Almost a bruise.

One day I woke up with a blue circle on my arm. Unlike any generic bruise, it didn’t whisper to my pain sensory neurons to remind me of its existence; it was a perfectly normal blue circle. Almost a bruise, almost blue ink. I have to know!

I asked my mom. She said: “as long as it doesn’t hurt, you are fine.”

I asked my sister. She said: “Why do you care? It doesn’t hurt, right?”

I asked my brother. He said: “Don’t be silly. If it had been a bruise, your voice would have echoed the streets. I have applied extreme pressure on it.”

I asked my neighbor who lives next to us. He said: “I gotta go to my workplace.”

I asked the local supermarket’s cashier. He said: “So you want something over the counter to apply on it? I really don’t think you need anything.”

I asked the local pharmacist. She said: “It happens a lot! As long as there is no pain, no need for any cream or medicine. May I help you with anything?”

I asked the salesperson who walks with a bread cart around town to earn enough money to feed his kids. He said: “Sir, I really don’t think it is a big deal. Maybe you are hungry? Would you like a loaf of fresh bread?”

I asked the old man who takes care of the residential block’s garbage. He said: “Look at my hands and arms, all kinds of bruises and wounds. They don’t hurt, so I go about my day. You shouldn’t care that much.”

A simple question, but no one gave me what I want. A bruise or ink? Harmless or not? God, why is this so hard?

So, I kept walking, and I stopped a twenty-ish-year-old with a backpack and a university hoodie, and he said: “I’m sorry. I am already late for class, and if this is any kind of prank, not cool, by the way.”

I asked the woman who was holding a heavy bag and crossing the street like a heroine: “Don’t you see me busy enough not to engage in such dumbness?”

I kept walking . . . and walking . . . and walking. The trees became unfamiliar; the houses became different; the gardens became uncomfortable.

I found a little girl having fun with a butterfly, so I asked the girl. She said: “Oh no! Does it hurt? If it is painful, you should tell your mommy. If it doesn’t hurt you, then you are super lucky. I once had a big bruise, and it kept hurting until mommy blew on it.”

Then, I kept wandering in these foreign streets. I stopped the postman, who said: “Oh. That’s serious. Why is it that large? If it doesn’t hurt, I wouldn’t care that much. It kinds of go away on its own. Have a nice day!”

I walked further to look for answers. I found a crowd of people walking in towards some direction, so I followed them. All dressed in black, all holding flowers and all silent. I followed them to look for an answer. I was not aware of what was happening, but I just stood in line, waiting for something to happen. My turn to ask a question? Maybe. I kept following the people in front of me until I stumbled upon a dead person in a coffin, with all kinds of flowers. She wore a crimson dress and had black hair, and as soon as I noticed her arms and chest, I took off my t-shirt. I had the same blue bruises on her skin, so I screamed:

“What are these blue circles?!”

“Such simple things, And we make of them something so complex it defeats us, Almost.”

John Ashbery 

The dark holes in my white T-shirt

Image Credits goes to https://www.boredpanda.com/depression-through-art/?utm_source=google&utm_medium=organic&utm_campaign=organic

#14 Can’t Escape

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I woke up from my usual nightmare, a childhood trauma that blocks my mind from dreaming of everybody’s unicorns, fantasy, or gatherings. My body quaking on 8-Richter, dark memories flooded in out of my sick mind. Minutes passed, my body went silent. The adrenaline’s effect wore away, and my brain quashed the anguish within. I stood on my legs normally. My room was drowning in my overused clothes; ants and flies colonized the leftovers either on the ground or on that table whose broken glass always hurt me. As a morning greeting, the stomach-churning smell of the spoiled food, sweaty clothes, and invasive insects crept into my nose, torturing my lungs with a nurturing dosage of poisonous air. This deathless death symphony was cutting the strings of my lungs and replacing my blood with some dark liquid full of self-loathe and insecurities.

That day I had to get out of my room; that is, I had to fake smiles, be humorous, and maintain a fun atmosphere. While approaching the bathroom, I noticed my disheveled hair in the last piece of mirror remaining on the wall. I noticed my despicable, ugly appearance glaring at me with red eyes, penalizing me for not ending his life… penalizing me for keeping him alive, for making him a silent witness to calamities, and for making him feel worthless 24/7. I saw the insomniac nights he spent on making suicide plans, thinking of someone’s comment on him ten years ago, or reviving dark childhood memories as a dark circle below his eyes. The dark huge dark scar beneath his eyes reminded me of everything I always escaped from; I realized the failed suicide trials when I saw these cuttings on his arms, noticed the abuse scars on his body as burnings and wounds around his body, and I felt disgusted from the stark stretch marks on his belly. I discovered how living in such an isolated, dirty environment transformed his white, bouncing skin into a hideous jungle of stained face and randomly-grown hair. But it didn’t surprise me, for I am with him since the beginning of this metamorphism. I was with him when he had to suffer abuse, bear alienation, and practice self-loathe. It is no surprise for me to see his slim body walking with some blood clots everywhere. Maybe those aren’t real clots yet screams for help, and maybe his slim body reflects his thin self-confidence.

11:45 AM

I had to get out at 12:00; I had to decide on a mask to wear, something that could hide my shattered self-confidence and trap my dark thoughts, for they aren’t acceptable in social occasions. I needed to get out to feel surveillance cameras watching my movements, hidden microphones recording my words, and special AI devices analyzing my attitude. I had to prepare my always-fun jokes, my awkward humor, and my chaotic thoughts.

I felt the water tap very warm, as my body’s temperature was in extreme cold. I washed my face, feeling water turning into dark, dirty water after hitting my face. I kept washing my face and washing my mind, yet I had never achieved the latter.

11:53 AM 

Seven minutes left. If I had arrived late, I would have been, as always, dubbed as irresponsible and immature, but if I had arrived on time, I would have been also dubbed as irresponsible and immature because they don’t judge the attitudes rather than judging me. That is, I was called a fake individual if I achieved, true if I cheated, honest if I lied, actor if I said the truth; I was the opposite of everything in their prejudicial eyes, and when it comes to something good, I’ve never done it out of passion or love.

