SMALL LIVES

Short Stories

By Ola Eliwat

The Well

The Ball Maker

The ordinary Life of Dalia G.

Despicable Me

Psycho

A Mom's Deal

The Autumn Visitor

The Last Hanging

In the Dark

The Well

Shes dying anyway

What harm would it do to tell her? Just this once, shes not staying for long, few

weeks and everything will be buried with her under wet soil: the pain, the shame,

the guilt and the madness.

I never shared my feelings with anyone. Every time I tried words wont escape my

mouth. I kept everything in a deep well I dug years ago somewhere inside. A

bottomless well that got deeper and deeper over the years. I thought I was thus

sparing my dignity, among other things. Little did I know I had built a steel shell

around myself, not until it was too late.

Ironically, it wasnt until one sad afternoon that I started to see the light at the end

of the tunnel.

She's got rotten lungs", that was all my Mother needed to say for me to know that

my cousin was dying.

At first, the shock was enormous, but then I started to see a thin silver lining.

"Shes dying let her take your burden to the grave."

I knew I should be ashamed of myself to think like that, but I was desperate, and

shame was the least of my worries. I started rationalizing, encouraging myself to

go ahead and get over with it whats better than sharing your deeply held

secrets with a dying person?

That night I couldnt sleep; my blood was boiling with anticipation. Tomorrow Ill

be free. Free at last.

The next day I made sure to go to the hospital at a time when there would be no

visitors, just her and me. I entered the room wearing a shy smile, I knew she had

such a good faith in me that she would believe I was faking the smile as not to cry

upon seeing her in that condition. She would never knew I was trying to hide my

shame behind that sheepish grin

I asked her how she was, and she went on and on about how good shes feeling and

how shes feeling at peace with whatever fate awaited her. Meanwhile, I was

thinking how to start telling her what I came for. But I didnt need to think hard,

because she did it for me.

Seems like you want to say something she said suddenly, interrupting herself as

she noticed that my mind was somewhere else.

Well I dont think its a good timing I stammered, knowing it was the perfect

time, at least for me.

Oh, for God's sake! she moaned with a battered breath. Its not like we have

much time left!

Well you asked for it I said half jokingly.

She shifted in her bed, inspecting me with eager eyes; as she has never seen me in

such a confessional position. I fidgeted in my seat, avoiding locking eyes with her.

You know how I always said I had no secrets like other girls I kicked it off.

Well, not exactly

-

She smiled knowingly and nodded for me to continue.

You know I always preferred to keep it to myself, but now I feel that I cant bear

it anymore. Its eating away at me I paused, looking timidly at her. Promise me

you wont think ill of me or judge me for anything I say

I promise. She said without so much as a blink.

Well", I hesitated a moment. "This might look silly I know, but Im in love

Thats good for a start! she said with a curt nod.

Well, thats not all, I started speaking rapidly as if not to hear what I was saying.

I was in love with my best friends fianc. I was in love with him before I knew

they were in a relationship. I never had the guts to tell her, I just choked it up, and

it killed me. I listened to her when she talked about him. I gave her advice and

helped them to make up whenever they had a fight. I even picked his gifts with her.

It was eating me alive, and nobody knew

Her eyes softened with sincere empathy. Then, what happened then?

As I expected, they broke up. I must be ashamed to admit that a part of me was

happy. No! Not only a part of me, I was happy. Actually, it was the happiest day in

my life. I acted sorry while I was consoling her, but inside, I felt like dancing with

joy. The worst of all is that I didnt feel guilty, not at all. I knew they were so

different, a total mismatch. I knew it, but I went so far as to think that he had

something for me. How stupid! You know sometimes you want something badly

that you think you feel it. Desire mistaken for hunch. How pathetic!

She smiled and waited for me to continue. I looked at her through the corner of my

eye, and then blurted: I never told you my bus driver tried to rape me when I was

sixteen

She stared in silent awe.

Well, I dont like to remember the details; it took me a good deal of time trying to

get over it. Thank God I remembered my mothers advice. Go for the eyes.

Fortunately, I had my nails done that day, I almost took his eyeballs out I grinned

uneasily, and she giggled along, trying to soothe me into going on. Worse yet is

that he still drove me to and from school for the rest of the year. I said coarsely.

There was a long moment of silence.

I readjusted myself on the cushioned chair. I I killed our neighbours son

Her eyes widened as she glared with shock, trying to mutter something but never

finding the words.

He was 2 or 3 years old, and he I paused, fighting back the tears that started to

stream down my face. He was trying to get a cherry from the fruit bowl, so I

helped him to some. It didnt occur to me that hed swallow the seed it was too

big for him. I didnt know what to do, I ran for help, but it was too late.

She buried her face between her hands. And before she could ask any questions, I

answered her unspoken question. Nobody knew I gave him the cherry. I gasped,

looked her in the eye and cried out, I didnt mean to do it!

A heavy silence prevailed for a few minutes, then without uttering a single word, I

stormed out of the room. That was the last time I saw her.

For several days before she died, she had tried to call me and leave me messages

that I would not care to check. Whenever my mom asked me why I didnt visit her,

I said I couldnt bear to see her in that situation. After the funeral, I ran home as

fast as I could, stormed into my room, buried my face in the pillow and wept for

hours.

Several days after that, I hesitantly picked up my phone, and with a trembling

hand, I opened my messages, not knowing why I was doing it then. Maybe she

wanted to tell me something. I hesitated for a moment. Finally, I opened the

messages, one after another, all of them were brief, and said the same thing:

I was raped too. You never told me attacking the rapists eyes would save me

The Ball Maker

My eyes followed the ball closely, waiting for it to tear into the net. I didn't really

care who was to score, as long as the ball would settle in. Everyone was cheering

loudly, but I almost couldn't hear any of their cheering, as all my senses were

focused on that white ball getting kicked back and forth between the two ends of

the playfield. To see it smeared with dirt like that and treated so savagely made me

think of how many hours it took to get it stitched together, and wondered if it was

one of mine.

The small coffee shop where the village men gathered to watch football matches

was a tiny room with yellow walls that smelled of sweat and cheap cigarettes. I

called it the Den, although I can't remember how or when I came up with that

name. I used to sneak there after work, since my mother wouldn't let me go, saying

I was too young to go there. That was a year or so ago, when I used to attend

school. My mother used to brag about me to her neighbors, saying I would be a

famous doctor one day, and that we will move out of this "desolate nondescript

village" as she called it.

Many nights when we were sitting in silence, while my sick father lay in his bed in

the next room, my mother sewing in her chair and me hunched over my notebook,

earnestly doing my homework, she would raise her eyes to look at me, but I never

felt like she was really seeing me; for her smile and the sudden glitter in her eyes

made her seem to me as if she were looking out to the ocean while effectively

daydreaming of something more beautiful than I could ever imagine. Once, she

said to me after a long spell of silence: "You know what, Maniram? You'll go to

school, learn your lessons, and then you'll go to the best collage in India, where

you'll study to be the best doctor in the country. You'll make lots of money, and

once you do, we'll move out of this rotten cell and go live in Mumbai."

My mother has always had very high expectations of me that I was afraid there was

no question I would let her down. Each time I remembered my mother's dreamy

gaze I would become keener to rise up to those expectations. For all I remember,

my mother wanted me to be a doctor more than anything in the world; that's why I

found it hard to understand how she could get herself to tell me I was to leave

school.

"Maniram" My mother said hesitantly, with her eyes drooping. "You know how

much I want you to go to school and be a doctor." There was a long pause before

she continued. "But, as you know, your father has grown very sick, and I can't

afford the medicine anymore. My work is not paying even for half of it. I need

your help."

The very next morning my mother took me to see a man she called "the

contractor". His office was located in an old building, and the office itself was a

small gloomy room that reminded me of the coffee shop in some way. There,

behind the desk, sat a man about my father's age, but much bulkier than he was,

clinching a cigarette between his lips, under his heavy mustache. He took a look at

me, studied my hands for a while, and then asked my mother a few questions I

don't remember, mostly because I was busy trying to figure out the reason behind

them. After that, he opened a notebook that was in front of him, took a pen in one

hand and the cigarette from under his mustache in the other, then he let out a curt

sigh and wrote something down..

