Black Keys (The Colorblind Trilogy #1) (59 page)

It made me also realize why the guards had lowered their gazes in my presence–in any woman’s. I’d assumed they were ordered to do that by the king or something. They were, but from the king of all kings. From God.

Mazen had sinned by touching me, something I knew he didn’t like to do–he was too religious. But he had also sinned a lot for my sake when he lied over and over again to save me from any harm.

He did care for me. A lot. And the knowledge was bittersweet.

I couldn’t stop myself from Googling his name. I found his picture, printed it, and slept with it every night. It wasn’t much, but it helped me a lot. And every time my tears ruined it, I’d print another. It was the closest I was able to get to him.

After I paid for the little crystal horse and left, I entered a café to get a cup of coffee. The line was long, but I didn’t mind: I had nothing better to do. As I was waiting, I checked my e-mails as the line got shorter and shorter, moving with it absently as I read through my e-mails, and then it happened.

“I just want a cup of coffee, sir, nothing more,” I heard a quiet feminine voice saying and, for some reason, it grabbed my attention.

“Go away! I don’t serve Muslims,” the guy behind the counter said, and my eyes widened.

“You won’t serve me because I’m a Muslim?” the girl asked. I had to move my head a little to the side to see her. She was just a girl my age or even younger with a headscarf covering her hair.

“Yes, you’re a terrorist,” he replied, and the shock just froze me in place.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me, get out of my shop, take your jihad, go back to riding your camel and just–leave,” the guy waved her off. I felt so terrible that my throat started to tighten just hearing the way he spoke to her.

“I’m an American citizen and I have rights!”

“No, you’re not American!” he replied back.

“Yes, I am,” the girl insisted, “I was born and raised in America!”

“It doesn’t make you an American,” the guy shrugged.

“Seriously? What makes
you
?”

“How do I know you’re not hiding a bomb in there under that towel on your head?”

“Are you seriously not going to give her the goddamn cup of coffee because she’s a Muslim?” a girl who was behind me in the line asked.

“I sure won’t.”

“Okay, you just lost a couple of customers, just so you know,” the girl behind me said, and then left the line and the shop. I just stood there, watching the scene playing out around me with shock.

“Make that three,” an African-American guy said, and was about to leave when the vender called after him, “You’re not a good American.”

It was then that the guy turned to him and said, “No, sir, I’m a good American. I just served in Iraq for over a year. It has nothing to do with her rights, and what you just did is highly offensive. She’s a human being and deserves to be treated with respect and dignity.”

“I’m a good American and a devout Christian, and I have to protect my customers.”

“You’re white and you have a cross tattoo on your neck. How do I know you’re not one of the KKK? I’m a black atheist and should be afraid of you, right? How do I trust you not to burn me on a cross?”

“I–uh...those people don’t represent us,” the vender replied.

“They call themselves devout Christians! Aren’t you?”

My head was spinning, and I felt as if I was going to throw up. I had to leave this place, I was choking up with my tears. I wanted to call out the vender on how disgusting and racist he was, but...I couldn’t. I felt like a liar, like a hypocrite, because I knew that three weeks ago...I would’ve agreed with everything he was saying. Heck, I would’ve given him a thumbs-up.

What was wrong with me?

Was I really one of those racist people? Why couldn’t I just be colorblind? Why did I only see
all Muslims
as terrorists? Like the guy said, if all Muslims were terrorists, why were all Christians not thought of as KKK members? I knew in my heart that those people didn’t represent me, so why would I think that those who killed my grandfather represented all Muslims?

I left the café, and went to the nearest trash can. I sat down by it and threw my guts up, waving a girl away when she asked if I was okay. But then, she insisted on holding my hair up for me; that was kind of her. When I was finished, I was shocked beyond words to find that it was the very same Muslim girl who didn’t get her cup of coffee, only because of her beliefs.

“Are you sure you’re okay? I can call a cab for you,” she said.

“N-no, I’m fine,” I told her, wiping my mouth with the tissue that she handed me. “Are
you
okay?”

