up every morning, the dream that she wouldn’t remember its event but remember how it makes her feel. She pulled the blankets closer squeezing her eyes a bit more to stop the light from trying to wake her up, she rolled to the other side to find him, her comfort, but he wasn’t there. And just like every morning, with the feeling of missing someone, she gave in to the light and opened her eyes, feeling sorry for herself as she stretched her legs in her single bed, wondering if she’ll ever wake up feeling the warmth of someone else’s arms around her.

Now that she was facing the other side, her eyes directly landed on all the pills on her side table, the ones she popped to help her go through the day, stop her pains, physical and emotional, and a wave of helplessness wash over her, mixing with the ugly feeling of losing something and feeling sorry for her self.

The pile of the unopened bags, that were filled with her DIY unfinished projects hidden in the corner, reminded her that once more a week started, and another weekend ended, without her finishing what she started, just like everything else in her life, all the things she ran away from, all the commitments she never made, just to summon the feeling of guilt and blind it in with all the emotions that woke her up.

After popping 2 pills, and swallowing the remainder of the water in the 3 days old bottle, she walked to the toilet, avoiding looking at herself in the mirror.

Counting the things she should be doing once she reach the office, she pulled clothes from her closet, put them on, and forgot for some time about all the feelings that controlled her mornings.

Once she got ready she looked at herself in the mirror, trying to avoid contact with the person on the other side as if it wasn’t her reflection. The echo of loud laughter fill the tiny dressing room, and their gaze finally meet, on the other side of the mirror was someone who looked like her with a bunch of other people that looked familiar, making fun of her and her clothes, she opened the door of her closet and hid behind it, changing her clothes so many times till the laughs stopped.

And as she stood facing the mirror with sad eyes, the oldest pair of jeans, wrong size shirt, wrong size cardigan, her hair pulled back and her face with no makeup, the better looking reflection of her shot her an approving smile and a wink.

She looked at her scratched phone, she was late, 20 minutes late, just like every morning, like every day, every time she had to be somewhere, she ran to her car, and as the engine roared she prayed to have a good day, like she did every morning on her way to work., with tears running down her cheeks blurring her vision under the dark shades she hid behind.

And just like every morning, right after that traffic light, right after her prayers, she wondered why is she still alive when she’s so tired of living.

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