11:58 AM 

Two minutes left. I was done. I took my white T-shirt on. It wasn’t white: Life did its thing on it. Dark holes dominated its fabric: each one represented a memory, a night spent crying, an offending insult that made me awake for days, a scar on my body as a result of abuse, or a scar on my mind as a result of insecurities, self-loathe, or hate. I carry everything with me, to always remember and to always bully myself when it’s time to be happy or laugh. I take everything with me, to sneak meanwhile gatherings and cry alone in some dark corner. I walk with everything, to remember everything and avoid forgiving.

12:00 AM 

I arrived. It’s time to fake and find a space for another dark hole in my T-shirt. Bye.

 

 

 

Bad Romance

Photo Credits: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/565624034431028905/

I turned the lights off, only looking at the burning candle at the end of my room, for candles are the most common sign for romantic settings. I sprayed flower’s aroma and ecstatically felt those tiny, cold droplets touching my skin. That day, I did the strangest thing on earth. I wore the best attire of mine, dressed my hair, looked at the mirror manifold times, and put that deodorant, perfume, and etc. I was preparing myself for an emotional date with “the most awaited.”

I opened a champagne bottle, felt the ice between my warm hands, felt its smell wrinkling my nose, and heard the gratifying fuzzes of carbon dioxide escaping the liquid, for it was endowed freedom, and if someone was endowed freedom, they would escape what traps them… they would escape thoughts, analyses of people’s reactions and social status… they would escape what obstructs them from being themselves. The carbon dioxide cannot bear dissolving more, and on the same analogy, someone would have to run away from what dissolves their personality, silences their voice, or quashes their ability to self-express.

Anyways, I always deviate from the flesh of my story to speak about irrelevant details or throw random dark thoughts. Pardon me, it’s a habit that distinguishes my different type of personality. I poured ten or twenty millimeters into my glass, and the same I’ve done to the other glass. I waited for some minutes, with a smile on my face, and finally, the awaited arrived! It’s has been long since our last reunion, so I had to tell background stories before starting our conversation, telling them how I changed, how my world changed, and how every cell of me reacted to its new world. I had to tell them the differences between my former dark thoughts and current ones, to tell them about how I redefined myself, redefined what makes me happy, and redefined what hurts, and they kept astonishingly listening, giving me their usual smile, but that day, I felt their smile a grin.

I knew that smile extremely well. It has been a sign of seeing me different, and with months away, that smile was a big, wide grin.

“Shshshsh…. I grabbed you a gift, and I’m one-hundred percent sure it suits you! But please open it after you force me to leave.”

I was surprised… it was so affectionate, to be honest, and I was in need of such surprises.

We kept chatting for a long time, and they were too gentle, too calm, and too decent with me. On the other hand, I was overreactive, speaking about what hurts or what mends openly, acting the scenes, and disclosing what my internal had hidden. I noticed how did they gradually lose interest while speaking with me, how did their smile turn into a mixture of frown and a scowl, and how did they glare at me sometimes until I stopped talking. I stopped talking, afraid of losing this awaited meeting and afraid of anticipated leave.

“Whatever changes occur, whatever worlds you live in, and whatever eyes you see with, your core stays polluted, your core stays perfectly the same.” They attacked me.

“Changing the settings many times, yet having the same results at the end of the day, doesn’t imply anything but having a flaw in the system, a virus that contaminates your surroundings as soon as possible.” They kept attacking.

“You are the virus, you are the pollution, and you are the main culprit in each story! You are a toxic virus, a cancerous mass, an alienated piece of shit.”

I was about to collapse, but I kept listening. I always listened to them saying such words, but it was franker that time. It was true without modifications, without fearing that my feelings might be hurt.

“Do you recall that time you came and cried to me because you believed in a fallacious conspiracy? You, with the most stupid way, thought the world is planning to defeat you, making your life a symphony of melancholia. I knew you were craving care, craving love, and craving many things you were deprived of, but you acted like a nauseating whore! Attention-whore!”

I started to cry, trying to stop them from speaking, but they didn’t stop. They kept telling me how I ruined, ruins, and will definitely ruin my relationships, how I, with my own will, alienated myself, how I preferred unwanted nicknames to be respected, and how every time I tried something new, I failed. They told me how I destroyed my own self-esteem until I became uncertain about the definition, and how I was guilty on every occasion.

“Stop! Stop!” I kept shouting, but they kept pointing their fingers to me, kept unburying my thoughts.

 

I was full of anger, and without thinking, I held my glass and threw it on the mirror talking to me. I wouldn’t have a date for months now, but I would stay collecting more stories for the next date. I will keep collecting more self-loathe and self-bullying stories, and I would wait for my every new date gift: a new package of insecurities.

Genesis

Photo Credits: Favim.com 

The weather deceived me with its seemingly fine wind, so I didn’t take my scarf nor my jacket with me. I didn’t know that the sly wind would penetrate my skin and echo among my bones, and I didn’t realize it would force my body to shiver, coerce my teeth to harmfully vibrate, and push my mind to repent going out.

Analyzing the weather, keeping track of forecasts, doing some intensive research about weather conditions, and actually mastering the “study of weather” didn’t help after all. Anyways, thinking about my decisions would do nothing, would make me agonize in the streets, or would make me lose my battle against cold, or would leave me a dead corpse in the streets. I was stuck, and I had, as usual, to find the path home, but those lamps were flickering in protest and alarming me of potential dangers, those leaves were submitting to the rage of nature and hitting me harshly in the face, and those streets were empty.

All whom I know were intelligent enough to understand how devastating it would be that day, so they all had leather or wool jackets, yet some stupid guys —like me— decided to shelter themselves from the cold; they were yelling at some fire they created to stay and give them some warmth, were holding each other’s hands, were assuring each other, and were believing in a non-sense hope: survival.

