Words to Remember

By S. H. Miah

From the deepest of darkness to brightest of light

 

Madeline Fischer, a professional in London, despises the monotony of daily life–eat, sleep, work, repeat. But she must withstand it to forget the griefs of her past. And her pitiful present. 

When a shocking event forces Madeline to confront herself, those ghosts from the past return, and new demons haunt the present. This time, burying herself into the depths of life won't work. Madeline must face it head on.

As her journey unfolds across the withered pages of life, truths she would never have thought of emerge. And ultimate revelations shake her entire existence, threatening to change her life forever.

 

The latest novel from Muslim Fiction Project about heartache during struggle, love when life plummets to despair, and the strongest force in the world that binds a young woman's soul to ultimate salvation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Muslim Fiction Project
• Release date: Mar 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215217955

Book preview

Chapter 1

Madeline Fischer scowled at the crowd of people bustling in and around her. Their heels clicked on the smooth central London pavement like the hooves of a horse. Every other women who sauntered past her did so with an air of certainty, a grace about them, with their hair neatly packaged in perfect buns and exuding the faint but distinct aroma of some flower or other, make-up applied so meticulously it was as if they were painting a sculpture for the king himself, and faces set in the typical stoic imprint required when charging through the busy roads of London to get to work.

She hiked her bag higher on her shoulder and tried to block out the roar of London. Buildings towered over her, large and corporate-looking, with glass on all sides. Inside were so called professionals, stalking the premises with their new and innovative ideas and well-kept, manicured exteriors.

Madeline pushed herself through the crowd to reach a bridge. She didn't know the name of the bridge, probably one of the famous ones in the city considering its size, and she didn't really care either. The crowds were more intense here, bodies threatening to shove her to the ground if she didn't make each stamp of her foot set into the concrete.

It was a sigh of relief that passed through her when the other side of the bridge arrived a long while later.

As the tsunami of bodies spilled into their respective directions, Madeline palmed her forehead, the ebbing of a headache brewing deep within her skull. She knew the drill. The pain would start off as a little hum in the back of her mind, like the discomfort of a bad thought. One of those pesky doubts or worries that, try as she might, she could never get rid of. As the commute to work progressed, and the crowds bunched up around her, the pain would slowly worsen. Until seemingly at random, just as she would enter work, stabs and hacks and pummels of pain would seize her head and force her temple veins to throb thrice a second.

And not only was there the looming headache, it seemed those professionals in London couldn't even walk straight. One such man bumped into her right side, nearly knocking her bag off her shoulder. He turned to speak, likely to insult or demean her, in the midst of flurrying bodies, but Madeline beat him to it.

You moron! Why would you attack me like that? Can't you see where the hell you're going?

The man's eyebrows furrowed. He had long hair running down to his shoulders, a wide jawline covered in a layer of fatty chin, and a bit of a belly betraying his inability to not gorge. The typical idiot who couldn't control himself when out in public.

I was going to apologise, he said, rather helplessly as the damage had already been done.

Madeline narrowed her eyes. Well, I don't need your apology. I'd rather you didn't run into me for a change.

He opened his mouth in rebuttal, but by then Madeline had already brushed past him, making sure to scrape his shoulder with a slight push, with as much veiled vigour as she could muster.

Miserable old fool, she thought. Can't tell a thumb from a finger, I bet.

Minutes later, as if her luck couldn’t drop any lower, another person, this time a frazzled woman pushing a pram housing a noisy toddler, joined the fray of London’s walkers. Madeline sighed in frustration.

Could you tell your son to shut it? she said, rounding on the woman.

The mother looked at her just like the other man had done. Helpless. As if she wasn't in control of her life, wasn't the one who influenced her own circumstances. As if some outside force was the thing playing with the strings of the world.

I'm so sorry, the woman said, ruffling her son's curly hair and rubbing his shoulder to calm him down. To no avail, as the vile creature kept scratching his claws against the pram seat and trying to escape the confines of his seat belt. I don't know what's gotten into him today, the woman added. He's never like this.

Madeline glanced at the pram, then dragged her gaze to the woman. Just control your damn child. I hate people like you, all over the place with your lives.

The woman's mouth was agape in a mix of shock and anger, and Madeline swept past with her overcoat billowing against the London breeze. A small grin tugged her lips, but she kept it under check to ensure it didn't accidently turn into a full-faced smile. She'd taught those two a lesson, hadn't she? A good long lesson they'll be thinking about for a long time. And a zing of satisfaction raced through Madeline's veins like a shot of high-inducing drugs.

She rifled onwards, past the blinking traffic lights and rush of cars storming to get to the same place that she was trying to reach.

