This little one-shot was written back in 2022. I originally wanted to post it but held off after getting feedback from my editors that the story doesn’t match how Kenan acts in the book after the hospital incident in Chapter 34 occurs which I absolutely see. Because I wrote this after Lemon Trees was already sent off to the printers. It came to me after I was already done with the book, and there wasn’t any room to make edits. One can argue that since the book is written from Salama’s POV, she was seeing what she wanted to see as a biased character. Or that Kenan was compartmentalising the trauma because his whole focus was on Salama and survival.

I sat on this story for a while just to see how I feel about it with the passing days, months, and years. Usually, I’m like Bratz voice meme video EWWWW when I go back to my old writing because I levelled up and gained some character development, but for some reason, when I read this story again right now, I didn’t get that voice in my head. To me, it’s still… good (I hope). I wanted to write the concept of a good man breaking. Also, to write something from Kenan’s POV, and that POV can just be summarised as clenches fist I just love my wife so much. I’m not surprised. And he would do anything for her.

So without further ado, please enjoy. The tags are hurt/comfort.

—————————————————————————————

a love so raw

(Kenan’s POV)

When his hand went to the holster, I knew exactly what was about to happen. The words I read on Facebook through the cracked screen of my phone were about to become my reality. Her eyes were wide, wider than I had ever seen them. And so helpless. And fixed on me.

He dragged that knife and I felt it on my own throat. The blood didn’t seep out immediately that I, for one wild second, thought the knife hadn’t sliced her skin.

But it did.

And the blood fell.

I opened my mouth to yell—

My eyes fly open. The room is dark, and my eyes take a few seconds to adjust. My chest heaves, my heart beating painfully against my ribs and my throat bone dry.

A nightmare. It was another nightmare.

I sit up, careful not to wake her. She’s deep asleep, which doesn’t happen often, so I don’t want to do anything to disturb those rare moments of peace.

My shirt is stuck to me from sweat. I splash cold water on my face in the bathroom and change into a new one. The digital clock in our bedroom reads 3:29 a.m. Sleep has abandoned me, and I don’t trust myself to try and bring it back. I don’t want to know if I’ll wake up in my nightmare right when the worst is about to happen.

But my mind doesn’t need the vulnerability I have in my sleep to pull me under the earth, where it suffocates every breath from my lungs.

I shuffle out of the bedroom, too exhausted to fight the memories overtaking my vision.

He cut her. Wanted to decapitate her like one does to lambs. She let out a small gasp, no sound of pain. Just silent shock. Her knees went slack. She stopped fighting and her arms dropped on either side. I could see the life evaporating from her body. The soul contained inside her was being released and I thought I was dying with her.

I’m in the kitchen, taking out a glass from the upper cupboard and filling it with water. The water gushing out of the sink drowns the thoughts in my mind, distorting the images like I’m seeing them through a fog.  

In an instant, her sweater darkened with red. Her eyelids dropped and I could see them dulling. Those beautiful, deep brown eyes that lit up like a fiery sun were dying out. I could hear my heart falling and breaking into a million, unsalvageable pieces.

“Kenan?” A whisper carries over the darkness and I look up.

Salama’s by the doorway in her pajamas, the night coating her silhouette. No sleep weighs her voice down, and I wonder if she truly was sleeping or just closing her eyes. Syria had taught her how to lie as still as the dead.

She’s alive, I remind myself. She’s alive and standing right in front of me. This is real.

She flips the switch on the lamp beside her, and a low light floods the small apartment, eliminating all the negative space between us. The curls on her short hair have tightened, creating ringlets that trip over themselves to touch her skin.

“Everything okay? Why are you awake?” she asks.

It’s been four years since she knelt beside Lama’s fragile body, determination blazing in her eyes. It’s been four years since I fell in love with her when she saved Lama’s life. And I love her more with each passing day.

“I’m fine,” I say, managing to pull together a reassuring smile for her.

She raises an eyebrow before striding towards me and pressing a cool hand against my forehead.

“You’re hot,” she says.

“Thank you.” I grin, but she doesn’t smile.

“Kenan,” she begins, raising an eyebrow. I clear my throat.

“Nightmares,” I say, hoping shrugging will ease the weight of that word.

Her eyes search my face and then she nods when she reads the truth on my expression. I can never keep my thoughts and feelings hidden from her. I can never deceive her with a masked look.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.

Blood. So much blood that I’m sure it has permanently stained her skin. I stare at her neck, a wave of relief washing over me when I see no blood.

I shake my head. “I think I want to be alone for a bit.”

Her palm is against my cheek, and she gives me a small smile. “All right. But we did promise we would talk to one another.”

“We did. And I will.”

“Okay.” Satisfied, she turns to head back to bed, but my body reacts on instinct, and I catch her hand, spinning her to me before hugging her tightly. She’s so small in my arms, even after all this time. Her hair smells like lilies under a summer sky.

