“Did someone hurt you?!” she asked, her face altered. I returned my gaze to her, almost feeling my soul leave my body. “Did what happened earlier have anything to do with it?” Her blue eyes shifted from my face to my sweatpants. She seemed to realize I couldn't speak and said the stupidest thing. “Do you speak English?”
I really wanted to laugh at this. You look at a Moroccan girl in New York and think she can't speak English, which is strange because Moroccans are expected to speak at least three languages. I ignored it and simply nodded.
“Don't worry, sweetheart!” she said as she tightened her grip on my hand. “I will protect you and get you the help and support you needs.” The nurse walked away from me and to the head of the nurses' front desks, where she whispered something to them, and they all looked alert and almost angry.
My gaze scanned their expressions; they were all moving too quickly.
Tik... Tik... Tik... That annoying clock is ticking again. I clenched my hands together, everything moving at a frighteningly fast pace, along with my racing heart.
Should I prepare for the worst now? Should I be scared that everyone will find out what happened?
I didn't mean to hurt Papa. I never meant to cause anyone pain or trouble.
I know I should listen to papa; I argued with him earlier today. I was stating the obvious: I'm no longer a little girl. I don't need him to pick me up from school every day.
None of this would have happened if I had simply listened to him.
I closed my eyes shut. I can’t cry, I can’t. I don’t deserve anyone to help me. Everything is my fault. I should have called him to pick me up.
But… I always walk in that street why did it happen this time.
Still, it is my fault.
We live in a crowded neighborhood; Papa moved here when I was a year old. My mother died just before my birthday. He eventually opened his own small Moroccan restaurant, which was very successful due to my father's intense dedication and mesmerizing cooking skills. Even though it was small, people from all over New York enjoyed it. It provided enough money for Papa to build us a stable life, and his name became well-known among locals, the handsome chef Rashid Alaoui.
Papa told me about his love for my mother. They were raised together and married in their freshman year of college. They were young and in love. He was pursuing a culinary degree, while she was pursuing a bachelor's degree in nursing. An accident occurred shortly after my birth, resulting in her tragic death. Papa refused to tell me anything about their lives other than the headlines. His conversations were always about her.
Just her.
He always complimented my eyes because they reminded him of hers; we both had hazel eyes and curved lashes. She had naturally ginger hair, whereas I have thick black hair like him. She was a beautiful woman; he always carried her picture with him, close to his heart. We had a ritual in which we had to tell her picture good night before he kissed me on the forehead. I swear I felt her kiss a few times, but I kept telling myself it was just my mind playing tricks on me.
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