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Back when I was still yet to dream, I would go with my father on a long drive once every week. Passing through the dark streets of Baghdad, through the bodies swinging down from the roofs from al- Nada mosque like Christmas decorations reflecting the moonlight when the power goes out. We would go deep into the darkness and emerge out into the lights coming out of the hospital where my mother has been staying lately.
What is this? What have they done to her hair? I thought. My father had sat me down a few days before to explain, but none of what he said made sense. Cancer, cancer, cancer, cancer, how does a cancer make you lose your hair? Is that how strong his pinch is? What? What do you mean it is inside her? Take it out.
I don't know what was that feeling, like an adrenaline rush that is well-suppressed. We saw it in each other's eyes, we loved talking to each other but that night we spent our doctor-approved hours in silence. Me sleeping on her arm, but lifting my head a little bit as I could sense she was weak.She would caress my hair as we stare into the beautiful pitch black darkness ruined by the occasional raising balls of fire stemming from the bombs that are ruining our perfect silence as I drifted to sleep
Next day I woke up in my bed, I would walk out and see women dressed in black. Some would stop to hug me and hug me, I am fine, I am fine, I could tell that you are lying with your smile, aunt. I could tell you want to cry, uncle. All thoughts I didn't share as the heat of a neon light aura led me to a casket where she was sleeping wearing white.
What does being dead mean? Is mom going to be hanging down a mosque? Is that where the dead go? Hanging down in the chest of our cities? Swinging around out of boredom as they wait for their loved ones to show up? I couldn't stand all the crying for six days, so I ran.
My father wouldn't take me to her again. So I headed toward the men by the mosque, she must be there. If not, they definitely would know where she is. I ran and ran, until the sun went home but left some of her light for the moon to guide me. The sounds of explosions warned from which direction I should stay away. All the doors were closed and all the people were silent to the horrible rhythm of the massacre symphony as sleep took over me.
I woke up the next day in a big football field made of sand, the goal posts were rusty and crooked, surrounded by homes housed by ghosts. I saw no one but a boy like me waving from far away, I walked toward him. He was wearing my memories with matching hopes.
"Can you help me?" He asked "I am looking for something"
"What are you looking for?" I wondered
"I don't know" He answered "We will know when we find it"
We kept looking for hours, stepping on glass from the burned out cars nearby as the burning sand went into my slippers. I kept looking until I heard screamed "Hey, I found it", so I walked toward him and saw him holding a bead
"This bead fell from God" He said "Let's go and return it to him"
He added "He definitely needs it to make another planet that is far away"
"Yes" I said "My aunt told me about this planet, it is where my mother and uncle would be waiting for me"
"Where is your mom now?" He asked
"She is standing watch next to the men and women by al- Nada mosque" I replied "They decorate the mosques since all the stationeries are closed"
I sat down on the burning sand not minding the heat, he then sat next to me.
"Who put her there?" He asked
"Someone named God" I replied "She would make the place so beautiful, I just wish he had waited for her hair to grow back as I spend more time with her first"
He then looked at me with a smile and said "Okay, then let's throw the bead and make the plant"
So we spent the next five days throwing the bead to the sky, from the top of destroyed houses so we could get closer to space. We would throw it during the day but the sun would stop it from, would throw it at night but the moon wasn't so kind either. We would hide away, climb the mountains of trash in the slums where the stars appointed to stop us won't look and throw it. All we got was scars and covered in mud.
Five days have passed, I was hungry, tired of drinking water from mosques and stealing fruits from groceries. He saw that I was missing home but too shy to tell.
"Hey" He smiled "How about you go home, and I promise you I will keep throwing it until it reaches another. I will then take to where I threw it from so you can go meet your mom"
I silently nodded in agreement. He took me home then waved goodbye from far away then disappeared.
Years would pass, and I would see him a few times. He would come to frustrate me about how he failed, but then reassures me that he will keep trying then disappears again.
Twenty years have passed and he is still not successful. For twenty years I had preferred to study. For twenty years I had preferred to count money rather than counting the dead. For twenty years I had preferred to work so I could win rather than look at what I lost. All except for the few times he would show up, worn out, dirty, and tired of people. We would come out for a new scheme to throw the beads.
He followed me to Dubai where I told him to throw it from the Khalifa tower. He joined me in Qatar to try to throw it from the desert, to Jordan to try his luck from the dead sea. Eventually I grew sick of him.
He became that friend you wouldn't introduce to others at a party, the one you are ashamed to have your girlfriend meet. Making up stories so they never meet him, redirect them to other places and to look elsewhere.
I still see him every now and then, as muddy as the day we fell from the mountain of trash. He takes out the bead out of his pocket every now and then and stares at it. then lays on any sidewalk and sleeps in another galaxy while lifting his head a little bit.
I am not sure what He represents, hope or I thought for a second depression, it could even be just a better you. Although I don't know probably because I am slow :) I think this is a very relatable story. It is one of those I feel will come back in time and remind you of things, I hope to read more Horribly written stories.
First of all, thank you for commenting. I am glad what I write you made you feel something, that is the goal after all. I am glad you liked it.