Chapter Three
Safia
Survivor’s Remorse
“Boom!”
Every morning, I was thrust out of a bad dream at the same time. The dream always started the same way, with the soft hum of a normal day.
I see my father at the kitchen table, his eyes glued to the screen of his laptop, fingers moving swiftly across his keyboard. My mother is at the other end of the table urging him to leave his work at home. Stephanie beams with anticipation of finishing breakfast so we could leave our home in Auburn to travel to Destin. The dream feels painfully familiar and hauntingly serene.
Then, the dream shifts. We arrive in Destin and my father makes an unplanned stop in a beautiful, newly developed part of Destin. My mom, sister and I go inside a market. My dad, preoccupied by a phone call, stays by the car.
I run into Lucy, feeling a rush of joy at seeing her. We hug and start catching up. Lucy and I trail behind my mom and sister, still talking and laughing. We stand by the door, watching as everyone gets into the car.
After saying my goodbyes, I take one step toward my family, who are all sitting in the car, waiting for me. I notice an SUV creeping by before it speeds off. Then, the sound hits me—the deafening roar of an explosion.
I see the car engulfed in flames, the force of it throwing me to the ground. I scramble to my feet, my heart pounding in my chest. “Mom! Dad! Stephanie!” I cry, my voice lost in the panic around me.
And then I woke up, drenched in sweat, heart racing, tears flowing down my cheeks. The sound of the explosion still echoed in my ears, a cruel reminder of the nightmare I couldn’t escape. Every morning, it was like the sound of my family’s car bombing was my daily alarm, dragging me back to that day, that moment, that loss.
I wrapped my arms around myself and murmured “I’m so sorry…” to my family. I hated that they were gone, and I was still here.
I wiped away the flood of tears pouring down my cheeks. It’d been two years since my family was killed, and it felt like it was yesterday. Grief had overtaken me. It owned me. Shook my very core. I did everything I could to overcome it. Yet, grief was still winning.
The police didn’t know who had murdered my family or if they would come back to hurt me, so I was in protective custody until the case was solved. At the rate the investigation was moving along, that could be forever.
Because I was underage at the time of the bombing, my uncle agreed to be my guardian and to go into the protective custody program with me.
I glanced at my closed curtains, a reminder that I lived in constant caution, not even allowing the sun in to kiss my skin in the morning for fear that someone might be creeping around, peeping through my window.
I was in a new city with a new identity. There had been no threats against me since the day my family died, but there is always that fear that the next moment will be the last. I had experienced such a moment, so I knew how easily one could be here one moment and gone the next.
As much as I tried to hide it, I broke completely apart every time I thought about my family, and I thought about them all the time. I hoped Marcello didn’t see me fall apart right in front of him yesterday, when I so desperately tried to hold myself together.
I shouldn’t be thinking about Marcello, the boy my uncle forbade me to see again. The boy who had lines of concern etched into his face over my visceral response to his casual mention of his family business.
A sense of dread and hope warred for my attention.
Hope won because today was another rehearsal for our school production of Romeo and Juliet, and I could hardly contain my excitement. Joining the theater was the one thing I was allowed to do besides attend school. It was the one place where I could go to try to feel normal. To not feel like the girl that lost everything two years ago.
I quickly dressed and grabbed a bite to eat. My uncle was already outside with the car running. He most likely had walked the property around our house and scanned the neighborhood for unusual people or vehicles.
As we made our way to the theater, a flutter of nerves danced in my stomach. When I arrived, the place was alive with energy as my fellow cast members gathered, each of us buzzing with anticipation for the day ahead. The director led us through warm-up exercises, and soon we were immersed in the world of Shakespearean tragedy, our voices filling the space as we brought the timeless tale of star-crossed lovers to life.
I played the role of Juliet, the young and passionate daughter of the Capulet family. It was a challenging role, but one I embraced wholeheartedly, relishing the opportunity to embody such a complex character.
As rehearsal ended, I left the theater, still buzzing with the adrenaline of the performance. The evening air was cool against my skin as I stepped onto the sidewalk, my thoughts consumed by the play and the character I inhabited.
And then I saw him.
Marcello stood across the street, his gaze fixed on me with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. He was gorgeous in a way that made my heart skip a beat. I found myself unable to tear my eyes away from him.
Before I gathered my feelings and thoughts on the matter, my uncle James appeared at my side, his expression stern.
“I got out to come get you to make sure the guy giving you the googly eyes stays away. You are to stay away from him too,” he warned, his voice low but firm. “ I’m telling you now Safie, he’s nothing but trouble.”
My heart sunk at his words. Marcello was intriguing, but I couldn’t afford to get involved with someone who could lead me down the wrong path. And at this point, I had to trust my uncle’s judgement, even though parts of me strongly resisted his assessment of Marcello.
As my uncle”s car pulled away from the curb, I stole one last glance at Marcello, our eyes locking in a silent exchange that spoke volumes.
After we stepped inside the safety of our modest home, Uncle James closed the door behind us and sighed. “Safia, I need to talk to you about something.”
I nodded. “Okay, sure.”
Uncle James took a seat at the kitchen table, motioning for me to join him. His eyes, once in this lifetime bright with laughter and warmth, now held a sadness that cut me to the core. Every day of our seclusion took a tiny piece of his soul.
I wondered if he saw the same sadness when he looked at me. Ever since the tragedy that killed our family, we had lived with the fear of danger lurking around every corner.
His voice was thick with emotion as he began. “I know things haven”t been easy since we lost your parents, but I need you to understand that I’m doing everything I can to keep you safe. You have to trust me when I tell you things.”
I sank into the seat across from him. “I trust you, Uncle James.”