Work. Her job. She might have loathed every other professional in the world, bar her team of course, but she was one such professional herself. Financial analysis had been her dream since discovering it at uni. An empty dorm room with dozens of Red Bull multipacks and a hell of a lot of free time invited her to learn the programming languages and skills needed for the job. She'd loved every moment of learning, and even managed to land a role straight out of uni.

It was her only love in this world, considering how sordid and unsuccessful she was in the dating market. The last time she'd tried to find her soul mate had ended badly. An experience she didn't want to repeat under any circumstances, despite the yearning every woman had for someone to love and cherish.

Her work would have to do. A conclusion Madeline had resigned herself to a long time ago.

She clicked her teeth at a group of children running through the streets, frustration causing her hand to wipe a lock of hair behind her ear. More idiots who can't control their kids, Madeline thought.

Minutes later, minutes that flashed by in the blink of Madeline's lashes, she stood outside the corporate building that belonged to her—well, the CEO, but Madeline day-dreamt about it being hers one day. How that day would come about she had not a clue.

Her headache was a torrent of pain now, like a tsunami crashing into the dark beaches of her mind, raging and roaring and collapsing everything into pieces of rubble. Madeline clenched her fists to quell some of the pain before entering the double sliding glass doors and exiting the biting chill of London's air.

The receptionist let her in, giving her a small nod as the door leading to the lifts opened. The receptionist, Amanda, always had the best outfits, beautiful plaid skirts matching colourful silky shirts that hugged her in all the right places. Jealousy thrummed through Madeline as she noticed Amanda's outfit today, a red shirt with a simple black skirt. Madeline’s headache intensified. What she failed to properly register was the solemn look phasing through Amanda's eyes as Madeline walked through.

Madeline's desk was her favourite place in all the world, though she wouldn't admit it to anyone else there. It made her sound desperate and clingy to her job, and in a place where any weakness was abused by others to claw up the corporate ladder, Madeline had to keep her emotions in check. Place her personal touches, sure, but don't seem too attached.

Massaging her head, she sat down in a not-comfortable-enough chair and observed her desk. Her computer sat idle as always, mouse and keyboard neatly placed beside each other. Headphones wrapped over one of her monitors. She peered over the monitor and admired her life’s work for the millionth time.

Her painting of the Eiffel Tower was hung up as the backdrop of her desk, pegged up like the back was a corkboard. She'd painted it herself, having solo travelled to visit Paris the year before. The tower had taken her breath away, and barely gave it back to her as Madeline stared at its grandeur with eyes as wide as a heavy paint brush. She'd immediately taken a picture on her phone, as well as a mental print of the tower, before heading back to dreary London and working on her masterpiece.

She wasn't the best at painting, but it was a fun pastime and her passion. Something her mother had encouraged her to do as a child. A hobby they had done together, and one of the gels that bonded Madeline and her mother even after death parted them.

Her father—well, he lived somewhere across the country, uncaring of her after her mother’s death. Madeline didn't care to ask and find out, and he didn't care to reach out to her.

She stood and ran a finger across the now dried paint, feeling its depth under her skin. Multiple layers for the tower itself, to make it stick out from the rest of the Parisian pavement. Crowds of people, shown as silhouettes, milled about the tower's base, and one lone figure stood at the top, the Queen of the tower. Madeline hadn't told anyone it was meant to represent her, instead telling her colleagues that it was a random girl she had seen on her visit to France.

Madeline smiled as the memories of the beautiful country flitted before her eyes. The urban beauty, the peaceful countryside she had roamed through to reach Paris, the glimmer of possibility that rose with the sun.

But the smile vanished as a hand tapped her shoulder.

Hiya, Madeline, her boss, Fred, greeted. Fred always thought Madeline was a youngster, since she was in her late twenties, and he was battling middle age at over fourty. The issue was that, despite the generation gap, he thought it his mission to act cool with the ‘kids’, which didn't really work. Like, at all.

Madeline was about to return the greeting, but she noticed nervousness brimming in Fred's eyes. Another problem for her to deal with, no doubt. Is something wrong? Madeline asked, turning to face him, almost smelling the trouble heading her way. What's up with him, now?

She didn't have the patience to deal with yet another problem. Not after her nightmare morning and commute, and the hellish headache that still dragged her brain across spiky nails.

We need to talk, Fred said in an even tone, all pretences of being ‘down with the kids’ gone.

Madeline didn't know just how bad the nightmare would get.

Chapter 2

Madeline's mouth gaped open when Fred finally told her the news.

You're being transferred to another department, he'd said.