"Okay" He said after a brief pause. "Bring him in tomorrow. I hope he's a fast

learner; I'm having much trouble with dense kids these days. They work half as fast

and cost us twice the effort to teach them!"

"Don't worry sir; my son is a very clever boy." My mom said, and then pressed her

lips together as if to keep herself from saying any more. I imagine she had a

pressing urge to tell him I was going to be a doctor someday, and that we'd move

out of here forever, and that I wouldn't have to work for him anymore.

The next day my mother took me to the factory in Meerut, where I was to start

working. I was very nervous at first, but my tension was eased a great deal when I

saw that there were many children my age. My mother got to her knees so her eyes

would level with mine, looked me square in the face, and told me in an assuring

tone that I would be all right. I suspected from her tone that she herself wasn't

feeling that way, and the trembling of her lips when she kissed me confirmed my

suspicion.

In the factory, a man showed me what I was supposed to do. He then handed me

pieces of rubber, leather and bundles of thread and needles. "The more balls you

stitch together, the more money you make" He said as he bent down. "If you need

to know anything, you can ask the other kids, but try not to bother them with too

many questions as they also have work to do."

I settled in my place on the floor, it was dirty and nowhere near comfortable. I

began stitching while stealing glances at the boy next to me. I was trying to pour

all my concentration into the work, having my sick father in mind and my mother's

dreamy gaze before my eyes. For a moment, I even thought she was observing me

from her chair. Hours went by and I still didn't finish my first ball. My vision

began to blur, and my back ached from bending over, trying to work as fast as I

could. When I couldn't bear the haziness and pain anymore, I let go of the needle

and leaned my back against the wall. My eyes welled up with tears as I thought of

how slow I was. It was at that moment when the boy next to me decided to start a

conversation that soothed me a little. "Tired already?" He said half-jokingly.

"Don't worry; it's always hard at first. But you seem to be doing well so far. You

know, none of us could finish more than 2 balls a day."

His words were somehow comforting; for I knew I wasn't a slow worker. But, for 3

rupees per football, I thought I was supposed to make 5 or 6 balls a day to say that

the job was worth it.

I continued going to the factory, stitching balls day in day out, and within one

week I was able to produce 2 balls a day. Often when I finished a ball I would hold

it up to the bars of light filtering through the small rectangular window at the top of

the wall, and I would feel a great temptation to take it out on the street and kick it

with all my might. I've always been fond of football; I used to play it with the

neighborhood kids with balls made of worn out socks. But I knew then more than

ever that there was no time for me to play with that ball, even though I made it

myself. I often consoled myself by thinking that when I became a doctor I would

buy one of these balls. I heard that they were being sold for what amounts to 100

rupees each.

At that thought, I found myself starting to pick up speed, which caused me to prick

my thumb with the needle, but I didn't make such a big deal of it; I only put the

needle aside and sucked the blood from the small wound. I have taken to that kind

of accidents by now; it was bound to happen as I always tried to work as fast as I

could. The first time I pricked a finger I panicked, fearing it would grow septic.

But by then my hands were studded with punctures, and with some of those

punctures growing septic, my hands looked like a rusty sifter.

The World Cup tournament started a few months after I'd started working in the

factory. One evening after I was done for the day, I decided to sneak to the Den;

for there's been much talk about the next game that seemed to be a very important

one. To tell the truth, I didn't care to know who was playing, all I wanted to see

was the ball rolling on the playfield; I could hardly believe the balls I was making

would be juggled by the feet of world renowned players, and that all the eyes and

cameras would be following it, waiting for it to rest in one of the nets. What I

found most mind-boggling was that, after being kicked around and smeared with

dirt, the ball was many times worth what it was when I first stitched it together and

held it to the bars of light in pride. For some reason, this made me remember the

needle pricks in my hands, and felt them starting to ache.

I stayed in the Den for an hour or so, watching closely as people around me went

fanatically on ranting and calling names. I didn't know what they were so angry

about, and didn't even try to find out; being too busy counting the balls thrown in

the field. I was surprised at the number of balls used in one match. If one ball flies

out of the field, they throw in another one immediately, like it was nothing. This

made me think of how many people and children my age were making footballs

out there. I tried to do the math in my head all the way home, but I still couldn't

figure it out.

I went on my way thinking, unaware of the bustle around me; for it seemed the

match had ended and the fans of both teams were celebrating and engaging in

fights on the streets. As I reached the house, I opened the door as quietly as I

could. Everything was as I left it in the morning. My mother was sewing in her

chair, my father groaning in the next room, and the same heavy silence filling the

place. Who said silence has no sound? Maybe we've just grown too familiar with it

that it became very hard to distinguish.

My mom didn't ask me anything, and just responded to my good night with a curt

nod. I figured she didn't want to shatter the silence around, or she's just lost the

desire to speak. I headed to my room with the same thought still spinning in my

head. As I lay in my bed, I tried so hard to shut it out. In the past, I loved to stare at

the ceiling and indulge in daydreams for a while before I finally gave in to sleep,

but I stopped this habit ever since I started working in the factory. I was often too

tired to think, but even when I had some energy left in me, I forced myself to sleep

because all I could think of was worrying about what lay ahead of me the next day,

and it never fell short of my expectations. But that night I couldn't block out that

same pressing idea. I wondered what would become of me in the future, and how it

would turn out to be.

I can't remember when or how I fell asleep that night, maybe my brain was too

exhausted at last from all those thoughts. All I can remember is that I closed my

eyes, wishing with all my heart I would never have to wake up again.

The Ordinary Life of Dalia G.

Dalia G. has always been an ordinary girl, equally in life as in death. She had no

exquisite beauty neither has she ever been an honour student. She didnt have the

wittiest sense of humour nor has she done anything that would make a good story

for her children, had they ever materialized. Her biggest achievement was a college

degree and, as most people, she spoke two languages, the second of which she has

never been anywhere where she needed to use. Truly, Dalia G. was an ordinary girl

in every sense of the word. Nonetheless, in her heart she always believed that

something extraordinary was in store for her.

Every morning, Dalia would wake up at the same time, dress up in the same drab

colors of her uniform and take the same route to her workplace. Occasionally, this

daily routine would be broken by a flat tire or a malfunctioning gear. But all in all,

Dalia loved the commute. She like to dodge her way through the heavy traffic of

the city, switching gracefully between lanes and coming to a slow stop at the traffic

lights, leaving the drivers behind her in a horn-honking frenzy as she never crossed

a yellow light. Yet, the thing she enjoyed the most was the way the car jerked as

she lifted her foot slowly of the clutch before touching down on the fuel pedal, one

reason why she never used an automatic car. Her car, Dulcinea, was a poorly

maintained 1989 Datsun. Yet in her mind she managed to convince herself that she

was driving a finely restored 1967 Mustang.

Every morning as a part of her daily routine she would grab the newspaper on her

way to work from a nearby supermarket in which worked a middle-aged man

whose genuine smile gave her a certain assuredness. She loved the familiarity of

his face as she dropped by to exchange the same morning greetings and buy the

same newspaper for 7 years.

That was pretty much the life of Dalia, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to

make a good piece of news to share with her mother when she got home. She knew

that her mother, like most mothers, always waited for her to come home with some

happy shy news of a potential suitor, especially that her father had passed away

several years ago and all her sisters and brothers were going about their lives, each

having a family to keep them busy. Dalia wanted to make her mother happy, but

she wouldnt take any chances for that matter; because although life was getting

tough for her, she resented the idea of committing her life to someone just because

shes tired of it.

Several years passed like this. The last time she had a change in her daily agenda

occurred one rainy Tuesday afternoon a few weeks before her 31st birthday. It was

the dullest thing ever; she was stuck at work with the heating system down, all

cuddled up in her wool coat, breathing in and out through the old coarse threads.

She was bored out of her mind, there wasnt much work to do and shed been

observing the downpour from the window for a while. She had already read the

newspaper, but she thought that shed take another look anyway, and that was

when she found it. It was a column somewhere in the middle, for someone who

called himself A.F. From then on, that unexpected change of routine became part

of the routine itself.

