A Sentence
A SENTENCE
Then
Kian Rahimi was fifteen years old when he learned how one moment can change a person’s life forever.
For the longest time he had wanted nothing more than to be like his older brother, Mehdi. He had always looked up to him. Two years his senior, Mehdi was brave in a way Kian never could be. He stood up for what he believed in, had the kind of charisma that is rare—so much so that everyone who knew him wanted to be close to him so that Mehdi could rub some of his charm onto them and maybe they’d feel lighter, less restricted by their own self-doubt.
It was on the ride home from court, their dad silent in the driver’s seat, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white, their mum crying silent tears as she looked out of the window, that Kian realized he didn’t want to be like Mehdi anymore. That much confidence—such an abundance of it, at such a young age, as a brown boy in a white city—meant trouble.
It started small. Sneaking out of the house in the early hours, taking Mum’s car (never Dad’s) even though he was underage, or smoking weed at the back of school at lunch.
It wasn’t any of these things that got him sent away. Comparatively they were minor, though they added up. Soon the police knew Mehdi Rahimi, he was a recognized name, a notorious troublemaker. No one—not their teachers, the police, or even their parents—ever asked why he wanted to make trouble though. Why anyone would want to make trouble.
People are not born inherently bad or rebellious. It comes from somewhere. Kian still wonders, sometimes, whether he could have had the power to stop what happened to Mehdi all those years ago. Back then, they lived in Kirk Ella, on the wealthier side of Hull, East Yorkshire. Their driveway could fit four cars if they wanted. Their house was detached, three-story. They were new money, that much was clear to everyone. They stood out on their street. His dad’s impractical convertible sat out front, barely used. It was like his dad forgot they lived in England, in the North, and that the good weather only lasted four months of the year if they were lucky.
“This country,” his dad would begin, “it’s nothing like back home. Always rain, rain, rain.” Kian often wanted to retort, Well, why did you move us here? But he never did.
Every Sunday when he played footy with his friends it would pour down and they would play anyway, their feet sliding against the mud. He longed for the sun on his face, felt his mood perceptively lift when it did. He wondered if this longing, this need for sun, was in his blood, and whether his body knew he wasn’t from England, not really, not biologically. That Iran, with its scorching summers, was the climate that his physiology was accustomed to—even though he had only been there a handful of times and was not fluent in his own language.
His dad pulled into their drive that day and they got out of the car. Betty, their opposite neighbor, gave them a sad nod as they returned as a three, and not a four.
His mum, who was often so chatty, always luring her sons into the living room to watch TV and spend quality time with her, said nothing the whole car journey. She went directly to her bedroom and shut the door with a barely audible click.
“I’m going for a drive,” his dad said, picking up the key to his convertible from the side table by the door.
“Now?” Kian said. “Mum’s upset.”
His dad looked at him, sharp-eyed, raising a furry eyebrow. “We’re all upset.”
“Can I come?” As he said the words he knew they were wrong. But he didn’t want to be alone in this big house, not when Mehdi wasn’t in it and his mum was upset.
His dad shook his head and left. He didn’t even bother to shut the front door properly; it was left ajar.
Two years in prison.
Mehdi’s face had crumpled at the news. His usually smooth face, quietly confident, broken.
“The sentence can be halved with good behavior,” their lawyer told them afterward. “So one year, really. I know it’s not what we wanted, but it could have been much worse.”
Kian imagined his brother in prison, as it’s portrayed on TV, being forced into a gang, or beaten up in the showers or something. He imagined Mehdi lonely, wanting his family. He felt his eyes prickling, so he slapped himself hard across the face and focused on that pain instead. He tried to think of anything other than his brother being incarcerated for one whole year.