We were catching our breath in a narrow alley when the building next to us was hit by something and exploded. It was a miracle that it didn’t collapse on us. My ears were ringing, my eyes were red and burning from the grit in the air, and I tasted dust. I was scared. We were all scared. My parents ran, dragging me by my arms. Nowhere was safe and we ran to the only place we could reach. The open street. I don’t remember hearing the gunfire. My world suddenly went black. My name is Sarah Assad. I was twelve years old when I died.
You might be asking, “How are you talking to me if you’re dead?”
It’s a fair question. Well, my story is a little... complicated. I should probably start from the beginning. I wish I could remember everything from my first life but it was a very long time ago. I do remember being happy for most of it. I was an only child and my parents loved me. All my mother and father had ever wanted for me was to find a dream and to live life as best as I could. I was lucky. Many girls didn’t get much of a voice in their lives.
My father’s name was Khasim. It’s hard now to remember him when he wasn’t worried. But I do have these images from when I was really young, when things were peaceful. I can see him sitting for breakfast, reading his newspaper. The morning sunlight would sometimes glint off of his glasses. I can hear him laugh at one of my mother’s jokes and I can smell his coffee. I want to say he taught biology at a university. He wanted me to be educated. He had wanted me to go to university in Europe or America. That is why they named me Sarah. Some people did not look too kindly on those from my background so a name that was common to many circles seemed like a good option. He wanted me to have every advantage. My father was also a little hard on me with my studies and could come off as stern and cold. Dad wasn’t much for affection. I think it had something to do with his upbringing. He never spoke about it. My mother said his father was rough on him. I sometimes wondered if my father had wanted a son instead. Some men are like that.
One day I heard him tell one of my uncles, “I don’t care if I never have a son. My Sarah is strong and smart. She is my legacy.”
I never wondered again. I knew he loved me and was proud of me. My mother’s name was Nabila. She was our light in the dark times. She always had a brave face, but I could tell the decaying world around us was weighing on her. She was more affectionate than my father. I remember her laugh, her voice, and her smile. She lit up every room she walked into. She could diffuse tension with a few words or create it with just a look when it suited her. Maybe it’s just remembering her fondly, but I swear her clothes were always brighter and more colorful than what everyone else wore. Mom was really smart too. She taught chemistry, I think. Sorry, some of my memories are fuzzy now. Dad said I reminded him of her. I wasn’t so sure. I was never as brave as she was. Anyway, she was amazing. There was a story about mom getting in the face of some Imam about something. I don’t remember what it was. But apparently dad was hooked. He “fell in love with her fire.” He gave her affection. A lot. Sometimes it could be a bit much. But I think every kid gets like that about their parents. He loved her a lot. She loved him a lot. They loved me and I loved them.
It was going to be a nice, normal, happy life. I figured I’d find a good man to marry and have children. My husband was going to be handsome and educated. We’d have exactly one boy and one girl. Maybe a pet? But children and all that would come after university, obviously. Give me a break; I was young. In spite of the liberalness of my parents, I thought that’s what you do when you grow up. I’m not sure what I would have studied and I don’t know what I would have done for a career. I know for sure that I wouldn’t have been a stay-at-home mother. Not that there is anything wrong with that. But whatever path I took, it was going to be a good life. Best laid plans, right?
We were living in Syria. My parents were from Iraq originally. They left before I was born. I never knew exactly why they had moved, but I knew there was a war going on. I remembered on the TV and radio there was always talk about the Americans and their war. But that was over there. My parents didn’t speak about it much and it didn’t seem like it bothered them. That changed as I got older. They didn’t act like it, but I could tell worry was growing inside them. At school it was the same. Everyone talked about rumors that the war was “going to come here.” I didn’t believe them. Eventually our TV was never on and the radio was put away. Mom and dad would talk late into the night. Those talks became arguments. I could hear my mom begging my dad to take us somewhere in Europe. But their work and their life was in Syria. They would have to start over again from nothing.
All around us tension was building. You couldn’t really see it exactly. But you could feel it like the chill of cold air. Then it grew worse. People started going outside less and less. Then there were people marching in the streets. One day the shooting started. Then fighters from other countries showed up and they were followed by foreign military. Life was bending in a dark and fearful way. I heard someone say that we were in the middle of a civil war. It was frightening. Eventually there was a perpetual smell of smoke and the air sometimes looked hazy. Dad finally broke down and agreed that we couldn’t stay there anymore. We were going to try to get to Europe or maybe even America. It would be better, my parents told me. It would be hard but we would make it. They told me to be strong. It was going to be a long journey.
Dad had been stashing money for a while. One morning he got together what he had and we left on foot. He had a friend who could take us to the sea where we were going to get on a boat. My family had to cross a few blocks to meet his friend. We ran from street to street trying not to get shot. We were avoiding rebels, militants, government forces… everyone. Different people were fighting for control and sometimes you didn’t know who you were supposed to fear. All we knew was that we were trying to leave all this behind. I don’t remember how we got to that alley. I don’t even remember how long we had been running. I just know that my last moments were filled with fear.
I know that I died. I know because I was different when I woke up. I felt different. It was like my body was brand new and powerful. I didn’t feel weak or hungry. I’d never felt more alive. It felt good. I don’t really know how else to describe it. I thought that I must have made it to Jannah. It was a fleeting feeling. I remember opening my eyes and staring into the smoky and dingy sky. For a moment I was confused as to where I was and how I got there. Slowly the sounds of guns, explosions, and yells mixed with the smells of the burning and decaying world around me. This place was not divine. It wasn’t Paradise. Then I remembered I was with my parents. I remembered that we were running. I had to find them. When I turned my head I saw them lying next to me. My mother was on her stomach, her head turned towards me. I looked into her eyes. Her light was gone. She was gone. My dad was on his back, staring into the sky. He was gone too.