And Madeline had no clue as to what to say back. Her mouth was still open, yet words didn't come out. Eventually, she leaned back in her seat, heart beating a million miles a minute, and Fred's colourful office seemed too small. The harsh smatterings of blue and red almost goaded Madeline into using her own style of colourful language, learnt first-hand from her father’s tirades shortly after her mother’s passing.

Why? she muttered, not bothering to hide the emotion, the hurt, from her voice.

Not my decision, Fred said, holding his hands up. That was usual of him, to absolve himself of responsibility. Madeline always wondered how he'd got to a manager position, considering he was the most incompetent man she knew. Gaining favours and avoiding conflict, no doubt, as well as some level of middle-aged endearment.

Well, he wasn't going to weasel out of this conflict. That was for sure.

Whose decision was it, then?

Fred was quick to answer. Higher up. In corporate. Not my choice.

Madeline's voice dripped with disbelief. You're telling me one of those people, she pointed at the ceiling now, cares about their puny little employees like me and you?

Fred's brow twitched, and he leaned forward on his desk. Madeline had touched a nerve, a live one.

The decision is final. You're going to have to pack your bags and get that painting off your desk.

His voice was so matter of fact. So corporate, cold, as if Madeline hadn't been a part of his team for years. As if she hadn't invested her time, sweat, tears into her work.

And it was all thrown back in her face. All shattered into a million pieces that Madeline would have to swallow despite how sharp they were.

Her hands shook against the chair's armrest. You can't do this to me, she said, voice wavering. But they could. She was just a puny little employee, like she'd said. A pawn on a chess game. And Fred was moving her whichever way he wanted.

Actually, there is one way, Fred said with a sinful smile. And I'd let you back in. Fight your corner for you.

Madeline was ready for anything. Anything to get her life back.

But not ready for what Fred wanted.

Instead of speaking, Fred rose from his chair. The sinful smile still plastered on his face. He walked out from behind his desk and eyed her up and down. In a way he had never done before.

I think you know what I want, he whispered.

I don't, she said, dumbly. She'd had boyfriends before. But after what had happened with her last one, Lucas, she'd vowed never to let herself be tricked again.

Madeline rose from her chair and stepped back. But Fred inched closer, as if he enjoyed the chase.

I know you're playing hard to get, he said.

Madeline raised both hands. I'm not playing.

Then what's this fun little game you're doing, then? He stepped forwards. Madeline stepped back. Until her back smacked the wall, and the room, along with Fred, closed in.

Fred had never shown signs of being capable of this before. And yet, he was doing it. He was motioning for her to come and…

Madeline raised two hands and pushed him away. She needed to leave. No amount of desperation would make her stoop that low. No amount of love for her job would entice her towards filth with Fred.

No, she muttered. And finally, it seemed Fred got the message.

But he had a message for her, too.

His face turned dark, ugly, twisted, fake. He towered over her, threatening in a way she never imagined him capable of. Don't tell a soul if you value your life.

And now Madeline understood how Fred kept such a clean record. He was a demon, deep inside, and shut up anyone who dared speak against him.

He buckled his belt back on, and Madeline wondered when on earth he had taken it off. Her fear must have masked her senses, heartrate beating her rationality into a pulp.

He fixed her a glare. Get your stuff, and that stupid painting, and get out of here. Amanda will tell you where you're going.

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Madeline was still in a daze when she returned to her desk. Her headache was a full-on throb now, like a thousand needles were slamming into her skull. Her vision swirled for a second and she almost fell over, but a hand on her desk righted her body. Her eyes fell on the painting, of the Eiffel Tower, and her heart sank. Fred, the person who had first congratulated her on the artwork, had basically trampled over her passion for painting. And Madeline's hopes for one day being understood by her art had gone with her dignity.

She scrunched up the painting after untangling it from the wall. The Eiffel tower folded in on itself with difficulty, the paper screeching from being bunched up. She threw the painting into her bag, intent on chucking it in the bin when she got home.

Amanda was waiting for her on the way out. She gave Madeline a sad look, a look as if she knew what was about to happen to Madeline all along. Madeline's other colleagues hadn't gotten into work yet. They entered at nine, whereas Madeline started at eight. She didn't want to say goodbyes, however. Didn't want to face them after what had happened.

Did he try it on you? Madeline asked, for one time pity entering her instead of jealousy at the sight of Amanda. Instead of Amanda's make up displaying a well-kept exterior, it was as if she was trying to hide her true self, the ugliness someone like Fred had instilled in her.

Amanda shook her head. But the affirmation was clearly present in her eyes.

Where am I going, then? Madeline asked. Amanda clearly wasn't going to tell her the truth about Fred, and Madeline just wanted to get home and relax. Maybe watch the telly, maybe just stare at her walls and ceiling and wonder how her life had become so miserable.