Every morning since that afternoon she would grab the paper and go directly for

the column. She would fix herself a nice cup of coffee to go along with it. Many

times she wondered about that person. The way he wrote, the things he talked

about and all the tiny details made her feel like she knew him. Sometimes she

would imagine herself sitting across from him, sipping coffee and discussing

whatever the article was about. She even laughed and frowned at times when no

one was around, but every now and then someone would catch her talking to

herself. She would shun the embarrassment by pretending she was doing the math

for something or trying to pronounce a strange clients name.

One of those days as she was doing the mandatory task of checking her email, the

one she wished she could cancel along with her cell phone and go live on an exotic

island, she had no idea that this very mundane task would lead her where shes

never gone before, and change that way came. Just as she was typing in a reply to

one of her most annoying clients, she figured it would help if she imagined herself

typing in an intellectual argument in reply to someone interesting. It didnt take her

imagination much effort to fill in the blank with a name. All of a sudden she found

herself grabbing the newspaper looking for any email address through which she

might be able to contact that who has become her main imaginary discussion mate.

Luckily, like most columnists A.F always left an email address at the bottom of the

article, which was never noticed by Dalia as she used to block out anything that is

technology related when she read the paper.

She started typing eagerly, taking some time figuring out how to start and deleting

the first line several times before settling on an opening statement. After getting

past that awkward beginning, the ideas literally flowed. She felt so comfortable

expressing herself without any fear or hesitation. However, the hesitation kicked in

as she moved the cursor to the Send button, her finger tapping on the left mouse

button a few times before finally pressing down on it. Message sent.

The waiting for a reply started the very moment she sent the message. For the first

time in her life she actually felt excited to check her e-mail. To her disappointment,

there was nothing of the sort in the inbox. She checked the junk mail folder, and

checked the sent items time and again to make sure she typed in the right email

address, all to no avail. Few weeks of the same, she started to induce a sense of

despair to reduce the mounting feeling of disappointment. It wasnt only about

failing to make contact with that person; it was about having to go back to the

dullness of her daily eventless life.

Just as she was losing all hope, something happened that suggested she shouldnt.

The reply came in early one fine Thursday morning, first apologizing for the delay

and then appreciating the smart observations and arguments included in the first

message. Overwhelmed with excitement, it took Dalia a few minutes to compose

herself and organize her thoughts as to what her reply should be. She wrote with

the same excitement with which she wrote the first message, the only difference is

that this time she didnt have to wait long for the reply.

Those e-mails have become an inseparable part of her daily life. They even started

to take the place of the daily skimming through the newspaper and acquired a

higher importance than that of her morning coffee. Something surreal was

happening. It was unbelievable what they had in common and how they seemed to

be stealing each others mind. She has never believed in soul mates until then. At

last, the long wait for the extraordinary has come to an end.

They proceeded this way, anonymous and happy, until one only normal request

changed it all. I want to meet you in person. As simple as that line sounded, the

impact on her was gigantic. All of a sudden everything turned gray, the world

seemed like a low-quality horror movie. Her hands were shaking, her heart beating

like an African drum and her forehead breaking out in cold sweat. She didnt

consider or even give herself a chance to do so. She closed the browser window

and walked as far away from the computer as she could, trying desperately to

gather her thoughts and think clearly.

For the rest of the day, Dalia couldnt get her mind to think of something else. Its

very hard to think of anything when youre trying not to think of something in

particular. She decided that the best thing to do is to take a leave from work since

she couldnt get any work done anyway. As she left the building, she walked to her

car unconsciously and regained awareness only as she was turning the key in the

door lock. At that, she took the key out and decided to take a short walk in an

attempt to neutralize all the puzzled emotions raging inside.

One thought led to another, nothing soothing, nothing to give her the peace of

mind she sought. But at last, it hit her. The only thing that could end that

ambivalence was resorting to her own world, her own techniques. She began

picturing the opposite situation. She saw herself meeting up with him, a tall

handsome man with hazel eyes, olive toned skin and a most charming smile. Once

again they were talking and talking, and she was happy. She was happy again. Just

then, it all came crashing on her, and for the first time in her life she realized that

shes the one who wanted her life to be nothing but ordinary, chickening out when

it came to any change or anything out of the usual old box.

Curiously enough, that wasnt the thought that gripped her. In fact, she didnt

really mind it. So, rather than mourning her blown chances to happiness, she was

taken by a whole other realization.

The thing no one knew about Dalia, and the thing she hadnt realized until that

moment, is that she had an imagination capable of turning the most mundane

details of her life into a once in a lifetime extravaganza. She started to remember

everything, from the extraordinary pleasure of manipulating the clutch in her car to

her dreams of being thrown by the waves into a deserted island. It occurred to her

just at that moment that the life she's always wanted has always existed in her

head, and that was the only place where she wanted to live such a life. She began

contemplating the possibilities that could come out of that. She started visualizing

everything she's ever dreamed of, every single detail, and there she started to lay

out the lines for a best seller novel, or perhaps a movie. She got so excited that she

lost track of time and had no sense of her surroundings. She kept walking while

visualizing and creating dialogues in her head. Everything was coming along

nicely, until it all erupted in one major flash of light.

Dalia couldn't see what exactly had hit her. Was it a car or a bus, she had no idea,

and there was no telling what happened next to her as she bid the world farewell.

Eye witnesses to the accident confirmed that the driver wasn't to be blamed, since

Dalia was the one who came out of nowhere and crossed the street without looking

in any direction. Thus, the accident didn't make the news, and her death didn't

provoke any outrage against reckless drivers or driving laws. A small funeral was

held to put her where she would lie for a while. Her family and friends mourned

for a few days before going back each to his life, and the page was turned on Dalia,

an ordinary girl, who lived an extraordinary life, only in her mind.

Despicable Me

Starting the day with parking in the handicapped space He thought to himself as

he parked the car. Lets see how lower I can get

He got off sluggishly, kicked the door shut with the heel of his foot, and walked

into the building. He had no idea why he chose this building in particular; he didnt

give it much thought. He was following some vague impulse, something he often

did, more than he was willing to admit.

As he waited for the elevator, he contemplated the height of the building from

inside. It looked like an endless spiral, which gave him the chills. He jumped into

the elevator as soon as the door opened, but just as he was pressing the button to

that certain floor, a voice that sounded like a blend of femininity and authority

crashed down on him, demanding that he stop the elevator.

He took a step back away from the button pad. She hopped in swiftly and pressed

the button to the third floor. It couldnt take him more than a glance to notice that

she was a beautiful, elegant lady with an air of confidence. She also looked like a

successful business woman with the brief case she was holding and the busy look

on her face. In short, he could tell with one look that she was out of his league. But

who cares anyway? He thought. After all shes just a woman he will share an

elevator with probably for less than a minute without uttering a single word and

then they will go their separate ways and most probably theyll never see each

other again or learn each others names.

But few seconds after the elevator started to lift; it jolted violently and came to a

complete halt. They looked at each other perplexed. They waited for a few seconds

then she said: I hope this is a joke!

A bad joke, he thought, but it wasnt anyway. The elevator had stopped and even

when he tried to insert his hand into the slit between the two sides of the sliding

door there was no point in opening it because the elevator had stopped between

two floors. Here, without turning to look at her he just said: Well, it seems like

were stuck.

Whoa I cant be stuck! the woman said with a pitch that sounded as if she was

on the verge of a nervous breakdown. She fished a cell phone out of her briefcase

and dialed a number.

What? 20 minutes? No, you dont understand, I have a meeting in 5 minutes, I

cant wait 20 minutes!

She ended the call with a polite swearword, which made her look all the more

feminine and made him think it maybe his lucky day, not hers however. He shook

the thought off and busied himself with his keychain.

A Toyota? She said out of the blue. So youre the jerk parked in the

handicapped space!

He smirked.

Im wearing 10 centimeter heels and yet I dont give myself permission to take up

a handicapped space.

He smirked again. She rolled her eyes in disbelief. I mean, what is so important

that you couldnt wait to find another legitimate parking space?

Nothing. He answered with utter indifference. Im just a jerk like that

She wasnt convinced. She kept looking at him as if waiting for an answer.

I mean it. He insisted. I wasnt going anywhere He thought she didnt have the

right to know. Lying and then rationalizing to feel good about lying, thats a new

low Ive hit today He thought to himself.