The scene of me shivering around the fire is emblazoned in my mind. The pain in my bones elicited manifold thoughts, evoked numerous memories (that I wish I was diagnosed with Alzheimer to forget them), and drove me to reevaluate myself.

I used to stay around the fire, with some light T-shirt and summer attire, and “those” (They deserve to be nameless) used to stay with their jackets and pullovers on, and I used to shiver, and I used to be that week companion. They used to mock the fact I always went out without protection, that I always made the same mistake, and that I was trembling. When I was kindling marshmallow for the cohort, I used to take the worst one without complaints, for I was the best to kindle marshmallows yet the least respected individual to receive a good marshmallow.

The fire was burning as me internally, and it consumed my energy as it consumed the wood. The fire relentlessly resisted the bleakness of the weather, and I relentlessly resisted “their” bleakness, yet I was turning into ashes slowly. Very slowly was I turning, and very slowly was God signs telling me how erroneous my decisions were. I didn’t realize I was metamorphosing since day one, with every time my body reacted to the cold weather or cold feelings. I didn’t happen to understand how mistaken I was to stay around the fire, even if it is endowing me warmth. The fire gave me the warmth I needed to stay, but while giving me this warmth, it threw me with its flames and burns.

Yes, the fire was my first shelter, but it was my first bully, my first hater, and the first thing to deceive me. Yes, the fire gave me what I needed, but it consumed me while giving it to me. Yes, the fire was the best friend in the times of letdowns, yet the worst being in every time.

I took another decision: continuing the venture alone even if I would leave those friends huddling around the fire or even if I would perish alone. Perishing from the usual cold would be better than flames; even though cold is excruciating, it doesn’t leave permanent marks like the fire’s flames. I decided to leave the fire, to leave the shelter because I was losing myself V e r y S l o w l y. I decided to fight, for fighting alone without psychological pain is better than fighting with a cohort while suffering from internal pain…

So, while walking, I gave them a look. They didn’t change. They were the same as years ago, same fake smiles, same fake feelings, and same fake everything. I didn’t stop. I kept walking, kept approaching home.

In my way home, I found a cluster of butterflies around me. They were flying smoothly, unaffected by the wind. They were around me all the time, preventing me from experiencing desolation, and they kept the same pace —never speeding up, never slowing down.

I kept talking to these butterflies, filling my time by expressing some trapped thoughts. Unlike the fire, those butterflies listened without judging, smiled without faking, and even mocked me without offending. They mocked things that made me laugh from my heart, unlike the fire which stressed my insecurities and destroyed my self-confidence —hey! But the fire was fun, wasn’t it? The butterflies were very true to me, and they advised me to stop doing “bad” things, unlike the fire which kept throwing me with flames without telling me about those “bad” things.

The butterflies helped me overcome the bruises of my previous tyrant and paved the way in front of me to flourish. The butterflies were a realization checkpoint for me, a sign of change, and an impetus for forgetting the fire.

I didn’t feel myself resisting the fire nor felt the harshness of the road. I only felt love, hope, and support. Those butterflies guided me home, and I owe my safety to them.

Like any being, I experienced Genesis. Yes, I am now brave to disclose all that fire did and to admit all what butterflies had done, do, and will do. I was created from the ashes.

For every butterfly flying around, please stay there… sometimes I’ll need your guidance, and I always need your support.

 

In a long road

I entered an antique shop to buy a birthday gift for my friend. She, though eminently shining with youthfulness, seems more interested than my history professor in scrutinizing the artworks of Romans and Pharos. She loves crystalline sculptures and signed belongings; in fact, she might spend the whole day taking selfies with a plate signed by Napoleon rather than hanging out with people. I know not about antiques but those dishes and plates my grandmother worships in our house —Oh, and those cups, in our Traditionally Egyptian “neesh.” So, I entered as an alien discovering a new planet. I taught myself some history to get her a unique gift, and I forced myself to ask an old man speaking with a French-accented Egyptian tongue about the crystals sector, and I suffered from a French-filled conversation with an old woman about the beautiful, wealthy, liberal, colonized old Egypt while looking for a crystal, and I bore the receptionist indecipherable “S’il Vous Plaits” to pay for the gift, and I survived the flames inside me when I spent all my money on a small piece of crystal, yet I assured myself his smile was worth those hundreds of  “Exactomo” that tortured my ears, those three weeks without fast food that made me love broccoli, and those hours of relentless trials to correctly pronounce “Je t’aime” instead of “I love you” —for she is in love with the sophisticated, romantic French.

I went outside the shop, leaving this politically-apathetic, wealthy neighborhood, and headed to my politically-active, local neighborhood, holding the bag that has the crystal with both my hands and making sure that the crystal is one-hundred percent secure, for I feared the cars will contaminate the crystal with their tires splashing the dirty ponds in the slums I should cross to reach my neighborhood. I was thinking only of the safety of the crystal, so I put all our memories in it… I put the moments we spent together, the mutual interests, the hard times, the smiles, the pictures, the hilarious videos, mutual characteristics, and even myself in the crystal. I walked six kilometers because I didn’t have enough money for riding a bus, but I felt the crystal invigorating me, so whenever I stopped, it reminded me with a meme we shared together, and whenever my legs hurt, it reminded me with a time I needed help and found her healing my weaknesses, and whenever a thug bullied me without a reason, it reminded me with the times I took decisions without fear because I was beside her.

I walked the six kilometers in a fraction of the second as if I was in her company. We used to chat for some moments all day and night, and hang out for a moment all weekends, and I felt the crystal resembling her… resembling her soft voice telling me not to make anything stop me, resembling her hands stroking my disheveled hair when it’s too impossible to live, and resembling her furious attitude whenever I mock her. I walked the six kilometers, all hope to see her smile and tell her that I appreciate every single moment we spent as friends, every single time we chatted together, and every single letter she wrote to me or I wrote to her. I walked the six kilometers in a fraction of the second because I felt her beside me, and when she is beside me, my world consists only of her, her stories, her malicious friends which we usually make fun of, her smiles, her laughs, and her support.

