Hope for the Hopeless

With feet as heavy as lead, he made his way down the ever-stretching hallway towards the elevators. The stiff collar of his shirt chaffed the underside of his neck, but he payed it no attention. He realized that the rolled up document in his clammy hand was damp with sweat, leaving small craters of moisture on its virgin white surface. Without taking his attention from the paper, he reached with his empty hand and groped the wall until his numb fingers found the elevator buttons.

He had done many things he was not proud of in his lifetime, but he did not deserve this. He squeezed his eyes shut, his breath catching in his throat. I don't deserve this, he pleaded with Him silently.

He stepped into the elevator, which to his dismay was not as vacant as he had hoped. He made his way past the two men and stood in the corner, flattening the palm of his free hand against the cool metal wall of the elevator, bracing himself against it. With ears that did not listen, he heard the taller of the two men speaking to his companion animatedly. His companion nodded, interjecting with the occasional grunt of agreement with whatever it was the taller man was saying. The taller of the two suddenly turned towards him, and his lips shaped words that he could not hear. The shorter man stared, raising his cup of coffee to his lips. The taller man's smile strained, and his lips reshaped themselves to form the question he repeated to him: "Which floor?"

With lips that acted of their own accord, he felt them part in speech and he heard himself say, "Ground floor." His voice sounded alien to him, like he was hearing himself speak underwater.

The taller man stared at him for a second longer before jabbing the ground floor button. He turned back to his companion and shrugged, resuming his conversation as though nothing had happened. They got off at the next floor, leaving him to his thoughts until the elevator doors opened once again. He vaguely heard the computerized voice announce their arrival at the ground floor, but he payed it no attention as a swarm of people rushed past him into the 4.5 by 6 foot space, pressing against his shoulders. He tried to squeeze past them to the front of the elevator, but it seemed that the more he pushed his way to the front, the harder they pushed him back. A woman's purse hit him in the stomach, and she touched a manicured hand to his forearm in apology. He shook her hand off, ignoring her baffled look, as he finally made it out of the sardine can  to the front lobby. He walked past the receptionist with the blue eye make up and frizzy mop of hair, past the security guard that eyed him warily, and past the metal detectors that led to the automatic doors.

He got home as the sun was setting low in the horizon, and he headed straight for the small forest that surrounded the back of the apartment complex he lived in. Cigarette butts littered the trail that was formed not by paved stones, but by the constant flux of treading shoes. He wondered silently if any of the other residents of the complex came back here to be alone with their thoughts, as he occasionally did. He stared at the cigarette butts for a moment longer before falling on his hands and knees, eyes red-rimmed with insanity, suddenly embarrassed by their stark white contrast against the hard-packed dirt. Paying no attention to the suit he wore, he scraped at the cold dirt until it filled the recesses underneath his nail bed and his fingers bled, still recklessly determined to bury the nasty things from seeing eyes. With shaking hands, he reached into his pocket and took out the small box that housed new cigarettes identical to the ones he just buried, and with a twist of his wrist, he tossed the entire pack into the hole he had dug, momentarily surprised by its depth.

When he was convinced that he had filled the gape with his sins, he remembered a line he heard when he was just a child from the Friday sermons he attended. He did not consider himself a religious man anymore, although he was raised in a religious household. But he couldn't help his wandering mind as the memory of this particular verse resurfaced.

On the Day We will say to Hell, "Have you been filled?" and it will say, "Are there some more?"

He was filled with a strong sense of nausea and he tasted bile in the back of his throat. Isn't that similar to what he was doing? Pouring his sins into this dark pit, knowing that it was not nearly deep enough to contain all his wickedness? Would he one day help fill the dark pits of hell?

Hopelessness descended on him like a thick blanket, suffocating him with its heaviness. His eyes were glassy with unshed tears and his tongue felt too big to sit in his mouth comfortably. He suddenly found himself wondering if it was true what they said, that you could swallow your own tongue. He sat back and faced the setting sun as tremors shook his entire body. He deserved this. He was an arrogant man, living an unabashed lifestyle. What would become of him tomorrow?

Everything was going wrong in his life. He was stuck between a rock and a hard place, and that's when he realized you don't need water to feel like you're drowning.

~      ~      ~

He didn't wake up the way it was always described in books; he didn't bolt up in bed, realize it was just a dream, and then go back to sleep.

No.

This was much slower, more drawn out, and much more real.

His eyes fluttered open and he stared at the wall opposite him, his heart beating in his throat, thundering in his ears. He sat up on his elbows, his eyebrows knitted together in despair. A sheen of sweat lay above his top lip, and on his forearms; it pooled in the hollow at his throat and slid down his back between his shoulder blades. His eyelashes were damp and his cheeks were moist and he tasted the saltiness of his tears on his dry lips.

He sat up in bed, crestfallen, and his shoulders shook as he squeezed his eyes shut, tears seeping out through the sides and falling into his lap. He hid his face in his hands, shame heating his body and turning his ears red. Every memory of sin he ever committed drove him deeper into his own disgrace, until he thought he would drive himself mad. He lifted his chin and his watery eyes looked up, seeing past the ceiling of his bedroom as he raised his hands to the Creator.

He wracked his brain for a duaa to say, anything, but he could not remember a single one and this did nothing to lessen his anguish. His mouth popped open, and nothing came out. He didn't remember a single duaa that would be appropriate for the moment. He needed to ask forgiveness for his great crimes, past and present. He needed to ask for help, he needed to ask for guidance. He trembled under the weight of his own trespasses, realizing that he was asking for so much. His sins were great, but he knew that the Mercy of his Lord was far greater. If He were to forgive him, then He would have forgiven one of His most miserable slaves. And if He were to punish him, then he would have only gotten what he deserved. He blinked, his thoughts swimming in his head, and he tried futilely to form a coherent sentence, but to no avail; silence weighed his tongue down heavily. He thought to himself that this too was a form of punishment, not being able to ask for what he needed. And he deserved it.

Before he fell into a sobbing heap in his bed, two words escaped his lips.


"Ya rabb."