Then why did you take the elevator? She challenged.

No reason, I just let my feet take me wherever they pleased

Well, unless your brain is in your feet, which doesnt sound very far-fetched in

your case, then your feet cant take you anywhere. She shook her head in dismay.

Thats the problem with most people, you dont know where youre going and

when your life comes down crumbling you start whining unable to take

responsibility for your actions, or lack thereof.

What can I say? Some people were just born to be losers He said with no

sarcasm in his voice

Nobody is born to be a loser! She fired back with full authority. Look at

yourself. What are you, 30? 40? You look healthy, and you certainly have some

thinking abilities, whether you choose to capitalize on them or not is another issue,

but tell me: How do you even have the nerve to call yourself a loser?

I dont know He replied carelessly. Perhaps the fact that I have no problem

being stuck in an elevator because theres no place I need to be at and nothing I

need to do and nobody waiting for me outside these walls. Believe me, even if I

died here I doubt that anyone would notice my absence

Thats just so screwed up! She said with a hint of compassion this time. I mean,

its too bad to be true. There must be someone out there, what about your parents?

Family? A wife, maybe?

I have been nothing of series of disappointments to my parents. He answered as

if talking to himself, his voice almost void of emotion. And no wife, because what

woman in her right mind would take this kind of risk? He paused for a moment.

Actually there was this one woman who liked me, but I had no interest in her,

maybe just because I knew that she liked me. I had to be cold and indifferent

towards her so she could get the message, and that hurt her. It hurt her bad. But its

the only way I know. And Im such a jerk that I dont even feel guilty about it

You dont have to feel guilty about it She almost interrupted him. Just like you

might like a woman and she wont like you back another woman will like you and

you wont think that shes the one for you. It happens with everyone and theres no

reason to feel guilty about it. She paused for a moment then said on what seemed

like a second thought, Of course you could always feel stupid because you pushed

away someone who couldve made your life a whole lot less miserable, but not

guilty, no

You mean this happened to you? He asked with fake curiosity as to pull her leg.

It happens to everyone She answered as briefly and vaguely as possible, trying to

drop the question.

But He hesitated for a moment. You dont seem like someone anyone

wouldnt be interested in

Well She answered with a slight cockiness. People like, or dont like, other

people for all sorts of reasons. Sometimes they are the stupidest of reasons but

reasons nonetheless. Or sometimes because youre so stupid as to like the wrong

person. But anyway, Im not looking for anyone to make my life better.

Neither do I. He said confidently. Simply because I dont think anyone can

make my life less miserable He said with a dramatic turn.

Thats the spirit! She yelled. Of course not! You cant wait for someone to

make your life better, you just have to take matters into your own hands

This is not what I meant. You dont know the first thing about me, Im a bad

person

No youre not! She laughed. No bad person would admit they are bad. They

would rationalize everything they do and give themselves excuses. Admitting

youre bad means youre actually trying to be good but perhaps need a little

guidance

You may be right, but its too late for me

She looked him square in the face, he could see her thoughts spiraling like a swirl

of dust that would soon turn into a tornado that would take him by surprise at any

moment, and they did as she opened her mouth to speak.

Do you know where I was going? I bet you thought I was some business woman

who had a big meeting to close a six-figure deal. Well, if thats what you thought

then youre sadly mistaken. I have an appointment with a realtor. Im selling my

house, my share of my fathers inheritance. You know why? Because I started a

project and it failed miserably and Im up to my ears in debt.

He didnt say anything, he just listened with shock.

You know why I did that? That project I mean. She asked without waiting for an

answer. Because all my life I wanted everything I do to be meaningful. I wanted

to set an example for people, to teach them a lesson! You know, people with little

to zero ambition, or those people who would invent obstacles to convince

themselves they cant do any better in life. People like you! People who tell me all

the time that Im being rash or silly or delusional. Ive lost some rounds but Ive

won many rounds too. This one was a biggie, though. I ended up flat broke! But

you know what the crazy thing is? I dont regret it, and I still want to do it my

way!

He smiled as he noticed how her face brightened up. He realized he hadnt smiled

like this in years.

Look at me, Im a 35 year-old single bankrupt woman with people watching my

every move waiting for me to fail and I still believe I can do something will teach

the world a lesson! Heck, I defy the basic theories of human psychology!

He looked at her with admiration as silence prevailed for a moment until he broke

it in a most unexpected way.

I lied. I knew where I was going. I was going to the roof. I wanted to jump off it

and kill myself."

Her eyes widened. She waited for him to break into laughter or anything that

indicates it was a joke, but he didnt. The question then flowed out effortlessly:

And now what?

But he didnt have the time to answer. The elevator jolted again and started to

move, then the door was opened to reveal apologetic maintenance workers. The

elevator was on the first floor now, so they asked her where she wanted to go as to

press the right buttons. She said she was going to the third floor. Then they asked

him where he was going. They exchanged a weird inquisitive look, and just before

the door closed again he said with his eyes fixed on hers:

I was going down to the ground floor

Psycho

He was late that night. She stayed up waiting for him, wondering what could have

held him up. For a moment she entertained the thought that since he knew she was

waiting for him, and she knew for a fact that he was aware of that, he decided to

tease her by being a little bit late. But it was 11:47, and he would usually be home

by 11:20. Yesterday he came home 4 minutes late at 11:24, but that was because he

stopped by the nearby mini market to buy a prepaid card to recharge his balance,

which made sense because the last time there was a used prepaid refill card in the

trash was 9 days ago. But now she he was 27 minutes late and she was getting

more worried by the minute for she could only imagine the worse. Her nerves were

just about to let loose when she saw the bright head-lights of his Honda shining

from the distance. She let a sigh of relief, watched him leave his car and close the

door ever so gently, wrapping his face with his black scarf to shield his mouth and

nose from the freezing air. Her eyes followed him as he ascended the 8 doorsteps

to his front door, chuckled under her breath when he dropped his keys and arched

down to fetch them. Then, as he closed his door, she wished him a good night and

went to bed with a smile on her face, and all the love in the world that a woman

can hold for a man in her heart.

For the inept eye, it might've seemed like he barely knew she existed, but she knew

better than that. There was no doubt in her mind as to how he felt about her, and

she was fully aware of his ways; because she knew him very well, perhaps even

better than he knew himself. He was too proud to let her catch a glimpse of interest

from him, but she didn't mind it; in fact she admired him for that. Actually, there

were very few things she didn't admire about him. Had she been a poet, she would

probably have written an ode to every single detail. From his thick, brown tufts of

hair to his elegant, stylish shoes. Truth be told, she could tell you every piece of

clothing he has in his wardrobe, where it was bought from and for how much. She

could show you pictures of his different hair styles and how he looks unshaved.

For 3 years he had been her main project, as if all the passion of her life has

materialized into one being, and she knew it from the moment she set eyes on him

the day he moved in. She asked around until she got hold of his full name, and that

was pretty much all she needed. She embarked on a personal quest, found out

where he worked, where his family lived, how many brothers and sisters he had as

well as their names and occupations, what college he went to, what his major was,

she even tried to figure out the six degrees of separation between him and herself,

and since they had no mutual friends, she had to dig deeper to find if she shared

any friends with any of his friends. She signed up to every online social network,

searching for names and jumping from one profile to another, riveting in every

mediocre discovery she made. She waited a couple of months, and after a couple of

encounters, premeditated on her part and incidental on his, she felt it was legally

appropriate to send him a friend request on whatever online portal he was using.

Now she could have a peek, or a little bit more than that, at how he thinks and what

he feels. And for that matter, she could analyze it and come up with jaw-dropping

conclusions, the mightiest of which was when she discovered after reading a

Facebook status message that he was, completely, utterly, head-over-heels in

love with her.

The next morning after the scare, she woke up with the same smile she sported the

night before, and it was for one simple recurring reason: she had a dream about

him. She was walking into the house and he was standing there, at first she couldn't

see his face as he was looking the other way, but as she approached him, he turned

around and smiled at her. It felt so real that it took her a few moments after she

woke up to realize it was only a dream, which wiped the smile off her face

instantly.