Finally, I reached my neighborhood. She lives exactly next to my house, and I was only a few steps from her, from attending her le anniversaire and saying happy birthday. Within moments, I was in front of her door. I clicked on the bell, but before she would the door, I decided to look at the crystal before giving it to her… I decided to look at the best version ever I could think of a friend, so I opened the bag.

I didn’t find the crystal. I must have lost it while walking through the narrow aisles, or I must haven’t cared enough for it. I must have forgotten circumstances, people, and her while only thinking of the anticipated, better version. I gave it my all, but it went away without telling, without even notifying me that it is leaving. My legs started hurting me now, and my mind wrote manifold scenarios to prevent me from searching for the crystal, for someone might have stolen it, for it shattered when it was dropped, for I won’t find it. My mind convinced me to accept the loss, convinced me to be passive, and convinced me that the crystal is with me all the time while it was leaving without telling me.

She opened the door, but I couldn’t recognize her features. My crystal had it all. My crystal had her features, her portrait, her interests, herself! And I lost the crystal, so now she is alien to me. I lost her without realizing. She kept moving her mouth, saying words I couldn’t understand, doing reactions I couldn’t perceive. I stood silent, staring at her, but I couldn’t. I left, searching for her, searching for the crystal but in other people. I left, but I have already left her since I lost the crystal. It’s harsh to face reality.

Under the rain

Morning, it had rained yesterday. The assuring smell of the rain wrinkled my nose and attracted me to walk, or to be precise, wander in the streets, but soon enough, the obnoxious scent emitted from cats’ desperate search for food ruined my imagination. In my city —and typically in most cities— hungry cats hopelessly spend hours searching for food, yet after poverty prevailed, cats find nothing but blood-stained, torn clothes that are a result of violent abuse, broken pieces of glass that hurts the cats’ endangered bodies, and spoiled remains of food. Cats, hungry for food, unbury people’s stubbornness, reveal people’s darkness, and unveil hate. Cats, hopelessly seeking nutrition, are courageous enough to ambush people with utterly uninviting questions… with questions about morality, principles, and reality. Cats are the agents of the truth yet happen to be the least respected segment in the community because they are dirty, hungry, and honest. Cats are the agents of truths, yet in current times, truths are very less rewarding than lies.

Anyways, as a typical “passive” citizen, I decided to stop thinking, for if I deviated from the cohort’s path, I would be alienated, persecuted, and maybe killed: killed by words before swords.

“Cats? Ridiculous!” I kept repeating

“Such calls for truths aren’t helpful. I don’t want, in any case, to miss the joy of wandering in the streets and being surrounded by the rain’s smell,” I, as always, produced a lie and trusted it to move on.

I took on a blue pullover and a black trouser. To be honest, people don’t like my taste in clothing, and they always attack me with harsh comments whenever they see me; however, I don’t try to change my attire, for it is a part of my not-going-with-the-flow identity…  for at least, I’m not wholly abiding by the majority’s orders, and at least, I am myself. In my town, people hate those with long hair, hate those who are different, so they hate me, and for hate, I don’t care, and for people’s comments that are based on irrational traditions and myths, I don’t care, and for people’s evaluations of a person based on an appearance-related criteria, I don’t care.

“At least, some part of me does not go with the flow,” I convince myself, or I lie to myself, or I fake myself because I might happen to act differently just for the sake of pleasing my ego, of telling myself that I’m superior to others, of seeking attention: “Oh my god, why you are different?!”

Every time I decide to go out, these waves of conflicting ideas, of people’s comments, and of my own self-realizations try to obstruct me, so I close my eyes to avoid looking in the mirror, to avoid seeing my disheveled hair and poor-looking attire.

I finally escaped the battle inside and welcomed the whiff of the rains, neglecting the scent of the remains. I took a deep breath, a mixture of roses, rains, and tiny water droplets. I exhaled a mixture of polluted air, for my lungs, breathing hate, contaminate the air. I took the first step outside, legs shaking and body trembling. I took the first step outside, yet I’m still trapped in the same town, in the jail, but at least I will have the joy of wandering in the streets, of not thinking about cats, trees, hair, clothing, or people. I will just think of rain and its smell, of its pureness and crystalline-appearance. While wandering between small ponds, it rained again.

Under the rain, I will wash myself, my sins, and my faults, and on the other side, I will pollute the water, the streets, and the environment, for in this town, I am toxic and will spread my toxicity if washed… for in this town, I will impede the current from going if I deviated… for in this town, I’m the bad model of a human being.

Under the rains of water, I might stand in front of tornados and never shake, but under the rains of words, I collapse, fly away, and conceal my identity. Under the rains of water, I am true, I am washed, and I am real.

.

 

The Cracked Portrait

Image Credits: Portrait Drawing – Portrait Of A Shattered Youth by James Tetreault

 

The smell of my chaotic room was killing me. I hadn’t opened the windows for weeks, and my leftovers pervaded the floor. The obnoxious scent of that pizza slice lying on my table was torturing my nose, and it blocked the view of the dark-green sofa behind it with the hordes of flies and bugs flying around it. Beside the table on the floor lied a small piece of candy, a clone for ants. It was a forbidden area in front of my apartment’s door, so I had to cross it whenever I secretly wanted to receive a food order. I used to hide behind the door and don’t ask for change because I’d have felt an utter uneasiness if that delivery boy/girl saw the humane crises in front of him. In other words, I didn’t deserve to ruin their day with my dull outlook.