“Me?” she smiled. “Yeah, why are you asking?”

“Um...the café, the ve–”

“Oh! No, it’s cool, I’m used to it,” she replied with a shrug.

“Used to it?” I asked with shock.

“Oh, trust me, when I only get called a terrorist and Osama’s lover, it’s a good day–at least I don’t get physically attacked.”

“Are you serious?” I gasped.

“Yeah, things are tough for us since 9/11, you know? Every day is a struggle,” she said, and my already-broken heart broke a bit more. “But it’s my country: I love it and I can’t leave it.”

It gutted me to realize that it was people like
me
who made things tough for her and others of her belief. But...this was my wake up call.

Back home, I sat on my bed, found a paper and a pen and started writing down my thoughts, because a wise man once told me it makes your thoughts clearer that way–and he was right.

My thoughts were too numerous, going everywhere, and I felt as if I couldn’t control them. It wasn’t the best feeling in the world.

After I wrote everything I wanted to write down, I started counting them.

Most of my thoughts were about Muslims and Islam. What I’d learned through my whole life–or better yet, hadn’t learned. Then, what I’d learned through my search for the keys of knowledge over the past two weeks, and in that week I spent in the kingdom.

I met people I liked, and people I loved. I met people I disliked, and peopled I hated.

I met people that made me laugh, and met others that made me cry.

I met people that made me feel safe, and met ones who threatened my life.

All of them were people. They were Christians, Jews, atheists and they were Muslims. But eventually, and before anything, they were people. And we were all alike.

All of my thoughts were about Mazen. What I felt about him, and what I wanted with him. How I missed him and how I ached for him. How my mind wouldn’t stop thinking about him for a second, and how my hands ached to touch his.

I knew in my heart that I wanted him, forever.

I loved him. I loved him so much. I had to be with him.

Our relationship wasn’t normal. But–who cares? That was what made it unique.

We got married then we fell in love.

We got divorced and then he told me he was falling for me.

Lovers kissed at sunset and we shared out first kiss as the sun was about to rise.

Lovers kissed facing each other and we kissed upside down.

People ate pancakes for breakfast and we had them for dinner.

He was a Muslim and I was Christian.

He was an Arab and I was American.

We were different. Very different. But in the end, we were a man and a woman. We were people. People with hearts. And all people were equal. God said that the heart is all that matters. And I loved his heart. With every sense in me. If there was one right thing I needed to do for myself, it was to be with him again. And if people around us made our lives hard, I didn’t care. I’d fight. He was worth it.

I got up, smiling as broadly as I could make my lips smile, brought my ring finger to my mouth and kissed my wedding rings that I had never been able to take off.

I’d found my black keys.

I knew what I wanted to do. I knew what I
needed
to do. I was never so sure about anything in my whole life as I was about being with Mazen.

Maybe it took Salma two months to get back to him, but it took me only two weeks, because her heart was much stronger than mine, and she couldn’t possibly love him more than I did. Nobody could.

One day, I told my grandmother that I didn’t belong in the world of the one I loved, and she told me,
“But, sweetie...it’s not lands and buildings that make a home; it’s people who do.”

And I believed her. Lands and buildings didn’t make a home. It was people who did. And he was my people. He was my home. I belonged to him. With him. And I had to be with him, near him. I needed to take a plane to get me there. To my home. Him.

Mazen.

White Locks

The Colorblind Trilogy Book 2

“Mazen is not in the kingdom?” I gasped.

Rose is a loved mother, wife, and a stay at home lawyer. Writing is her passion, and reading is her obsession. Music is her best friend and sarcasm is her speaking trend. One of her joys is bringing happiness to others and her biggest wish is that they stay true to one another. Through her stories, she wants to spread nothing except understanding, peace and love.

Additional Works

Pretty Faces and Dark Places by Rose B. Mashal Coming October 2015

The Colorblind Trilogy Book #2 White Locks by Rose B. Mashal Coming 2016