Khasun—The Unique One

The lady doctor asks if I hate him, and I shake my head. Ommah always says we shouldn’t let hatred take root in our hearts. Of all her children, she loves —or used to love—me the most. She called me khasun, the unique one, for Allah had showered his love on me and created me with special abilities.

I’m Abi’s favourite too. I’m the only one permitted to sit on his lap and trace the rugged lines on his cheeks. He wears the scars with pride, trophies from bloody conflicts.

On the days his scars hurt, blood flowed from my mother’s and sisters’ bruised faces. “You are too young to play this game,” they would whisper, hiding me in the granary, my secret spot, until that day when Abi discovered it. The floorboard creaked and a storm erupted inside me. But Abi was happy after so long, and we played and played, until I fell into a deep slumber.

For some reason, Ommah didn’t like us playing. She fell on her knees and begged Abi to stop, but he walked away, whistling a happy tune. The next day, she packed my dresses, dragged me by my hand, and left me here—in my new home.

The doctor says this is a home for children like me – scarred and broken. I don’t want to be here. I want to go back home to my Ommah .

“Does Ommah hate me?” I ask the doctor. She waves her hand in the air, “la-la. A mother always does what’s best for her child, even if it kills her.”

When Ommah comes, I’ll promise her I’ll never play with Abi. And I’ll tell her this home is not for special ones, but for the scarred. I am her khasun, I don’t belong here.

This 300-word story is my submission for the #SeptemberWritingChallenge conducted by ArtoonsInn.