I had acquired yellowish red eyes due to my addiction to Netflix and reading stolen PDF novels written by Dan Brown or Stephen King. My steps were slow, and I was suffering to get my remote control to watch the latest news, for I stayed home for two weeks and blocked sun rays from reflecting off my black eyes. I wore a torn white shirt. Was it really white? It had random stains: some thick red sauce from my meatballs meal, dense chocolate dropped off my usual Nutella toast, and oil from fast prepared noodles. I didn’t visit the shower for two weeks, for I was terrified of water, of cleaning myself. Why on Earth should I clean myself while keeping a swamp full of noxiousness under my skin, among my bones, inside my heart, and within my groins?

My noxious vibe, uninviting smell, and pale body alienated me. It is scary to see myself in the mirror now or even to see my reflection on a metal button or a pan. I was a typical corpse, yet ain’t I? I had escaped the world for two weeks, blocked all my so-called friends on my social media accounts, didn’t have pure air at my apartment for long, and had my interactions and social activities with Lucas King’s 10-hour-of-sad-piano video, my novels, and random episodes. I consumed many pots of coffee to keep myself awake, for I was horrified that I, at any moment, might curse those angels coming to take my soul. I consumed many pots of coffee to retain my consciousness, so I’d be able to drown my notebook with those blue tears, which people call “ink.” I consumed many pots of coffee to escape sleeping, as I was scared from sleeping, from seeing my usual nightmares again and again, from seeing myself suffocating in a narrow cell, from seeing myself drowning ceaselessly in an infinite ocean, from seeing myself pleading for help in a secluded desert, from losing myself in a whirlpool of childhood fears, insecurities, and depression.

Yet I was running out of coffee, drugs, and air. I might sleep at any moment or die at any second. I had only two choices: to fight in light or to die in darkness. I didn’t like to lose nor to surrender, but I believed my body doesn’t deserve anything but to perish in such a dirty, disgusting, inhumane place. My mind underwent anguish.

“I am losing my life, destroying my body, killing my mind, and conspiring against myself. What should I do? Will I have to get back to life? Impossible, I can’t withstand people anymore, nature anymore, and even those inanimate stones. Stones obstruct my way. Nature tells me that life is beautiful. Nature shows me my reality, my darkness, my abhorrent attitude, and my apprehensive thinking. And people! People are nothing. People are nothing, and I don’t want to be a piece of nothing. I don’t enjoy those vain congratulations because they internally had an air of envy, hate, or self-loath. I don’t even like condolence because people, driven by their greedy nature, want you to give back —Fake feelings, then!”

My lungs were getting torn, my mouth vomiting dirty blood, and my whole jumping of ache. I coughed, throw out blood on the blood-leftovers-stains-filled carpet on the floor. I should open the window to escape this torture. I need air. I need pureness. I need hope. I desperately gathered myself and walked towards the window at the other side of the room. My slim legs were itching me, were cursing they belonged to me. My hands kept trembling, losing its energy, losing its blood. I shed saliva everywhere; sometimes I dropped droplets of mucus. I had no control over my body, but I kept approaching the window. Did it seem very far? Was I dying?

Ouch! I stepped on something. I heard it cracking. Some tiny pieces of glass cut my feet. I screamed of ache, but my scream wasn’t audible. I didn’t hear myself, but I kept screaming. My face was turning red, and my throat was blistering, but I heard nothing. I looked beneath me. Glass was everywhere. Oh! I stepped on the only thing in this world that might have given me power. My only concern was the piece of myself that I just broke. It was a portrait of myself. It had a crack on its midline. My blood stained the portrait, so it changed some of my features. One half had an innocent skin face, a fat, reddish cheek, a glittering eye, and white teeth. The other half showed nothing but some red and black colors. That portrait remarked the transformation of myself into nothing. It showed me how darkness and self-torture destroyed me. It proved I didn’t deserve life nor having the portrait at my messed up apartment. I cried, but with no tears. I cried, screamed, and agonized, but with nothing.

I picked up the portrait and continued deciding my fate. The window was a few feet away. Freedom or another chapter in my book was going to be written. I didn’t think of anything. I didn’t think of how light contributed to my dreadful situation. I didn’t recall that I cried under the light, walked alone under the sun, and chatted with others with the aid of the light from my laptop’s screen. I didn’t recall I was alone under the light, sad under the light, and alienated under the light. I didn’t recall that light showed others my disheveled hair, my unwanted attire, and my ugly face. I didn’t recall anything about it to keep walking, to reach the window, to end this… I am tired!

Finally, I opened the window. The air started filling my lungs again, replacing scent. But it’s useless. I fell on the window. My portrait fell from my hands, causing a loud sound on the street. I lost the other half of me. I started losing my coffee effect. I was collapsing, so I closed my eyes not to feel anything. I should’ve known that Angels would come to me in light; they are pure, not like me. I closed my eyes, hearing a dog barking in the street, hearing people shouting at me, hearing some knocking the door and trying to break into my apartment, hearing my heart beats pumping blood to my body. I closed my eyes and went into a very deep sleep…

 

 

That car waiting for me…

I was waiting under the flickering light of a lamp resisting the blowing wind. I didn’t have a scarf around my neck nor a wool pullover; I only had a black-leathered jacket. So, my shivering hands were aimlessly squeezing my jacket, seeking warm. Sometimes, I quitted hugging myself to rub my hands. I tried walking around, but it made me more desperate. There were many people walking around; I couldn’t understand their warm exchanges nor decipher their whispers, giggles, and cries. Simply, I couldn’t hear them. I heard nothing but silence —sometimes cars crushing stones or trees swooshing to protest against the wind. I had to cover my face whenever a car passed me: its flashlight tortured my eyes.

I waited for ten minutes, my blood circulation getting slower due to the gradual decrease in my body’s temperature. I needed a cup of hot, sugar-free coffee or a hot cookie, but I was afraid to leave the place. I was told to wait there, so I obviously had no choice. So, my body protested against my vainness and uselessness: a migraine made me suffer from any sound or voice, from those horns coming from the traffic jam on the other side of the street and those inaudible steps of people walking near me; my eyes forced me to see the world blurred; my legs were too heavy to stride, too weak to walk, and too afraid to die. My body started to fall. I began to conceive hopeless scenarios:

“If I fainted here, would someone take me to a hospital? Would they cry or feel sad for a few days and then be because I won’t annoy them anymore? If I am lost, would they immediately search for my corpse?”