To the junior analyst department. Not in this building, but another branch.

Where's this other branch?

About half an hour from here. I'll send the details in the email I'm preparing.

Madeline was flabbergasted. You're already preparing an email? She must've been told already that I'd been transferred. She must've already known the stunt Fred would try to pull, and she hadn't warned me.

Just leave it, Madeline said sharply, her voice struggling to hold her anger at bay. I'll go wherever. Her emotionless facade was slowly fading. She had to leave before it slipped entirely. She turned on her heels with whatever pride she had left and strutted a couple steps before Amanda spoke.

Please don't tell anyone, Amanda said. He'll axe me, too.

Madeline said not a word, rage closing her throat. Let her worry, she thought, bitterness spurring her towards the exit.

Even though Madeline was the one worrying most of all.

She went home and had a shower, headache still grabbing her skull and slamming it against an imaginary wall. The water cascaded down her body, and yet the nasty feeling of dirtiness hadn't vanished, like finger-shaped mice crawling over her skin. Fred hadn't even touched her, yet she felt almost filthy, defiled. Her skin itched as well, and the more she scrubbed it the more it itched. Yet that feeling of being touched never faded away.

She sat down, towel around her shoulders, and stared around the insides of her flat located on the east side of London. The windows outside overlooked a storming motorway, and the interior of her flat was just as stormy.

Last night's dinner, homemade lasagne that tasted more burnt than cooked, and an old sandwich she hadn't bothered to finish, furnished her coffee table. The table itself didn't fare any better, beaten by constant scrapes over the years. On top of it lay loads of papers. Bills and all sorts that had piled up. Madeline had the money to pay for it, thankfully, since her job paid well. But with her landlord's soft indication of rising rent, Madeline didn't know how much longer she could cope.

Her telly lay in one corner, massive sixty-inch screen with the internet router right beside it for the fastest connection. Her laptop, for when she worked from home, sat on the telly stand. Grey cupboards filled with old vases, mostly for decoration, lined the walls. Ancient Egyptian and Roman pottery filled another showcase, conversation starters in the event of guests. Though Madeline hadn't had a guest in over a year.

Her eyes returned to her legs, still wet from the shower. Her skin shivered, and she continued scrubbing with a small towel, despite never ridding herself of the ugly feeling.

Her phone buzzed an hour later, with her hair still wet and Netflix playing on the telly. Some show about zombies or whatever. How they were overtaking the world and other apocalyptic rubbish. Truthfully, Madeline wasn't paying attention.

Every night was the same. Flop in front of the telly and drown herself into the show. Forget about life, everything around her that was collapsing and breaking. She could surrender herself to the telly like a form of mental euthanasia, if only for a moment, then sleep and head to work the next day, where she drowned in financial analysis, and then return home to complete the cycle. Maybe eat a little along the way. And occasionally a paintbrush would enter her hands and swish across a harsh white canvas with skeletal strokes.

Madeline checked her phone for the source of the buzz. It was the email Amanda had promised. She stared at the notification for half a minute, contemplating, before pressing it and reading what the email revealed.

The new job was at a branch closer to home. She'd only have to travel half an hour, instead of the hour-long train journey into inner London. At least the pesky commuters wouldn’t be an issue, although east London wasn’t exactly the most civilised place, either. Her job title was the same, so that was a relief. But what snared the panicky part of her mind was the figure underneath the job title, in small writing, as if an afterthought.

Her pay had been cut by seven grand.

She stared at the figure in disbelief. Utter disbelief. Speechless and angry and a host of other emotions she couldn't organise and process. And the feeling of sinking without an anchor settled in the pit of her stomach.

She laid her phone down, not bothering to turn the screen off. The emotionless facade crumbled, and she let the first of the torrent of tears come tumbling out.

Chapter 3

Madeline hadn’t been here in a long time. After her mother died, and the rift between her and her father widened, Madeline had vowed never to turn to the bottle when hard times came. Her father had done so, and it was one of the many things she despised about the man. Others included his know-it-all attitude and disregard for anyone but himself.

Not only did alcohol eat away at her finances and make her feel so low, but the areas in which alcohol proliferated attracted unwanted attention. Attention that, after Madeline’s experience with Fred, she was less than happy to receive.

But despite her previous promises to herself, here Madeline was. Turning to the bottle, just like the father she so hated. Gripping the bottom of the icy glass, seeing the swirling dark orange liquid looking like piss, ignoring the lights flashing across the bar as the other bodies swayed to the soft sound of music that grated on her ears.

She hated it all. Hated the way the environment made her feel. Abhorred the sensations running down her throat, zinging her eyes and ears like every sip was followed by the swallow of a fireball. But her mother’s face flashed before