I cried out for them. Tears in my eyes and sorrow in my voice, I cried out. But they were just bodies on the ground now, unable to respond. I knew they were gone but I still cried out to them. I needed them. They didn’t move. I got up onto my knees and shook their bodies, trying to wake them up. I screamed for them to get up but nothing happened. Tears cut lines through the dust on my face. I couldn’t accept it. I stood up, scared and confused. I was immediately hit by gunfire. But nothing happened. I didn’t even notice that bullets were hitting me. They didn’t hurt. I looked like a scrawny, malnourished girl, but my body could no longer be harmed. I was also too locked into crying over my parents that I was completely oblivious to the world around me. I didn’t notice that one group of fighters was withdrawing or that another was advancing. None of them took any notice of a girl standing in their line of fire. At this point my clothes and face were so dirty that I think I just faded into the surrounding rubble. Bullets kept hitting me but all they did was fall away through my tattered clothing. The war around me just didn’t register.171Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡm8onjHcTWV
Then a bullet hit my face. It didn’t hurt. But it did catch my attention. It snapped me back into the world. I remembered why my parents were dead. My sorrow sparked into anger and it lit a darkness inside of me. A veil of rage began to cover my eyes. I picked up a chunk of concrete and launched it at the man firing a machine gun from the back of a truck. He was lucky it struck the armor plate protecting him. The shock only lasted a second or two because he shifted his fire directly at me. This was war. And to be fair, I did attack him. I mean, I did get shot first but the technicalities didn’t matter at this point. Bullets ripped through my clothes, smashed against my skin, and harmlessly pattered the ground like rain.
I grabbed the next nearest thing to throw. Imagine the shock of seeing a skinny girl in dirty, tattered clothing pick up the burnt out hulk of a car like it was a toy, and throw it. It didn’t occur to me at all that a car would have been too heavy for anyone to throw. I wanted to throw something and my body just responded. Rage had taken over. The gunner and the truck’s driver were crushed in a blur of metal. But there were more men behind them and they were still shooting. I needed another thing to throw. There was another burnt out metal husk in the street. I ran over and lifted it off the ground with no effort at all. This did give a momentary pause to the men advancing on me. War brings crazy sights, but a skinny girl lifting the charred, skeletal tons of a tank over her head was something completely outside of their experience. It would have been outside anyone's experience. But the moment quickly lost its novelty. They had a tank too. A functioning one. Before I could toss the burned-out husk at them, t171Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMSBfIFcgO6
heir tank fired. It was a good shot, too. The round exploded on my chest. I disappeared from their sight as the wreck I was holding up crashed to the ground. Somewhere down the street there was a new hole in one of the buildings. It was about the right size for my body to fit through. None of them noticed.
None of them spoke about what they saw. It was too much to comprehend and they still had a war to fight. Half of them were high on something too. So they moved on. They would all be dead within a month. Some were taken by the usual happenings in war. Some were killed by me. Well, it was a version of me. For a while after the day of my first death, there were rumors of something attacking men with guns on the streets. For months that whole neighborhood became quiet. They said a ghoul lived there. Women and children could safely pass but few traveled through that area unless they really had to. The few who still lived there did not go out after dark. The armed men who ventured there were later found dead. Well, pieces of them were found here and there. This was my second life.
Some began calling the other me Fatat Alhajar, Stone Girl. I think it was because her face, arms, feet, and hair were so full of dirt and dust that she looked like she was made of stone. The fact that bullets crashed off her skin with no effect probably had something to do with it too. I’ve heard that people would leave food out for her. And thankfully sometimes clothes when she needed them. She went through clothing fast. I don't really remember it though. I can't remember much of what happened back then when she took over. I do get flashes of memories sometimes. Just images. But honestly, I don’t want to remember it. I was in a rage-filled, feral state. I had been turned into a monster and I was ashamed of it. Yes, I killed bad men. Yes, I sometimes saved people. Yes, I was a child put in an extraordinary and horrendous situation. But I let myself turn into a creature of anger and death. I wish I could say that everyone I killed in those days was bad but I’ll never know for sure.
Things were not supposed to happen this way, obviously. Worlds don’t need the help of super powers to go to hell, but they sure can add an extra layer of interesting to the mix and certainly hasten things. I don’t know if what I am about to tell you led to the world going silent. But I believe this was the beginning of the end for Earth. Those who started all of this didn’t foresee what their choices would bring. Some wanted to make people better. Well, select better people. Typical logic, better weapons and people to end wars. Like that ever works. And trust was given to someone with their own agenda. None of them could see past their own desires and ambitions.
This may be my last testament. I wish I could call it my last will and testament, but I have nothing to leave behind but my words and memories. It may seem strange that I know how others felt and what they saw and that I can recall things that happened when I wasn’t there. The reason is no less strange. Some of these memories belong to my siblings and others who were involved. Before you ask, I don’t know why I have them. You can just chalk it up to one of my life’s many curiosities. I won’t blame you if you have questions. You might have more after I finish telling you the rest of my story, though I don’t know if I can answer them.
I wish I knew if there was anyone left to hear this. Maybe I’m just sending my words and thoughts out into the universe. But if someone is out there listening, I want you to know what happened. It did not start with me, but things changed with me. I was the first unplanned person with powers. An unintended consequence. Patient zero for what became known as the Powers Virus.
I was the first anomaly.
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