Twenty minutes passed, I was falling. I gave up on my OCD and sat on the pavement. The dirt stuck on my jeans and jacket were itching my body, were destroying the cells in my brain, but I had no power. Again, I obviously had no choice. I got my knees close to each other, covered my head with my hoodie, and drowned my face in my hands. I slept on my knees, in the middle of the street. I was waiting for a car; my home was so far. I was like a distant star… a distant star turning into a dwarf, but the universe was too crowded, too busy, to notice its transformation. I couldn’t take out my phone out of my pocket because my pale hands were freezing. I had to wait for the car’s random, dissonant, irritating beeps or for my pal’s deceptively warm hands patting my shoulder to return me back to life.

Moments passed, my soul flew out of my body. No, I didn’t die. I was used to escaping my body, so I could watch the world around me… so I could see people conspiring against me… so I could disdain the callous cold that penetrated into my bones… so I could show hate to the horns that enjoyed torturing my ears.

[The soul is narrating right now]

I stood beside my body —who was shaking —waiting for the car. People were giving my body weird looks; some discriminators loathed seeing a seemed-to-be homeless occupying a part of the street; some kind-hearted individuals said “Hi” and offered help, but my body didn’t respond.

After an extra ten-minute delay, the car finally came. My body’s thought-as-to-be close friend got out of the car, super-confident and in a casual attire that shines youth and outgoingness. He looked around him, strangely scrutinizing my threadbare body dying of cold. He shouted my name several times, and he began to become angry.

He was used to that. He used not to wait for me for anything, be annoyed from my presence, and underestimate my dreams and doings. He was used to mocking anything I did in my life, even it was just sleeping, humiliate me in front of a random little kid in street, an official from our school, a friend of his, a parent, a girl, or even a cat preparing for giving birth. So, he didn’t wait for my body, and I, driven by curiosity, wanted to know the subtleties of his reaction. I often suffered from his as-he-denied-it-not-to-feel-ashamed bullying, so I used to leave the place, but he, on the other hand, used to continue making silly jokes on me, talking like a super girly girl who broke up with her boyfriend whom she discovered cheated her, and generating more, as he considered, fun about my spontaneity, wear, and —as he always described— awkward behavior.

Immersed in memories, I didn’t notice the car leaving. I had two choices: returning to my body so that I will take another mean of transportation home or following that friend and invisibly entering the car.

I was in the car; I didn’t think that much. Curiosity was always killing me. The car was a perfect contrast to my body; although both are inanimate, they shared many things. The car was warm, unlike my body whose blood stopped circulating because it lost hope. It was full of life, music, and whiskey, unlike my depressed body who had no interests beyond writing suicidal notes. The car had a lot of lights, unlike my body, whose lights were turned off since the first letdown. The car had a GPS to guide it to any destination, unlike my body who used to aimlessly wander in the world. The car had sensors to keep its passengers safe, unlike my body who, obstructed by his social insecurities, couldn’t even interact with a tree. The car, although automated by an algorithm, had a driver who would save it from having an accident, unlike my body who had no one to warm him in the cold.

[The soul is still the narrator]

I was in the car, and I listened to cheating, lies, and deception. That so-called friend proved the truth of my assumed doubts, and he kept laughing on me, complaining that I always was a lunatic, irresponsible individual, and insulting me with words regarding my mother. I knew this since the beginning but I was convincing myself it ain’t true. I stayed for one hour in the car, seeing our friendship shattering slowly, seeing truths, seeing all his lies. He complained about our “not rewarding” friendship, that I was used to sharing depression with him and he was then fed up, that I used to speak from my side and not asking how he was doing, and that I was a “jerk,” who has zero experience in life but profound experience in depression. I stayed for one hour, flashbacking twenty years of fake friendship, crying about every moment, and repenting for the confidence I had put in him for years. I stayed for one hour, but I discovered the truth of what I thought of for years.

We finally were home. I couldn’t stand seeing him leaving the car and telling others, who might ask why I didn’t come with him, that I was an irresponsible, childish, reckless individual. I flew back to the pavement, to where I waited for long, to where I waited for someone I thought of as a friend.

It was late. I shouldn’t have stayed that long. The street was dark, but the place where I left my body was carved on my mind. I went there, but I didn’t find my body. A mafia group might have stolen it to sell my organs, or someone might have told police about a dead body.

I am currently trapped in the world, coerced into seeing betray, hate, maliciousness, and lies. I am currently trapped in the world, can’t escape to heaven nor return to my body. I’m currently flying around, crying because I have lost everything in a night. I’m currently a dead soul.

 

Chains… (Chapter one)

The sun was setting slowly, taking the last golden ray of that pure light; darkness crept mischievously into the empty streets, providing the desired nature for “conspiracy.” No one can see, no one can, as usual, rebuff. Trees were swooshing, begging the sun to stay… begging the sun to protect the world from maliciousness, loathe, and despise. Birds were cawing, alarming the inhabitants of this splenetic country to huddle in their homes: they won’t be able to witness the crime of this day. Roaring between the bleak aisles, the wind was yelling for help… yelling for truth. The Sky started pouring its crestfallen tears, drowning the streets in dark-natured rains. As the city’s inhabitants, the sky despondently felt solicitousness and welcomed the sinister moon. On windows, sinful droplets of water blurred the view.

“The moon’s weak light enlightens the weak souls…. It only resurrects the obsequiousness of this world,” this sentence was carved on this horrifying country’s inhabitants’ mind…. it was carved on the widowed Mary’s mind, who had a little girl.

“Mom, Can I go to the playground.” an innocent girl smiled at her mother’s haggard face while entangling her long black braids.

“NO! It’s prohibited: minorities are everywhere,” Mary’s black eyes stared at the little daughter’s glinted brown eyes.