Salama doesn’t say anything. She just holds me, arms linked around my back. After a minute, she untangles herself and her eyes look wet. But she turns away and goes back to the bedroom without a word.

I stare after her. Words don’t come easily to us. We sometimes say too much and at others too little but finding the right ones are much more difficult than we realized. So we speak through hugs and gentle touches. We speak through warmth.

I sit down by the kitchen table and down the whole glass in one go. It’s a cool waterfall and I didn’t realize how parched I was.

“Save her!” I yelled, looking wildly at Dr. Ziad.

My mind didn’t grasp what happened in the last five minutes. All I knew was that the Free Syrian Army was here, and I was able to run to Salama. One of the FSA soldiers got to the soldier who nearly decapitated her before I could get to him. He wasn’t killed, but I didn’t care at the moment. Salama had hit the floor with a crack that made my stomach twist, and somehow, the blood gushed out even more. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t do anything but rush to her.

Dr. Ziad was kneeling right beside her, his face taut with fear. His hands pressed against her throat while he shouted to anyone who would listen to bring some gauze. Salama’s eyes were closed, blood smeared all over her face and her lips tinged blue. She was as pale as death. Her hands cold in mine.

I cannot bury her.

Oh God, please not her.

I shudder in a breath.

This apartment feels too small. Too suffocating.

So I grab my coat, and as quietly as I can, slip into my sneakers and head out.

The streets are empty at four in the morning. My lungs work better outside, and they welcome the chilly early morning air. The sky is a bruised plum with wisps of feathery white clouds. It’s vast, and the longer I stare at it, the more I feel like my feet are about to rise from the ground.

I shake my head and head to the nearby park beside our apartment building. It’s a great one that I love to visit and draw in. There are swings, a slide, monkey bars, a seesaw, a merry-go-round, and a multi-play station area. Lama would love it here. 

No, I remind myself. She wouldn’t.

She’s not nine years old anymore. She’s thirteen, and when I spoke to her yesterday, she was telling me about the Polaroid camera our aunt and uncle gave her. She has three best friends in school, and German has very much infiltrated her Arabic. More and more during our phone calls, I’m starting to recognize her less and less. My baby sister is becoming a stranger to me.

Yusuf is seventeen now, and every single time I see him when we video chat, I’m taken aback by how much he’s grown. He’s still soft-spoken, a certain anxious energy clinging to him. He assures me it’s because finals are at the door and he wants—needs—to be accepted into the medicine program at the university in Berlin.

They give me glimpses of their lives— the footnotes. And I’m standing outside, watching through a window.

My hands form fists, and I try to ignore the clench in my heart. I miss them. They have their own inside jokes and experiences. And I’m a memory.

I sit on one of the empty benches, watching my breath form plumes in front of me.

There are times when I have no idea what I’m doing. When I feel like I’m drowning on land. Everything feels pointless. How did we escape? Will this black hole inside my soul ever close up?

Every time I close my eyes, I can see her dying. I remember the exact terror and desperation I felt when she was lying there. These memories have not faded, and I doubt they ever will.

“Come on, Salama!” Dr. Ziad pleaded as he sewed the wound on her neck while Nour performed CPR. I squeezed Salama’s hand, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest due to Nour’s efforts.

The blood had stopped pouring out, but I was still kneeling in it. I was soaked in it. And the metallic smell burned my nose and made my head spin.

“There’s no heartbeat,” Nour finally said in a low voice, her hands slowing down. “I’m not getting anything.”

“No,” I growled. “No. Don’t stop.”

Nour looked pained. “Kenan—”

“Please.” My voice was getting desperate and my eyes stung. “Please. Keep trying.”

She nodded.

I trained my eyes back on Salama and wondered how she could look this beautiful even now. Even with her hollow cheeks and sharp chin. She looked beautiful. I remembered her lips kissing mine. The twinkle in her eyes when she smiled—really smiled. How the first time I made her laugh, I was sure flowers were about to bloom all around us. The first time she said my name in my apartment before she knew who I was, was a high like I never felt before.

Dr. Ziad stuck a needle in the crevice of Salama’s elbow that was connected to a long tube where the end was attached to a soldier from the Free Syrian Army’s own elbow crevice. Blood squeezed through the tube, moving slowly until it reached Salama.

“He’s a universal donor,” Dr. Ziad explained when he saw the question on my face. “It might help.”

Might.

How I hated this word.

She might die. She might scar. She might never open her eyes. She might be buried.

All these uncertainties were going to choke the life out of me.

What was I going to do if she died? I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I have suffered enough. God, I have suffered enough.

When Mama and Baba died, I didn’t see it happen. Baba died trying to save Mama when a bomb fell where we were walking. He told me to take Lama and Yusuf and run back home. To not look back. We waited hours, but they never made it home and I knew. I knew where they were.

