Wrong Place Wrong Time

My past has a striped black and white pattern. I am a Zebra. Whites are my youth, my children’s birthdays, career ups and immigration. Blacks stand for my bad luck and definitely for my being here.

My head is a gorgeous tender flower, still up in the air. I would be flawless but black balls of terrible headache spoil the picture. Doctors say it will soon go away, but I don’t believe them.

Two of my Zebra legs have roots. One leg belongs to Canada, where my home is. The other belongs to my native country. It is a beautiful land, lost on the map. By now it has been a Russian territory for almost five hundred years. My front legs have no roots and I can move them. I try to avoid the black balls, but it’s hard: they are everywhere. 

Yesterday I came to Moscow after 11 years of not visiting. I have a plane ticket for my home city, but I am not going: three hours ago I got blasted in the subway. I don’t know much, but I overheard that two women did it. They lost their husbands in war. People call them black widows. They were from a small republic, like my own.      

I don’t feel my body. My sick brain replays my life. Three patients from my ward have already passed away. I know I am the fourth. Other sixteen patients watch me. They still have a chance to survive.   

by Farida Samerkhanova