“Min-oo-r? It’s a hard word. What does it mean?” The girl’s white skin seemed to be shocked, afraid of her mother’s changed facial expression.

“Evil groups of people who don’t obey the majority’s laws and rules. [Mary’s voice became intense.] They are the devils of this world!”

“Devils? You told me before that we can’t see them.” She perplexed with a soft confused tone.

“Ugh… There are the Devils we can’t see, and there are the HUMAN Devils, the people who force others to commit sins.”

“Why do humans become devils?” the girl felt the cold sneaking into her brown pullover.

“Because they don’t follow the Lord!”

“How could people not follow the Lord. You told me that he created us and died for us?”

“Because they are foolish. [her voice became intense] they are sinners! [screams] they are going to hell!”

“I hope Lord tell these [Mirrorities] to stop fearing people. I want to play outside.”

“It’s Minorities! You should know these words… you should know your enemies very well, or with their frowzy tricks, they will attract you to join them. Once you join, you will be full of sins… full of darkness. You won’t be my lovely daughter… you will be a disgusting rat!”

“I am sorry, Mom,” the little girl threw herself into her mother’s arms, shivering and horrified of the outside world.

Oppression will inspire the urge to discover, the curiosity to experience, but sometimes we think that we are protecting our kids from the outside world, but the truth is that we, unfortunately, are motivating them to make trespasses and mistakes. We are driving them into hell while we fallaciously think that we are protecting them.  

“Now go to your bed. When it is the day, they hide… they are afraid of the sun… the truth they refuse to accept.  You can go out then. God bless you.”
“What truth?”

“You are too young to understand.” She kissed her forehead. “Don’t bother with that. I don’t want to lose you like I lost your father. They killed him.” Mary resisted crying in front of her daughter.

“But-.” She was trying to find out a method not to miss the innocent date with the kid on the house in front of them.

“No excuses. I don’t want to lose you, sweetheart.” Her tears were glistening.

“I am sorry mom. I love you.”

“I love you more than the whole universe.” She approached her little daughter and squeezed her between her arms as if she was hugging her pure heart. Then after a long moment of tenderness, She smoothly kissed her little girl’s forehead again.”

“Good night. God bless you from this world.”

Behold, children are a heritage from the Lord, the fruit of the womb a reward – Psalm 127:3  

Mary recited the Bible’s verse in her mind, convincing herself that she is following the Lord’s orders.

“Good night, Mama.” Her charming voice and her innocent smile threw relaxation in her mom’s anxious face.

“I love you, baby,” her mom replied.  Her heart throbbed rapidly, telling her that it was the time to be worried about her daughter.

With cheery steps, the little girl Jade smoothed to her room. Her white, pink-dotted dress was flying, and her lush black hair was swinging; she was too innocent to decipher the meanings of her mother’s complicated words. The corridor’s blue, white-dotted walls reminded her of the playground’s stones, the place where she was going to meet the boy. Afraid to miss the chance to meet that boy in the nearby neighborhood, her steps became a little bit slower; her pace reflected how confused she was. Find a way! Her heart told her….her heart inspirited hope in her.

Curiosity and hope orchestrating her mind, she couldn’t stop thinking of solutions to make her first date… to watch the admirable sunset while touching the sky with the swing on the playground; she drew ethereal scenarios under the glowing sun. She really wanted to go out before night. Our hearts are our most lethal enemies. 

She entered her room, a small pink room full of teddy bears and girly stickers. She threw herself on her bed, drowning in its squishy cushions and mattress. She gently took a breath and began to scrutinize her cutie room, figuring out with whom she would talk: the fluffy bear who shares all her childish dreams, Cat-woman’s toy who helps her to find a solution for every problem, or the “totally spies” trio who join her in every girly activity. While looking at them, the luminous pieces of her toys took her attention; they were orange as the setting sun. When the sun sets, meet me around the swing, the boy’s words echoed in her amiable mind.

“But it’s dangerous,” her mind resisted and started dampening her body activity.

“Stop being a kid… your mom wants to protect you, and you won’t harm yourself,” she kept convincing herself.

“But-” Her mind tried to object

“stop giving excuses, Jade, you are old enough to be responsible,” her heart controlled her. “A moment with someone with you love worth some sacrifice,” her heart is now leading her.

With an emotion-oriented person, disasters MUST occur. Coercing her mind to accept, her heart made a perfect plan to escape…

She stood up suddenly and approached her half-opened room; her mother had always been telling her to keep it open. She exhaled to decrease the size of her small belly while slightly pussyfooting out of the room. Tiptoeing through the corridor, Jade sneaked to see where her mother was. Kitchen and bathroom’s lights off, she crept towards her mother’s bedroom. Through the bedroom’s also half-open door, Jade saw Mary preparing to sleep; she was yawning while preparing the bed. Great conditions! Jade took a deep breath and advanced to the house’s door. Love teaches things you have never imagined to learn. Putting her exquisite scenarios in front of her eyes, she kept motivating herself to escape… to go where her heart lied. The corridor looked infinite, and the fear symphony played in her heart was killing. Love is a sacrifice, anyway.

“Tick.” A sound erupted near her. She suddenly turned around and stared at the sound’s source; it was her mother’s room!

“Uhhhm.” She sighed, kicking out fear from her trembled heart. Her mother had just turned the lights off. It’s your chance. She swallowed, hoping to digest all the horror within her. The door’s lock was capturing the light in her tiny eyes, magnetizing her to break the RULES. Finally, she was there, in front of the door.

She looked around her. “There is no one… it’s the chance,” her childish nature controlled her. With a grin on her face, bright eyes, and an active body, she powerfully and curiously opened the door and ran away. Love is blind.  

“Wumpth,” the door’s sound thundered Mary.

Suddenly, Mary opened her eyes, heart thumping in fear. Your daughter, her heart told her that Jade is not safe.