Relief entered his weary eyes. “Good. All the boys hanging out on Handover Street corner are thugs with a future of jail or hell. You don’t want to get involved with any of them. I don’t even want them near you.”
“Uncle James, I—”
“No, you have to listen to me on this! You are the spitting image of my dear sister.” He reaches across the table, his rugged hand finding mine for a gentle squeeze. “You are all I have left of her, and I will do whatever it takes to protect you. Whatever it takes. I will not let some young thug ruin your life.”
“I know,” I replied softly, my trembling voice barely above a whisper. “I won’t let anyone ruin my life. You must trust that, after all that I’ve been through, I will make good decisions and be a good judge of character.”
He looked at me with those familiar, worried eyes. “You are a smart and obedient young lady. I’m proud of your strength and wisdom beyond your age,” he said, his tone gentle but laced with concern. “I just don’t want you to fall for the wrong person because you’re feeling lonely.”
“I… I sometimes feel lonely,” I admitted, my voice faltering. I turned away, my gaze drifting to the ceiling. The truth was, even though I had my uncle in my life, the longing for my family clung to me like a shadow I couldn’t escape. “I miss them every day,” I continued, the words heavy as they left my lips.
He let out a deep sigh, the sound filled with his own sorrow and frustration. “Me too, Safie,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I wish we could at least contact some of our other family. But if your mother were here, she would know what to tell you in times like this.”
His words pierced through the haze of my thoughts, bringing a fresh wave of pain. The absence of my mother was a void that nothing could fill. I could see the same sadness mirrored in his eyes, a silent understanding that we shared the same heartache. The longing for her voice, her guidance, was a constant ache that never quite went away.
I wrapped my arms around myself, as if trying to hold together the pieces of my shattered world. “Momma always knew what to say,” I whispered, more to myself than to him. The memories of her wisdom and warmth felt like a distant dream, just out of reach.
“Yeah, she did, didn’t she? My sister was a gem.” He stood up and walked around the table to wrap an arm around me. “I wish we could call your grandmother. She is also a master of knowing the right things to say.”
A tear slipped from my eye as I remembered the last hug I gave my grandparents, their warm embrace now a bittersweet memory. Because someone potentially wanted me dead, I had been separated from my entire family.
“I just wish there was more we could do to find out who did this to us,” I lamented, the frustration and helplessness clear in my voice.
Uncle James’s gaze was reassuringly steady. “They will get what’s coming to them one day, Safia,” he said, his voice firm. “But for now, we need to focus on staying safe. That means no unnecessary risks, no getting involved with anyone who could put you in danger.”
Marcello”s face flashed through my mind. The person I trusted most in the world thought he was dangerous and warned me to resist this temptation.
Though conflict gnawed at me, I replied, “I understand.” The idea of being careful, of constantly watching my back, had become second nature. “I”ll be careful,” I said finally.
Uncle James squeezed my hand gently. “Good,” he said, his tone softening. “Be ready to spar in thirty minutes. It’ll be a good way to direct our sad energy.”
I nodded, appreciating his way of gently steering me back to the present. Sparring had become our routine, a methodical way of gaining mental clarity while building my strength and preparing me for whatever threats might come our way.
Thirty minutes later, I stood in our makeshift sparring room—a spacious area in the basement, outfitted with padded mats, punching bags, and an assortment of training equipment. It was a practical space, devoid of the warmth that characterized the rest of the house we had made into our home.
Uncle James was already there, adjusting his gloves. He looked up as I entered, giving me a nod of encouragement. “Ready?” he asked, his eyes assessing me.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I replied, trying to inject some lightness into my voice. I moved to the center of the room, shaking out my hands and trying to clear my mind.
Once gloved, we began our routine, moving through a series of basic drills—jabs, crosses, kicks. Uncle James was relentless but patient, pushing me to my limits while always keeping a close eye on my form and my stamina. Each strike and block was designed to teach me precision and control, to build the kind of strength that would not only protect me but also fortify my spirit.
“You’re getting faster,” he remarked, stepping back to give me space to practice a series of combinations. “Good. Keep your guard up.”
I focused on his instructions, the rhythm of the movements gradually overtaking the chaos in my mind. The physical exertion was cathartic, a way to channel all the grief and anger into something tangible, something I could control.
“Don’t forget to breathe,” Uncle James reminded me, stepping in to correct my stance. His presence was a steadying force, guiding me through each move with the kind of patience that came from deep love and concern.
As we continued, I could feel my muscles burning, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts. But with every punch and kick, I felt a little bit stronger, a little bit more in control. This room, with its stark walls and simple purpose, had become a sanctuary. Here, under Uncle James’s watchful eye, I was learning not just to defend myself but to reclaim my strength and confidence, piece by piece.
Eventually, we paused, both of us panting and glistening with sweat. Uncle James looked at me with a proud but weary smile. “You’re getting stronger, Safia. Every day.”
I nodded, too out of breath to speak.
“Let’s call it for today,” Uncle James said, offering me a towel. “You did good. We’ll keep working on this, keep building your strength. The goal is for you to be able to defend yourself if someone ever attacks you.”
I took the towel, wiping the sweat from my face. “Thanks, Uncle James. For everything.”
He just nodded, his eyes softening. “Go rest. We’ll pick up again tomorrow.”
As I walked back upstairs, my muscles aching and my heart still heavy, I couldn’t help but think of how my uncle was teaching me to defend myself when I really wanted to go on the hunt and attack whoever hurt my family.
As I lay in bed that night, rehearsing lines of Romeo and Juliet to bring a sense of calm to my mind, an image of Marcello’s handsome face fought its way into my thoughts. I owed it to my uncle to honor his wishes and stay away from Marcello.
I really hoped I had enough restraint to do it.