Right after she got up from bed, she switched on her computer to attend to her

daily routine. She opened a browser window, then another 2 tabs in it. She signed

on to Facebook, Twiiter and Linkdin, for those were the websites he was active on.

He had posted 3 new tweets on Twitter, nothing new on Linkedin, but something

new on facebook was promising to make her blood boil. It was a wall-to-wall

conversation between him and a girl who had a kitten as a profile picture. She

hated people with profile pictures that didn't reveal their identitie, and hated them

even more for not posting any public information about themselves. She was so

infuriated by the overly friendly discussion between the two that she wanted to

know who that kitten was more than she wanted her next breath. She opened her

friend list and tried to work out the connection. She started counting their mutual

friends, since she memorized his friend list by heart, then she checked every photo

album and every profile she could access, looking for clues. Finally and after quite

a long period of time had passed, her fears were put to rest as she learned that girl

was his married expatriate cousin.

She laughed at herself for she felt pretty ridiculous, but then she felt guilty for

doubting him. What was she thinking? She knew he swore his heart to her, and she

knew he had always been faithful, for a perfect guy like him can't possibly cheat on

the girl he loved, especially that he knew that no girl on earth could love him as

much as she did. But she was so ridden with guilt that she decided to call him and

apologize in her own way. She dialed his number, which was the only dialed

number on her phone, and after it rang 3 times, he answered. She felt a fresh breath

of air washing by her when he heard his voice, and as all their phone calls went,

she said nothing, she only listened to him, and after he would give up any hope of

hearing her voice, for that brief moment, she would just listen to the rhythmic

sound of his breathing. She always let him hang up before she did, so that she

wouldn't miss any moment she could spend with him.

But, as a matter of fact, there wasn't a moment she didn't spend with him. He was

with her every minute of the day, occupying every thought she had. Everyone

looked like him, everyone sounded like him. Every conversation she had was

carefully planned to lead to him or to someone who had even the remotest

connection to him. Everything she did was a part of a larger scheme that connected

her to him, even when she bought a new pair of shoes she thought whether he

would like them on her or not. She'd seen people acting this way on TV, but those

were not in love, they were obsessed, and she pitied them.

Then there came the crash. It started when she noticed he was spending more time

than usual away from home. He would be absent for hours on end and some nights

he wouldn't come home until after midnight. She tried to make sense of it, but no

explanation she came up with seemed to satisfy her merciless curiosity. Little did

she know this wouldn't stay a mystery for long, and even less did she know that the

sooner she learned the matter, the sooner she would wish she hadn't. It was glaring

at her, right there at the restaurant to where she followed him. She was pretending

to read a book while sipping a cup of coffee that almost fell off her hand when she

saw the gut-wrenching spectacle. And, if that wasn't enough, the changed

relationship status confirmed whatever suspicion she had.

She couldn't believe he could do that to her. Engaged? What about his promises,

his unspoken promises? Had the carpet in her room been able to speak, it probably

would've screamed in agony under her feet, moving relentlessly between the

window and the mirror. She would look out the window at his house with her eyes

shooting fire sparks and a most dreary expression that promised destruction. She

would then turn around to the mirror, hating herself for being so stupid to trust him

so much, and to love him even more.

"He doesn't deserve me". That was her most recurring thought. She then started

this scenario in her head, where she'd bury herself under the blanket and cry herself

to death. Her family would make the morbid discovery in the morning: A young

dead body with a note that says "I wish you had stabbed me to death". The whole

neighborhood would be in shock over the tragedy, including the person who was

the reason behind it all. He would come crying at her dead feet, and he would sit

by her grave for hours, every day, and his sorry excuse of a fianc would see the

truth and leave him to spend the rest of his miserable, pathetic life alone, drowned

in a sea of remorse.

But as she pictured them together again, she felt a knot tightening in her stomach

to think that they would continue to live their life normally together while she's

being eaten by worms under the ground.

That thought diverted her back to reality, and she was glad it did, because then it

dawned on her. How couldn't she have thought of that earlier? She knew he was

mad about her, that was out of question. But that's the point! He was afraid she

might not be in love with him just as much, so he decided to do this whole act to

make her feel jealous. Oh, how silly of her to have doubted him like that!

After that there was only waiting. She was sure he was going to break up with his

fianc and come crawling back to her, she just wasn't sure when. She didn't feel

like he was taken from her, he was hers and hers only. She even felt bad for the

other girl; for the poor thing had no idea how she was being used and that she was

in for a trauma. She hoped the girl wouldn't be crazy enough to do something

stupid, for she knew a little too well what a woman with a broken-heart is capable

of.

More waiting followed. Day and night she looked on from that window,

anticipating his every move, monitoring his goings out and comings in, until one

day she saw something unusual. It was a convertible car decorated with flowers

and ribbons, ad she couldn't find any other explanation. It was the day she never

saw coming. Then there was people and music, and then after slightly over an hour

of singing and rejoicing they were all gone.

She stayed up by the window, waiting and hoping that it's all a sham, and that he

could show up at her doorstep at any moment and asks for her forgiveness for

tormenting her so. But this wasn't going to happen, because an hour or so after

midnight the same car came back, but this time there was a smaller crowd and the

flowers were wilted. The singing started again along with the tears streaming down

her face. She looked on, devastated, unable to think why he would do such a thing.

Why would he go all the way and break her heart? As her mind seemed unable to

offer any rational explanation, she rushed to a little drawer in her dressing table

and pulled out something she's been hiding away for a time like this, despite how

little she expected it.

She pressed it to the side of her head, unable to control her tears, and before

pulling the trigger, she thought these bullet didn't belong to her, but rather to the

one who made her reach this point of desperation. She reached out of the window,

pointing at the bride, then the groom, then she thought again, she was the one who

trusted him, maybe she should be the one to take the bullet, and as she pulled it

inside, she closed her eyes and pointed the weapon again to the right side of her

head, but before she could muster the kind of courage it takes to take one's own

life, her mother came in, gently took the blow-dryer out of her hand and put it

away.

The poor girl didn't seem to know where she was. Her mother took her by the hand

and made her sit down on the bed. She wiped off her tears with her bare hand, and

then looked at her with drooping eyes and a faint smile as she tried to find the least

painful way to say what she had in mind.

"Maya, dear, I know what these occasions remind you of, and I know that you

really loved Adam, and he loved you back, and I know that what happened to him

was tragic and it broke your heart, but it's been 4 years. I'm not saying you should

forget him, I just want you to go on with your life."

She gave her a hug and then went to fix her a glass of lemonade to cool her down.

Maya looked at her mother sadly as she left the room. She had no idea who this

Adam was, her mother seemed to be getting senile, she thought.

She walked again to the window and as she looked at the joyful crowd again, the

truth hit her like a bolt from the blue. How couldn't she have seen it before? It was

right out there, staring her in the face. Now everything made sense and she knew

why things took this weird turn. Now, as she looked at the blushing bride she

realized how blind she was to the uncanny resemblance she bore to her. Of course!

That's it, he knew he couldn't have her so he went to a woman who looked exactly

like her so he can feel every day that he's with her.

She felt her heart breaking again for that poor girl and how badly she was being

used without even knowing it. Yet she couldn't help the sneaking feeling of joy she

felt as she thought of the day all this will come to the end and his little scheme will

be revealed, and then everything will come apart. He will be broken and lonely, but

against all odds, she hoped he knew it in his heart that when this day comes, she

will be here, by this very window, waiting for him to come back.

A Mom's Deal

I hate you! All of you!

He said the words as he stormed out of the house into the small garden, heading

almost thoughtlessly to the shed that sat in the farthest corner away from the house.

It has become a frequent scene by now and they have gotten used to it: when he

gets angry at his family he gets angry at the world, and that small tool shed

becomes his prison of choice where he can let his anger simmer silently until it

boils up and overflows, and he could find it in his little victimized heart to forgive

them for whatever they did to him, which he usually chooses to forget, if he gets

hungry or lonely enough.

Come out of there, dont be such a baby! His sisters voice came from outside.

Go away! He yelled.

Okay! She saved her breath.

He sat there for a couple more minutes before he heard the familiar knocking on

the door.

