Accepted With Flaws

-Accepting Vulnerability -

And remember Him, as He has guided you, for indeed, you were before that among those astray.
(Surah Al-Baqarah 2:198)

Luth's PoV

I had never shared these deeply buried memories with anyone, not even Zaid. He only knew what I chose to reveal, nothing more. I was determined not to let my past define me any longer. Alhamdulillah, I had changed.

As I started recounting my past, I couldn't bring myself to look into Omaiza's eyes. I was afraid of seeing disappointment or judgment in them. Instead, I focused on the floor, my words pouring out like a long-awaited confession.

With each memory I unveiled, Omaiza's unwavering attention and the steadfastness of her gaze reinforced that she was here for me, ready to listen to the darkest corners of my history. I continued,
.
.
*flashback*

One evening, Ammar gathered us around, his eyes glinting with a new proposition. "I've got a plan, guys. A fight night. Winner takes the pot."

The atmosphere was charged with excitement as we exchanged glances. The promise of money and a chance to prove ourselves had us hooked. But as the details unfolded, a nagging doubt crept into my mind. Was this really the path I wanted to follow?

The night of the fight arrived, and the air was thick with tension. The makeshift ring was surrounded by a fervent crowd, each person hoping to see a spectacle of raw power. I squared off against an opponent, a stranger whose eyes bore a mix of determination and desperation.

The bell rang, and the world around me faded. The fight was a blur of adrenaline, my instincts taking over as I exchanged blows with my adversary. The cheers of the crowd seemed distant, drowned out by the roar of my heartbeat.

Ammar's voice cut through the haze as he urged me on, his shouts a mix of encouragement and demands. "Come on, Lut, show 'em what you're made of!"

But as my fist connected with my opponent's jaw, a surge of guilt coursed through me. The realization hit me like a punch to the gut – I was hurting someone, someone who might be just as lost as I was. The thrill of the fight began to wane, replaced by a deep-seated unease.

The fight ended with a victory, but the taste of triumph was bittersweet. The cheers of the crowd faded into the background as I stood there, panting and battered, grappling with the choices that had brought me to this point.

Days turned into nights, and a vicious cycle of violence and money-making consumed my existence. Each fight left me more battered than before, the toll on my body mirroring the toll on my conscience. The once-vibrant aspects of my life – faith, prayer, and a sense of purpose – were fading into distant memories.

Amid the chaos, a quiet voice within me whispered a plea for change. I found myself yearning for a way out, a path back to the person I once was. But the web of influence and the fear of losing the only connection I had held me back.

As the days turned into a relentless blur of chaos, I found myself drifting further away from the faith that once anchored my existence. The comforting rhythm of prayer had become a distant memory, replaced by the relentless pulse of my new life. Each time I gazed upon the prayer mat tucked away in the corner of my room, a pang of guilt pierced my heart.

My parents' worried glances became more frequent as the bruises on my face became harder to disguise. "Lut, what's happening? Are you okay?" My mother's concern was palpable, her voice tinged with a mix of fear and desperation.

I offered her a weak smile, my voice laced with false reassurance. "Oh, it's just some roughhousing with friends, Mom. You know how it is."

But the truth was far from the fabricated stories I spun. The real source of those bruises was the violent world I had plunged myself into, the fights I engaged in for the promise of money and the fleeting thrill of victory.