“Jade! Jade!” Mary stood up and ran around the house, worried about her little kid. “Jade where are you? Jade… Ja-aa-a-de.” She opened her room and didn’t find her. “O, my God. She will definitely be kidnapped, and she will be one of them.” Then, she ran to the house’s door; she was shocked when she saw it open. “No! No! No! O, my God. She didn’t listen to me. Demons are everywhere.” She began to lose her voice, crying and screaming her name…

Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you. – James 4:7  

Calling the police or running out the house to catch her daughter, she opted to stay at her sanctuary. God will save her, but he wants me to pray, she thought.

Trapped in an open cage (Part 4)

 

*Return to the first parts to follow the plot* 

Trapped in an open Cage (Part 3)

**

We were desperately following the distant light, the distant hope.  Dark was sneaking slowly, diminishing the innocent moonlight. The cold was penetrating into our bones making our bodies shiver to resist the chilly weather of the desert. We couldn’t open our mouths, fearing to be thirsty if we talked… or fearing to interrupt the symphony of the hungry howls dominating the place. Yet, I wasn’t afraid: I am not alone, and Mark is here beside me. If any disaster occurred here, I am safe. But what if something occurred to Mark?

I just denied any terrifying thoughts. I thought only of reading Rose and Emily without even scrutinizing their faces. Although the moonlight was enough to lighten the way, it wasn’t enough to show the small details of their faces, the places were secrets are hidden. Talk to them, I told myself. But I quickly discovered the harsh truth of “I am not brave enough to initiate a damn conversation!” I kept walking silently and hopelessly, waiting in a great fervor for someone to talk, so I can force myself into their conversation and do my thing. Curiosity kills, but it is satisfying.

Minutes passed…

No one talked. I must do something. I suddenly stopped, holding Mark’s hand not to leave me.

“What’s wrong Cave?” Mark asked.

“I am exhausted. We have been walking for long.”

“Hey. Why did you stop? Is everything ok?” Rose said anxiously. She was six feet apart and afraid.

“NO. I am-”

“shshsh… Yes, everything is Ok.” Mark said.

Mark pulled by hand trying to move me, but I resisted. I was exhausted, and I really craved for a talk with them, and this won’t be achieved unless we set and talk. So, I delayed Mark as possible as I could, waiting until Rose or Emily come to see what’s happening.

“Mark, please wait. Let me just relax for seconds. I am tired.” I acted it perfectly.

“What’s wrong guys?” Rose wondered, and she was worried.

Once I heard her voice near us, I felt ecstatic. My plan is going to work.

“Nothin-”

“I am tired.” I interrupted Mark not to destroy my plan.

“Why don’t we take some rest? It seems like you are tired.” I asked her and trying to make her agree.

“Yeah. I am tired also. I think we gotta set for some minutes and then continue. Emily, Come on!” Rose replied.

*Oh my god! It really worked!*

“I thought you will be the first one to refuse. What the hell is going on guys? We. Are. Lost. We. Are. Going. To. Die! We should be following the light to return and find the treasure we all crave.”

“But we are tired! The light seems too distant, and we are at the beginning of the night. Mark, please, let us have some rest.” Rose adjured him, and her tone was really convincing.

“But-”

“Without excuses, I am too tired. We are going to take a rest. Period.” Rose interrupted him.

“Ok. Fine. I won’t take a rest. I am going to continue. If I found any mean of help, I will return to you. If you are going to leave, please follow the footsteps. I think the moonlight is strong enough.”

He didn’t wait. He walked away. I kept looking at him, waiting for him to turn around so I can tell him to come; he didn’t. He just left…

 

“Don’t worry. He will return. I know this type of guys.” Rose told me, smiling.

“I hope so.”

“Now. Take off your jacket.” She was taking off her jacket.

“Excuse me?”

She sighed. “We are going to set on them, Dirty minder.” She smiled.

I took off my Jacket and throw it on the ground. I felt cold infiltrating into my body more strongly. It’s ok. I am only craving one thing: to read them. We sat down. I stretched my hands on the sand and my legs in front of me. I was now super tired. It seemed that we are going to sit here for hours…

“So, why did you come here? Do you believe in the treasure and the glory behind it?” Rose asked me, trying to open a conversation.

“Of course. I believe that I and Mark will find it, and we are going to be the most exceptional team in this adventure.”

“You are so confident. I hope you will achieve that. But you know? I didn’t come with Emily to find that treasure. Actually, we were coming to have some fun.”

“What do you mean?”

“I really don’t believe that the treasure is that exquisite gifts nor the glorious position we will post after the adventure. The real treasure is the good moments I will hopefully have here, but after escaping this goddamn desert.”

“Maybe you are right. But success isn’t bad, is it?”

“Sure. Sometimes we need this satisfaction to feel safe… to feel that we are here… in this world.”

“Satisfaction is a thing we created. We never felt satisfied. We always need more. We lie on ourselves every time we mark a goal as Final. With every achievement, there will be a bigger, glorious one.”

“This is about goals, not dreams. Dreams are gratifying.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Dreams are infinite… are the last step in anything. Goals occur, but dreams never occur.”

“So what’s your dream?”

“My dream is to escape from this place.”

We all laughed. Something in myself told me that she is right. Dreams never occur. Although we laughed, our laugh voices seemed to be desperate. But Rose didn’t give me the chance to think too much. She continued…

“What’s yours?”

“To hear Emily’s voice.”

Again we laughed. I don’t know why I said that… maybe because I wanted to convince myself that Rose was joking… maybe because I wanted to hear Emily… maybe because she is hiding something …  maybe she is like me, but she can’t act anymore… I don’t know.

“What do you want to hear?” She suddenly talked, saving me from drowning in my thought. Her voice was really new to my ear. It was sad and happy at the same time. It was unique…

“Nothing. Just join us.”

“I don’t find a reason to join you. I am just—”

She was about to continue, but we heard a loud scream. The sound seemed to be near us.

          “Is this Mark?” Rose queried.