This is getting old, you know His mothers voice seeped through the cracks in

the wood. What do you sit doing there for hours? We get it, youre angry! Come

out and lets talk

No! He fired back. Im not coming out of here, ever!

Oh, really? I assume you intend to be raised by cockroaches then, Tarzan style!

He cringed at the thought of the six-legged little monsters, but he manned up and

yelled again as if she was at the other end of the yard.

Yes! At least they will love me!

And we dont?

No, you dont. Nobody loves me!

Well, I kind of like you, youre a cool kid She replied as he heard her sitting

down and leaning against the wooden door.

He said nothing.

Of course we love you, silly! She said after a beat. Youre family, we have no

choice. I may not like you at this very moment, making me squat under the sun in

this weather begging for you to come out, in fact I might even have had thoughts of

wringing your neck, but you know I would never do it, because I am your mother,

and I love you, its in my DNA to love you, so just come out and take some

advantage of that already

Youre lying

Okay She said as she let out a long breath. How do you want me to prove it?

I dont know, ask this DNA of yours!

He heard her shift her position, he heard the old door creak as she rested her back

on it.

Okay, lets see She said slowly as if she was preparing a speech. You know

how I told you I wouldnt buy you that bicycle because it was too expensive? I will

talk your father into buying it. Ill also let you stay up late playing video games

tonight, just tonight! And Ill let you skip school tomorrow. How does that sound

He said nothing, he didnt sound so pleased.

Okay... She said again, as if she was gasping for breath, and then she started

again, words flowing out of her mouth as if she was reading off a paper

Tomorrow morning, I will wake you up early, and then you will try to go back to

sleep, but Ill tell you that I made you your favorite breakfast, fried eggs with

cheddar cheese, and you will still want to go back to sleep but I will keep tickling

you until you get up. We will laugh until Ill tell you to hush and listen to the

sound of birds outside, then well go brush our teeth together because I know you

wouldnt brush them properly unless I watched you. After that well have

breakfast, you know which dishes we will use? Those ones I keep in the guest

room and we never use because I always say they are for guests

And we never have guests

Yes she chuckled. We never have guests! Then you will tell me about that

funny friend of yours at school and I will pretend to be amused although I dont get

half of his antics. After that we will watch a movie together, Ill want to watch

Beauty and The Beast but you will insist on watching Cars for the tenth time. Then

I will try to get you to do your homework but you will want to read a story instead,

so we read a story and then its lunch time, Ill take you out for lunch, just the two

of us, and we will have your favorite burgers and you will spill ketchup all over

your shirt, which will make you feel bad for being like babies so I will squeeze my

sandwich willingly that ketchup will drip out of it all over my shirt, just to show

you that its okay. Then we will have a walk in the park, we will sit on the grass

and try to make shapes out of clouds. You will tell me that a cloud looks like a

shark, and I will agree enthusiastically although it looks to me like a half-eaten

apple. We will look at people around and try to imagine what their stories might

be, and when we get bored well just head home where your father and sister will

ask us where weve been and we wont tell them, it will be our little totally

uncalled-for secret. Then well do your homework together and youll tell me how

much you like that math teacher and Ill feel so jealous but Ill be happy knowing

that youre in good hands at school. Then Ill tell you to go put on your Pajamas,

and you will complain but I will tell you that Ill make you a Nutella sandwich for

dinner and before I know it you will be in your PJs nagging me in the kitchen.

After we brush our teeth together you will ask me to read you a story, the same

story I read you every night and you never get bored of, then youll ask me to tell

you some of my childhood stories, and you will laugh until you fall asleep while I

ramble on and on before I realize you stopped listening half a century ago, thats

when Ill kiss you goodnight and pull the blanket up to your chest, which Ill do

three or four times during the night as Ill keep waking up to find that you pushed

the blanket to the floor, and Ill just let out an impatient groan and then kiss you

again on the forehead, while you sleep dreaming of God knows what mystical

creatures that live only inside your head

She paused, How does that sound? She asked.

Not bad, I suppose He tried to sound less pleased than he really was.

Okay, great She said as he heard her get up. Now get out of this box and come

home. Ill make you a cake

He heard her footsteps fade away, when he couldnt hear them anymore he opened

the sheds door slightly and looked around. It was clear, he got up and ran inside,

passing by the living room where his father and sister were.

I think its about time I removed that shed His father said gravely.

Leave it, apparently its helping him cope. You know that isnt easy on him

The father sighed and went back to watching his TV show, but he noticed

something missing. He looked around and then realized the boy must have taken it.

He walked to his room, knocked on the door, and when there was no answer he

opened it quietly. His son was lying asleep on the bed with his back to the door. As

he approached him he could see that he was holding the picture between his arms,

he lifted it up slowly from his grip as not to wake him up and put it on the

nightstand beside him.

She must be here to greet him with her familiar warm smile every morning as she

used to He thought to himself as he looked at the picture of his late wife with the

black ribbon cross the upper left corner of the photo, then pulled the blanket over

his son ,and left the room.

The Autumn Visitor

He knew the news he was about to break to her would make her day. Ever since his

father passed away last year, and with his two sisters living abroad with their

families the house has been so empty and dormant under a grave atmosphere. He

knew that she couldnt bear to have him away from her; hence, it was out of

question that if he got married he and his wife would live with her in the same

house. So, to tell her that hed finally met someone would certainly be a pleasant

surprise.

But mom, youre crying! He said, bewildered. A warm smile spread slowly

across Alias face, as if struggling to make its way through the winding wrinkles

that were carved on her cheeks and around her eyes over the years. Those were

also the result of the countless smiles she had worn in the past, like those smiles of

joy she couldnt control on her graduation day, or those she worked up on her

wedding day to avoid looking nervous. But for the most part, those wrinkles were

the result of the smiles she had as she he watched her children grow up, and the

scowls of disapproval whenever they did something wrong. This very young man

sitting across from her telling her that he wanted to get married was responsible for

a fair share of those wrinkles. His first steps, his kindergarten graduation, his first

successful attempt at tying a necktie, his first promotion and now, he was getting

married.

Im just so happy She replied in what sounded like a whisper. Saif, Tell me

about her.

Well, He clamped his hands and started speaking rather shyly, loosening up as

he went on. Shes a friend of a friend. Actually, shes the client of a friend. You

know, its a bit complicated but, anyway, we met few months ago in his office and,

I dont know, we just clicked! He paused for a moment as if waiting for her to say

something. When she didnt, he thought the safest thing to say was, What do you

want to know?

A name would be good, for a start. She said with a grin, as if to let him know she

was aware how nervous he was, she had no idea what he was about to say was

going to turn the joke on her.

Lina. He paused for a moment then realized that in this particular situation he

was required to provide the middle and last name as well. Its always like that with

old folks who would probably be more interested in the generation they are more

likely to recognize. So on he went. Lina Salah Azmi

For a moment, she doubted that she heard the name right so she made him repeat

it. As he said the name again, she was rendered speechless. Her memory started to

rewind and she was 23 again, standing by the window watching that man walk

away for the last time, biting on the sleeve of her jacket so no one would hear her

weeping.

I think I know her father. She finally said to him, after a long pause.

How well do you know him? Because hes been dead for three years.

She felt as if an iceberg had fell on her. She wished he could be mistaken, but how

could he be? She tried to contain her shock, and with a lump in her throat she

managed to utter no more that two words, Very well.

Mom, is there something you need to tell me? He asked in a rather worried

voice. She sensed his worry, and in an effort to comfort him she tried to detach

herself from the raging sea of memories and emotions that have just been

unleashed. I do need to tell you something. She said, finally working up a smile.

I never told you this She said with a steady voice. But, 40 years ago, before I

met your father, there was someone else in my life. It was a pretty serious

relationship, we almost got married, but something went wrong at the last moment,

something I dont choose to remember, and it just didnt work out.

And, that man was Linas father, I suppose? He asked in a knowing tone. She

only nodded in approval and lowered her gaze.

There was a long silence, finally Saif broke it rather hesitantly. Mom, if it makes

you uncomfortable, I totally understand

No. She interrupted. It doesnt. Its just that I thought I would never She

trailed off to silence again as she couldnt finish her sentence.

Mom, you dont have to do that.

What if I want to do it? She said with an effortless smile this time. Do you

know what real love is?

