*disclaimer* everything belongs to their respective owner. I only own the plot, Naseem, and her family. All my base are belong to someone else.
The Blue Bracelet.
27. That how old I turned today.
I'm 27 years old, Jobless, Homeless, and sadly single. Oh and I'm a witch.
Had I gone with the life plan I was born into I'd have been married by now, and a few kids, still be wearing that stupid veil, and in general being a blank-minded good little wife-drone living her life to the barest while my husband dealt with the important stuff.
The war changed that though. It cost me dearly, taking my mother Taji at first, and then later on my brother Arash. Although it started my 17 year long journey here, I can't help but wonder 'what if?'
On my journey I went from a terrified child in war torn Iran, to a war refugee in England. There my life changed completely. I found out I was a witch, became a student, and then set off as a hotshot business woman. Less then ten years later I found myself homeless on the streets with no prospects whatsoever.
My name is Naseem Omidi, and this is the story of my life, and how I died.
Ah 1984, that year has always had a place in my heart, for it was both a good and bad year. It was the year of the most convictions of reported death eaters, the year electronics were banned from Hogwarts, and the year I started there. It was the year my mother and brother died. It was also the year I left Iran.
June 22nd 1984, Tehran, Iran
It was near the end of school when the alarm went off. Our teachers rushed us to hide in the basement of the school, before the bombing started. Although the basement was very crowded from all the student and faculty being down there, no one said a word. Not a single peep was made as we heard the enemy's planes fly overhead. And then we heard it. The unforgettable noise of a bomb as it screamed down from one of their planes. It only lasted a second but it was enough to chill you to the bone. Some would say the sound of it exploding is the worst, but that horrible second of waiting is worse. That second where you wonder if you'll live the next second. If any of your family will. If that people down the street or their family will. As soon as we could no longer heard the planes we headed back up to the school.
As we slower ascended you could visibly see the nuns (our teachers) relax back to normal. Or rather tense back up from scared to strict, unfortunately for me in the slow bustle of 300 girls up the tiny staircase my veil was pulled back slightly to show my long black bangs by an overzealous girl a year younger then me by accident. Not that the nuns cared.
"NASEEM OMIDI! Get that Hijaab back on now!" one of them yelled at me. As I did, I noticed that instinctively the majority of the girls around me also straightened their veils as well because the nuns had eyes like hawks and could see if the tiniest speck of hair showed from underneath.
Although the teachers were returning to normal they were obviously shaken –as was everyone else- and in a momentary act of kindness allowed everyone to return home without the obligatory martyr session. I was on my way home when I heard a gaggle of older girls talking about the bombing. Out of curiosity I asked them where the missile landed. The radio they were holding answered that question for me:
'A missile has landed in the Tavanir neighborhood.'
Oh god. I lived in the Tavanir neighborhood.
I'm sure if you timed me I would have beaten a world speed record.
I suppose I should put in some back story. I lived in Tehran the capital of Iran with my father Charles, whom was half Iranian half British, My mother Taji whom was Iranian, My older brother Arash (15 at the time), and my younger sister Neena (6 at the time). We lived in a nice enough neighborhood I suppose. We weren't very rich but we were not dirt poor. However when the bombing started and regime settled in it didn't matter, Father couldn't get much work designing buildings when the enemies missiles just blew them up right afterwards. Although my family wasn't very religious we still respected the Muslim traditions. If we didn't it would be a fine or 25 lashes. We still lived a fairly happy life though.
But it all came crashing down the moment I got to our street. It was blocked off by the police but I could see from a distance that half the buildings on our street were in flames or in ruins. The police tried to block me but let me through when I explained I lived there. I was relieved to find my building was untouched unlike a majority of those on our street and ran up the stairs. I quickly unlocked the door to find our apartment was untouched. The duct tape and curtains we had put up to prevent the glass from shattering into the apartment worked beautifully. But my relief was short lived when I found a note on the kitchen counter saying that my mother would be visiting our neighbors The Jari's whom lived in the building across the way and that dinner was in the oven. A sickening feeling filled my stomach, and a glance out the small patch of uncovered window confirmed my fears.
The Jari's building didn't make it. I was ten years old and my mother was dead
I ran back downstairs not wanting to believe it. Thinking it must be some cruel joke. But the view of our street was even more horrifying then from what I saw in the window. I was full of tumultuous emotions mixing Horror, Rage, and despair all in one. Rage won out. I screamed a warlike shriek and started trying to pull away the rubble thinking maybe I could save her. Maybe she was in a pocket and survived. Maybe it would be okay. I didn't notice the sparks flying about my head or that the rocks seemed to get lighter. I had to save my mother. It was my one and only focus.
I dug until my fingers were rubbed raw and were bleeding, and my eyes were still so full of tears I could barely see. But I had to keep digging. I had to save my mother. And then I found the most horrifying thing a child could ever see. Although it may not sound terrifying it solidified the horror in me. I had found a hand. And worst thing was I recognized it. It was the hand that helped me walk. It was the hand that was led me through childhood. I had found my mothers hand, and nothing more. How did I know for sure? It had her beads on it. You see she had always had this little bracelet of blue beads she wore about her wrist. She had had it since she was a child.
It was then I felt something tapping at my shoulder. It was my father, with my siblings behind him.
"Come Nasa," he said using his nickname for me. My sister and I were his Neenie and Nasa. "there is nothing more we can do sweetheart. We must go home." I wanted to yell at him as he picked me up, then despair came over me. I went limp into his arms and wept.
Understandably dinner was a somber event. As we finished picking over our dinner it was time to put Neena to bed. After a small tussle with Neena whom hadn't grasped the concept that mother was dead –in fact none of us had but poor Neena had it the worst, she was only 6. It was almost surreal. Even though I KNEW my mother was dead every time I heard the door open and shut my heart would speed up. All I had was of my mother was her little blue bracelet.
Later that night my sister climbed into bed with me and we cried each other to sleep.
A/N: how was that? good? Bad? Terrible? Please review and please no flames. Actually send flames if you'd like it's rather cold and I need something to start the fireplace with.
~B