Still Rusty

He checked his watch irritably. It was already ten past seven. Without moving his head, he scanned the park over his newspaper.

No sign of the boy. Such a waste of time.

He frowned and uncrossed his legs. Recrossed them.

A mother pushing a stroller walked past him, tugging a reluctant toddler with uneven pigtails behind her. He watched them without moving his head until they were out of sight.

He folded his newspaper and tilted his wrist to glance at the time.

7:13.

He heard the boy coming before he saw him. He was hurrying up the walkway towards him, holding a closed umbrella in his hand. The sound of his sneakers slapping the pavement was as awkward as his youth. The boy could not have been older than twelve, and it was clear from the way he ran that he was still getting used to his limbs. He stopped short in front of the man, bending over to catch his breath.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he panted as he stood. “I’m really sorry-”

The man uncrossed his legs and gave the boy a one-over. There was a small blue stain just above the breast pocket of his faded white-and-navy striped shirt. The man stared at the stain long enough for the boy to stop talking and follow the man’s gaze. He quickly scratched at the blue stain until it came off in a powder, leaving a ghost of a stain behind. He stuck his thumb into his mouth and rubbed at the stain that the man was still staring at disdainfully.

“Toothpaste,” the man commented matter-of-factly.

The boy nodded, and the action made his hair fall into his eyes. He swept it aside carelessly.

The man grit his teeth.

Such a waste of time.

“Well.” He stood up and dusted his clothes off before reaching over and untying the dog leash that was knotted around the rusty metal of the bench’s arm rest.  The dog, that was so quiet earlier, wagged its tail as the boy eagerly took the leash from the man. “Forty-five minutes.”

“Yes, sir!” The boy half-walked, half-skipped away with his umbrella awkwardly tucked under one arm and the dog leash in hand.

The man didn’t watch the boy disappear down the walkway, around the trees and shrubbery of the park. That would be a waste of time, and quiet honestly, he had already wasted so much time with this boy. He picked up his briefcase and glanced at his wrist watch. 7:17.

The clouds gathered over head as the man set out towards the boy’s house.

*          *          *

The rain came down heavily, lifting leaves off the ground and sailing them along the curbs of the sidewalks. The man had just about caught the worst of it when he entered the house he had been watching religiously for the past six weeks. It was empty, just as he had known it would be. He stood with his back against the kitchen door as the rain dripped off the brim of his hat and hem of his coat. His eyes missed nothing.

The mess of letters on the small table in the center of the kitchen.

The mismatched chairs around it.

A half-full glass of chocolate milk, now warm, on the kitchen counter.

The container of Nesquik powder next to it, still open.

A fruit basket nestled in the corner.

He walked towards it for closer inspection. It contained two apples and an orange. He set his brief case down on the counter top and pulled the basket towards him. He turned the apples over in his hands, inspecting the skin for bruises and holes. He picked the better of the two and scratched at the sticker on it. He then rinsed the apple briefly before sinking his sharp teeth into its ripe flesh. It wasn’t as sweet as it looked, but it was still juicy. He took another large bite.

Still chewing, the man picked up his briefcase again and set the half-eaten apple down on the kitchen table.

The bathroom would be small, he imagined. But he couldn’t see any other appropriate place to carry out his work. Bathtubs, he’d learned, always make for an easy clean up.

He had just made his way up the creaky stairs when he heard the sound of sneakers slapping the wooden porch outside.

That stupid boy! He glared at his wrist watch. He was back too soon! The rain, he thought.

Such a waste of time. He’d have to improvise.

He could hear the sound of the rain amplify as the front door opened, and then die down again as it closed.

The boy entered the warm kitchen and shivered. He shrugged out of the rain coat that was starting to show too much of his wrists. He tried untying his sneakers, but he had tied them too tightly and now it was impossible to untie them when they were wet. He pulled up a chair from the table and sat on it to yank his sneakers off. They came off with some effort, and he slipped them under the table. Next he peeled off his socks, balled them up, and tucked them into one of his sneakers. The floor was warm beneath his feet.