He nodded as if to say he had no clue.

Its the love that can never turn sour. She continued. Love has many forms, and

we dont necessarily perceive them all. When I loved Salah, I couldnt imagine my

life without him. I loved him deeply, I was sure it was true love, not just a whim,

and I knew we had some kind of a bond. At first, I thought it was the bond you feel

you have with the person that youll share your life with, but when it turned out

that it wasnt, I knew we still had some sort of connection. I cried when he left me,

but I believed in my heart that it was all for the best, and I prayed for him from all

my heart. I knew I have lost him as a life companion, and I knew I could fall in

love again, but the love I held for Salah was turning into another feeling, the same

feeling that makes me happy today that you want to marry his daughter.

Saif, She said as noticed that he wasnt yet relieved. You must know that I

loved your father dearly, and I have never betrayed him, neither with my heart nor

with my thoughts. She shifted in her seat and put on a less serious face. So, when

am I going to meet her?

***

She made sure she looked her best on the day of the visit. She wore a classy gray

Lenin jacket dress, one she was saving for special occasions, and made sure she

matched it with the right scarf and shoes. Saif too spent a little more time than

usual getting ready, but finally they were set and driving to Linas house, speaking

very little on the way.

Her heart was pounding so fast as they rang the doorbell that she felt it was going

to jump out of her chest. She found it weird that she was more nervous than Saif

was. She tried to imagine the feeling the house would give her. She thought shed

smell him in every corner and hear his laughter in every room. She thought of his

daughter, perhaps she bears a resemblance to him. She thought that the first thing

shed see in her was him, and she was a bit afraid that her tears would betray her.

The door opened and a young woman was there to welcome them. Alia wondered

who might she be since she was almost certain she wasnt Lina. An elder lady was

standing beside her and invited them in while they exchanged formal greetings.

There was nothing in the house that reminded her of Salah, and the young girl who

actually turned out to be Lina looked nothing like him. She couldnt see a trace of

him anywhere, even his distinctive scent was totally absent.

As the four of them chatted, Alia tried to look as little distracted as she could while

she looked around the room for any trace of him. Finally, her eyes rested upon a

framed picture on a stand in the far corner of the room. It was a black and white

picture of a young man in a suit. She wasnt really aware of the conversation when

she interrupted to ask who he was.

That would be my husband, Salah. Said Linas mother. He was quite a hunk as

a young man. Wasnt he? If you look closely youll probably see how much Lina

looks like him. Shes the only one among my children who inherited her fathers

hazel eyes

Alia smiled and nodded at this, avoiding to look in Saifs direction, but he knew

what it was about. It was not him.

For the following few days, neither of them brought the subject up. Saif sensed her

mothers disappointment as she lost what she thought was the last link to a past she

cherished. How didnt it occur to them that there could be more than one person

with the name Salah Azmi?

She tried to busy herself and act as if nothing happened. Saif seemed to respect

that, and he seemed busy too working out the engagement arrangement with Lina,

she assumed. He would make calls all day long and stay out for hours without

saying where he was going or from where he was coming.

A lonely feeling started to haunt her, and she felt like talking, but Saif was never

home and he was the only one she cared to talk to at that time.

One afternoon Saif came home early from work. She thought he had to run some

errands to get some things done before the engagement party. Instead, he told her

to get dressed because he wanted to take her somewhere he wouldnt disclose.

She dressed up in a rush and they set out. She asked him where he was taking her,

but he kept telling her to be patient. Finally, they pulled over in front of a small

semi-villa with a big garden worn out by the early fall.

She stepped out of the car and walked behind him, as if she was hiding from

something. Saif pressed the button on the intercom and made himself known.

Then, the gate opened to a long paved path lined with the bronze leaves falling

from the garden trees. They walked to the door where an elderly lady was waiting

for them.

You must be Alia The elderly lady said. Your son told me you and Salah were

close friends. Please do come in, hes waiting in the living room.

Lets hope its the right one this time. Whispered Saif.

Alia was too dumbstruck to speak. She tried to say anything out of courtesy but

words betrayed her at that moment. All she could think of was Salah, as young and

alive as the last time she saw him, waiting for her inside. But that image was soon

to be scattered seconds before she entered the room.

I dont know if your son told you this, but The elderly lady paused for a

moment before saying this. Please dont feel bad if he doesnt remember you.

Salah has been suffering from dementia for some time now, he doesnt even

remember his own children.

Alia was mesmerized, and for a moment thought of going back without seeing him.

Could she bear it if he didnt remember her?

Yes, she could bear anything for this, she thought.

He was nothing like the last time she saw him. He was too thin and nothing was

left of his locks of thick black hair but a few gray tufts. His face was even more

wrinkled than her face was, and his hands were two maps of protruding green and

purple veins. There was a woman in her mid-thirties sitting beside him. She looked

like a young version of the elderly lady who met them at the door, and she

introduced herself as his daughter, Fadia.

Alia approached him slowly. Fadia gave her a curt nod, then moved closer to him

and said with in a loud voice as though to make sure he heared her, Dad, this is

Alia. You remember her, right?

Alia? Salah said as he studied her face. Her eyes narrowed as if he was trying

hard to remember who she was. At this point, Alia could feel the tears welling up

in her eyes, but she struggled to hold them back. She wished hed remember her

and they would recall the tiniest details of their past together.

Ah, Alia. He finally said, and her heart sank within her. She was just about to

say something when he turned to his daughter and said, Shes a good woman, she

was my mothers closest neighbor and they baked bread together.

Alia stopped in her tracks for a few moments as Fadia shook her head in dismay

and gave her a look of consolation. Sorry, hes memory is just total mess.

Alia had no response to that but the tears streaming down her face. She excused

herself and thanked his wife then walked out in a hurry without even waiting for

Saif to follow her. He raced her to the car, telling her he was sorry. She looked at

him for a moment, clueless as to whether he should really be sorry or not. But just

before she could make up any thought, a voice called her from behind.

It was Fadia, she was running behind her begging her to stop. Alia turned around

and faced her, thinking she wanted to give her something that might have slipped

from her in the house.

Im so sorry for this, Mrs., Alia. I know it must be hard She said as she seemed

to struggle with the words. My fathers memory might be a blur now, but few

years ago when he was more lucid, he told me all about you. Everything.

Excuse me?

He told me how you met and how much he was fond of you. He said you were a

great woman, and to tell you the truth, I felt a bit jealous to think that he may have

loved you more than he love my Mother, but he told me it was different.

Alia had no idea what to say, and she no longer felt the tears on her face. Fadia

stood speechless too, and at last figured out shed better excuse herself and go back

inside. Alia remained standing still for a moment, then she glanced at Saif who was

waiting for her in the car and motioned for her to get in. She walked with slow

steps, but before she stepped in, she turned around and yelled at the top of her

lungs.

Wait!

Fadia turned around just before the gate closed.

Why did he tell you about me?

Fadia smiled and lowered her gaze to the ground.

He knew his memory was fading away, she said with what sounded like a sigh.

He wanted to make sure some things werent lost along with it. Some things are

worth being remembered.

For a moment, Alia lost the sense of time and place, the wrinkles disappeared from

her face and she was standing by the window again, looking at the same young and

strong man, but this time she didnt hear herself weep; the only sound she could

hear was a voice in her head that said over and over:

Some things are worth being remembered.

The Last Hanging

"I want to be a lifeguard, like my father." The teacher said that was my son's

answer when she asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. She then sat

across from me, investigating my coarse appearance with contempt, looking rather

appalled.

"I understand the complexity of the situation, but it's about time he knew. You

know you should do something to reduce the shock by then."

"Well, you know my job is kind of sensitive, and kids tend to have big mouths." I

replied coldly.

"But, a lifeguard? Your son thinks of you as a superhero!"

"Well, I wouldn't put it that way"

"Let me ask you something," She interrupted. "Are you satisfied with what you

do?"

I could clearly see the reason behind her question, what I couldn't see was the

answer she was expecting. Are you satisfied with what you do? A perfectly normal

question, if asked to a baker or a blacksmith, not a hangman. You don't ask a

hangman if he's satisfied with his job. If you must, ask him how he feels when he

takes the life of someone he believes to be innocent the same way he takes that of a

serial killer, or how he grows nauseated each time someone drops through that trap

door and turns into a lifeless body swinging in the wind, all in the matter of

minutes.