I didn’t see death like this. He happened around me to my loved ones, but I had never seen what he did.

Until now.

Death was cold. Relentless and infectious.

I should ask her that. If one could catch death, when the person who held their heart had died.

“Salama,” I said in a raw voice. “Please. Please, open your eyes.” I cupped her cheeks, lifting her chin up. Her eyes were shut and I couldn’t see the pools of honey. Blood flecked over her face like freckles. I would draw her, immortalizing her in paper forever because she couldn’t just live in my memories. “Salama, my love. Don’t leave me here. Don’t do that. We still have a whole life to live, remember? Please, Salama. Open your eyes.”

But she didn’t.

A commotion happened behind me, and I turned around to see that one of the military soldiers was resisting and trying to flee.

And suddenly I was no longer mourning.

Red colored my vision and fire burned my veins. It was the same one who tortured her. The same one who touched her. My hands shake.

The soldier was able to land a blow to one of the FSA soldiers and I could see that he had an opening to make a run for it. To escape.

I glanced at the soldier giving his blood to Salama. His gun peeked out of the holster, the handle just within reach.

Time unfurled slowly in front of me.

“Kenan,” Dr. Ziad said slowly. “There’s still no heartbeat. She’s gone.”

“Kenan,” A voice breaks me out of my memories.

Salama stands in front of me. She’s wearing her blue coat, her hands tucked in the pockets. Her grey hijab is wrapped firmly around her neck under a wool scarf. The sky is a dark blue. The sun must be rising now.

The park is still empty, some of the swings stirring in the breeze. The metal links clanging. A few birds chirp and take to the skies.

“You didn’t have to follow me,” I say. “I’m okay.”

She shifts her weight to her other foot. “I’m not.”

I blink.

She sits beside me on the bench, looking right ahead and I stare at her.

“I’m not okay when you leave,” she murmurs and then goes silent.

Right. She was alone for six months, and she had no idea. God, the absolute shock and fear in her eyes when she realized Layla was a figment of her imagination makes me dizzy. I never want her to feel like that ever again.

“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling the stab of guilt. “I really thought you’d be asleep.”

Her lips quirk into a small smile. “It’s okay.”

We fall silent again.

“If you don’t talk to me, I’ll worry,” she says. “And it will create this distance between us and I don’t want to wake up one morning and not recognize you.”

I nod. For the last four years, we have done just that. Even when it felt like our tongues were heavy as lead and our souls even heavier. The fear of becoming strangers to one another was what fueled us.

“I was remembering the day you almost died.” I stretch my fingers and crack my knuckles. “Sometimes, it’s the only thing I think about for days. And I remember it so clearly. Every single detail.”

Salama stills.

“I think about if the FSA were a second too late, you wouldn’t be here. I think if there wasn’t a soldier there who could give you his blood, I would have buried you.”

She swallows. “Yeah,” she whispers. “I think of that too.”

The words flood out of me like a dam. “I think if that soldier had done more than touch you. You’d probably not want me anymore.”

At this, she looks at me, confused.

I shake my head. “I wouldn’t know how to help. We were in Syria. Where would we find the help you need? I’d mess up and you’d resent me and then… you’ll actually see that I’m useless and all I do is put up a brave façade.”

“Kenan, no,” she says firmly. “If that soldier had… if he—” She takes a deep breath. “I would survive it. We would survive it. He has no power. He had no power back then and he most certainly doesn’t now. I’m a healer and I am determined to not let a wound fester on anyone. That includes me.”

I close my eyes. Her words lighten the weight in my heart.

Her hands hold mine and I stare at the scars on them. They look like vines. I want to paint inside them.

“You fought for me,” she whispers. “Unarmed and against four soldiers. They had a gun to your head. You faced death for me.”

I glance at her. “And I’d do it again and again and ag—”

She leans towards me and kisses my lips.

The sun is up, but I think she’s the sun. Despite the cold, her lips are warm against mine, and I tilt her chin up, deepening the kiss.

“Salama, for you,” I whisper, cradling her cheeks. “I would do anything.”

A sigh escapes from her.

And I mean it.

I meant it.

The gun was in my hand, and the love of my life was on the floor with her eyes closed and her body getting colder. I was going to bury her later. This soldier was the reason. He took her away from me. He took countless lives with a sadistic smile. He betrayed Syria.

And now he was running away.

I knew how to use a gun. My grandfather taught me when I was fifteen years old. He was an ex-military man, and he trained me on how to use a gun.

 I aimed it right at his back and fired with no hesitation.

It went straight under his left shoulder, in the middle, where his rotten lungs were.

The soldier let out a gasp, fell to his knees and keeled over.