"Excuse me" The teacher's voice brought me back to reality. "Are you satisfied

with your job?"

"Well, I'm just another human being."

She forced a heavy smile and said nothing, perhaps wondering what my answer

had to do with anything, or even trying to draw a mental image of the Angel of

Death, while I assured her it wasn't me.

****

My daily encounter with death cast its shadow on every detail of my life. My

relationship with my wife, kids, people and even with myself. I could not look into

the mirror without feeling a strong urge to spit, which made me excuse the sideway

glances I get from others all the time. I could feel the stiffness of my wife's body

whenever I touched her, the rigidness of her skin, the tightening of her voice. I

knew that with every passing day we drew further apart. Sometimes I think the

only reason she didn't leave me when I started my new job was that our son had

just been born. It was the only work I could find and I promised her it wouldn't be

for long, but soon enough it became even harder to find a new job with my work

history.

My son would always ask me to tell him some of my life-saving stories, and I

would ramble on and on about how I saved those little school kids when their boat

sank a few miles off shore. I enjoyed telling those stories and nearly believed them

myself, except that deep inside, a huge wave of disgust tore into my gut.

Very few people in the neighborhood knew what my job really was. Curiously

enough, Zaki the garbage man was one of them. He had a dark complexion, a pair

of coarse hands, caked with dust and dirt. I always looked down on him, but deep

inside I was green with envy; because I knew that as soon as he got home, he got

rid of all that dirt with a simple shower, something I've been trying to do for many

years but to no avail.

"And I thought I had the worst job in the world!" Said Zaki once, with a small

chuckle. "Dealing with all that rubbish every day. But, you know what? When I

come home to my wife and kids, I feel like the cleanest person on earth."

I gave him a sarcastic remark, a skill I acquired through years of experience with

the ironic contrast between life and death. He gave me a brief look that I suspected

to be one of empathy and said: "You may joke about it, but I'm telling you: that job

redeems me. And they call me a garbage man! Why should I be labeled with

garbage when all I do is to collect your rubbish? Then, all of a sudden, you are

disgusted of shaking hands with me!"

Ironically, the disgust I felt with myself that moment left no room to be disgusted

with Zaki anymore. I only wished that, somehow, Zaki would be up on the gallows

the very next morning, waiting for me to tie the rope around his neck and see him

swinging like a rubber dummy.

A sudden call shook off all those memories at once, and I was back again at the

hanging room, waiting for my next prey. All those years gave me an extraordinary

talent of knowing who's innocent and who's guilty by looking into their eyes. Both

had their eyes full of fear, but the innocent ones had it mixed with bitterness. The

guilty, with regret. Two huge guards came through the doorway, dragging a

shackled man who didn't show any resistance. I was wearing a black hood that had

slits for my eyes, something that has always added to my sense of villainy. I was

also carrying another hood for the convict, but that one had no slits whatsoever,

something I never understood the wisdom of.

The three of them approached the gallows in firm steps, the huge men looking

fairly normal doing such a routine task. The dead-man-walking looked no less

normal than they were. There was a strange calm surrounding him, so intense that

it gave me the shivers. For some reason I didn't know, I wanted to snatch the hood

off my head and run just run without thinking whereto. But the next thing I

knew, the man was all but set up on the gallows to face his eminent death. All that

was left for me was to wrap his head with the black hood, then, show time.

He was tall and skinny, old enough to be my father. The wrinkles on his forehead

looked like cracks in a worn-out rock. He had a long, white, well-trimmed beard,

and possessed a certain poise that made me think that he could never have

committed a crime that made him deserve to bite the dust.

Reluctantly, I held the hood above his head to shut him out, wondering what good

it would do. The man eyes were silently following my movements, till he blurted

out all of a sudden

"You know I don't need this! You are doing it so you won't have to see my face."

He paused for a moment, as if waiting for me to absorb the idea, then sighed and

turned his face away. "Go on, spare yourself some nightmares."

The officer in charge yelled at me to continue with the procedures, and without

blinking, I blocked out all the thoughts burning in my mind, putting the hood into

place hastily, making sure he wouldn't get another glimpse of this life.

The hanging went perfectly normal. We heard the choking sound tearing out of his

throat as he recited the Declaration of Faith - which he wasn't given enough time to

finish- and watched as he swung by the neck, back and forth in the chilly wind.

Loaded with all what I had previously blocked out, I walked slowly out of the

hanging room, for the urge I had to run had faded away. And as I do after every

hanging, I went to the clerk to get my wages, feeling all the humiliation in the

world eating away at me.

"Good one, tiger!" said the clerk jokingly. I gave him my back and walked away,

without the slightest response.

As I walked home, everything seemed normal, nothing seemed to have been

changed, the sun hasn't frozen and the earth hasn't stopped turning around. Only I

was changed forever. I kept walking along the river, observing the people

humming around, wondering what could be their biggest concerns. I stopped at

some point, looking at the ripples on the silver sheet of the river. I fished for the

blood-soaked money in my pocket, looked at it with disgust and then looked again

at the water. For a moment, I thought if redemption ever materialized, it would

most probably be a river. I smiled at the thought, and without thinking any further,

sent the coins sinking into the water, throwing them as far as I could a life

wasted for free.

In The Dark

It's so dark in here. My eyeballs are trembling, their pupils dilating frantically in

desperate search for the tiniest spec of light.

But there isn't any, and I have to accept it: I'm plunged into darkness.

But how did I get here? I've been dreading this for so long. Everyone knows what a

coward I can be when it comes to confined spaces, and this is the worst of my

fears, or maybe it shouldnt be? Because in the darkness you can't tell how

spacious or enclosed a space is.

But why am I so afraid? Why do I feel like I'm suffocating? I knew this was

coming. I knew it the moment the doctor asked me to sit down for the news.

"Didn't you notice the mole earlier?"

"I did."

"Then, why didn't you have it checked out?"

I didn't answer, although I knew the answer. He thought I didn't think much of it,

but I did. I was just too afraid to face it.

Now as I lie here in the darkness, I know there are bigger things to fear. I just want

to get out. No. I want to go back in time; to the time where I could've it nipped it

all in the bud. God! How much I would give just to hear the doctor say: "It's a

good thing you came now; it's nothing surgery can't take care of"

But that wasn't what he said. And now, months later, I'm here in this dark, bleak,

cold hole alone. Oh, how I want to see them again! How I want to hear their

voices, stroke their hair and kiss their cheeks! But I'm in here alone, and I know

they are outside, praying for me, maybe shedding some tears every now and then.

My mom has always been the strong one. When I told her the news, I expected it to

hit her like a thunderbolt out of clear sky. But it didn't. Instead, she told me I

needed to fight with all my power, and therefore I had to stay strong, really strong.

She even joked that death might not be the worst thing that could happen, because

if I lived I might wish to be dead after she took the time to punish me for not going

for a check-up earlier and thus causing myself to go through all that.

But what happened had already happened, and I can't change it, but I would give

anything right now to hear my mother scolding me. Anything at all, but I know she

now probably has a lump in her throat, and tears to fight back. Not because she's

ashamed of crying or because she deems it a weakness, but because she knows that

this is that last thing the children need to see.

The children. I can almost see their faces and hear their giggles in the pitch

darkness. I prepared them well for everything, too well maybe since the youngest

one who's barely four has hopes now that I'll be going to the heavens to bring him

all the gifts he wants. The other two were wearier and it's hard to reassure them, so

I thought it was better to have them know the truth.

This is the truth, a pitch-black hole.

But distraction was a much-needed quick fix. My husband took them out almost

every day, and I would insist that he didn't stay with me during chemo so that he

could take them some place to get it off their minds. He was reluctant at first, but

then he saw that it was the best choice for everyone. To tell the truth, I didn't want

him to see me in that shape. I couldn't let him see me collapsing and vomiting and,

sometimes, crying. That's not an image I want him to have of me.

I closed my eyes and tried to remember the sound of his breathing at night. It was

my lullaby. I tried to recall his smell, his smile, but s