I watched with a satisfaction that came alive from the cruelest part of my dying heart. But what heart did I have anymore? Children were slaughtered like sheep by the military, women were raped in the detention facilities, men were hanged and shot for protesting for freedom. Infants were tortured. And now Salama was dead. She was dead and I was going to bury her. Her weight would make my arms tremble when I lowered her into the ground. Just as how I buried my parents. And then I would have to leave Syria— leave her here for the sake of my siblings.

I lost everything.

And I was going to lose myself.

Suddenly, the gun was out of my hand and in one of the Free Syrian Army soldiers. He looked at me with shock.

“You could have hurt yourself!” he scolded.

I started to retort when I heard Dr. Ziad laugh with relief.

I whirled around to see Nour crying and holding Salama’s hand while Dr. Ziad was praising God.

“She’s alive!” he cried out. “Alive!”

All the feeling went from my knees, and I half stumbled towards them.

I knelt beside her, carefully holding her head up. “Salama, sweetheart, can you hear me?” I croaked out.

She mumbled something, eyes fluttering before closing again.

“That’s enough blood,” Dr. Ziad said to the FSA soldier, his eyes shining. “Thank you so much.”

The soldier just nodded, smiling.

I brushed her cheeks, pressing my forehead against hers. “Thank God. Thank God. I got you, my love.”

We walk back home, hand in hand, and I can’t stop looking at her. When we arrive and after we pray Fajer, she goes out to the balcony to check on the lemon tree and sits by her small garden as she does every morning. The lemon tree is growing well, but Salama said it would take five years for us to see fruit. That’s okay. I waited nineteen years for Salama to show up in my life.

When she comes back inside, the tension has lessened in her eyes, and she looks happy.

I open my arms, and she jumps into them, wrapping her legs around my waist.

Kissing her is a privilege I never want to stop being worthy of.

When I kiss her, everything goes quiet. There are no worries, fears, or anxieties. Nothing matters but her. When we’re in bed and I press my ear to her chest and her heart beats with life, I never feel more at peace. When she gazes at me with her doe eyes, her fingers in my hair, I think I’m in Heaven. I make sure to worship the scar on her throat, my hands tracing her outline and I wonder how I’d like to draw her next.

I think of how our love was forged from pain and loss.

I think of how despair made me kill. I think of that black hole in my heart that was created when death rained on my family and how it slowly grew and grew with each pair of milky eyes closed. The way it took over me completely when I thought I lost Salama.

I don’t regret what I did.

But I don’t want to burden her with that knowledge either.

I look away, and she leans back, blinking.  

“What is it?” she asks, a hint of accusation in her voice.

I chew my tongue. “Do you think there are actions that are justified in certain moments?”

“Yes,” Salama replies immediately with no hesitation. She sits up, playing with the hem of her sweater.

I follow suit, watching the scars on her hands. They ripple like waves with each movement.

“What I did to Samar…” she says and then bites her lower lip, remorse flushing her face red.

“No,” I say, alarmed. “That’s not—I didn’t mean you.”

She blinks. “Then what did you…”

She trails off, gazing at the wall behind me, and I can see her staring off, her brain processing. Piecing a puzzle I’ve left the pieces scattered in our conversations all morning. I don’t say anything. I half hope she doesn’t reach that conclusion, but my wife is too smart.

I study her expression, waiting to see a change. If she tightens her lips or if shock makes her eyes go wide.

Finally, she looks up. “Yes,” she says.

“Yes?”

“Yes, actions are justifiable.”

I stare at her, but she doesn’t say anything else. She just climbs back into my lap and wraps her arms around my shoulder. We talk through touches. Through warmth.

“You’re not going to ask any questions?” I whisper.

“I don’t need to,” she replies, threading her fingers through my hair, and I sigh.

“Then tell me you love me,” I murmur along her ear. She shivers and tilts her head back. I squeeze my eyes shut, focusing on the rhythm of our breathing until whatever anxiety running through me relaxes. I need her soothing voice. I need to hear those words. Because sometimes the words fade from my memories unless I draw them. Unless I draw her. Because if I don’t have something tangible to hold on to, I think I’d imagine it. I think I don’t deserve it.

I open my eyes.

Her hair tumbles over her eyes, and I brush it away. Her smile is warm, and I don’t think she’s ever been more beautiful. All soft edges and heavy-lidded honey irises with the morning light flooding her in gold. She looks like one of those muses from ancient Arabia that poets wrote sonnets about. She looks like she’d inspire a whole museum filled with statues and reimaginings of her. I could draw her forever.

“I love you,” she whispers, sounding like a violin melody.

“Again.”

Her smile deepens. “I love you.”

A soft kiss on her lips. “Again.”

“I love you.”

We stay like this. Time doesn’t exist with us sometimes. It’s us, getting lost in one another in a love so raw, it never heals.