He thought about calling the man’s cellphone and explaining to him that he would bring his dog back to the park once the rain had subsided.

“C’mere, boy.” He took the leash off the small dog and tossed it onto the kitchen table. That was when he saw the half-eaten apple. Little beads of water still sat on the waxy surface. The flesh was still pale and glistening under the dim lights.

The lights. Had he turned them on when he came in? He couldn’t remember.

“Mooooom?” He called out.

He stood up and walked towards the cordless phone on the wall. He should really call the man.

The dog barked and the boy punched in the man’s number. The line rang once.

Twice.

That was when the boy saw the small puddles that went across the kitchen floor, the unmistakable prints of a man’s dress shoes soaked into the beige carpeting of the living room.

The line rang a third time. “Mom?” the boy whispered, his voice shaky.
This time when the line rang, it was from behind him.

"Hello," you lied.

"Hello," you lied

and

against my better judgement,

hope stirs,

like a sparrow

barred behind my rib cage

serving a life sentence

beneath layers of dirt, flaws and bad habits

and

I realized that it was always there

that fragile sparrow

dormant

until you came along

and

now its all a flurry of frantic flapping

only now its wings are growing

beyond my control

against my wishes

and its jail cell has grown too small

and

the fragile sparrow,

its wing span

is now

the distance between east and west

and as it flaps its wings

ready to take flight

either to soar

or

to burn and crash

but always

always

leaving me the same

ripped apart at the seams

from

the inside out

all because

"Hello," you lied.

Photo cred: Laauraa

Stella's

The 70s were always like the Third Great Awakening. Revolutions left and right, Vietnam coming to end, and of course, the birth of the internet.

I remember in particular the year 1978; it was a year full of absurdities and incredulities. It was one of those years that started off on the wrong foot, though no one wanted to admit it at the time.

There was that Indian plane explosion on January 1^st that killed over 200 people. You hear something like that on the news on the first day of the New Year and say to yourself, “It doesn’t mean anything.” But you know everyone was thinking the same thing: was this some kind of omen?

See, that’s the thing about human beings. We prefer beautiful, comforting ignorance to the harsh and cold truth.

But I’m not here to tell you about that plane crash, or how the Cowboys beat the Broncos 27-10 that year, or how Spinks beat Muhammad Ali for the heavy weight boxing title.

You can look that up, on your Google, or whatever.

This story is one that never hit the press. Like so many other stories similar to it, this one was simply swept under the rug and everyone pretended not to notice it.

I was eighteen that summer. I was the embodiment of eighteen, and everything that came with it. I had exchanged my baby fat for lanky limbs, my acne for some hint of stubble on my chin. The only thing that remained the same about me was my tallness, of an awkward sort, and the mess of jet black hair on my head that always seemed to be in need of a haircut, which was inconvenient.

Once every other month, I’d go get it cut so short, I was essentially a breath away from bald.

I didn’t mind.

That way I saved the $7.00 I’d have spent on cutting it every two weeks. It always grew out like freshly cut grass, standing straight up, but when it got long enough it clung to my head. It would eventually become a hassle, as it would always get in my eyes, so I took to pinning my bangs back with one of my sister’s snap clips whenever I was working. The kitchen boys got a real kick out of that. When I came in the next morning, they had similar clips in their own hair, paired with big grins on their faces. Although they had hair the same length as mine, theirs was much curlier, so it managed to stay out of their eyes. The snap clips just gave them a comical look, which was hilarious, and I found myself wondering if I looked just as ridiculous.

When I came in the next day sans my characteristically long hair, they threw their hands up in exaggerated despair and called me a spoil sport. One of them hooked his arm around my neck and rubbed my head, asking for three wishes.

 “Hey, Tappo,” my boss, Vinnie, said to me from the kitchen doorway when he saw my hair – or, lack thereof. “Did you get the cancer, boy?” Vinnie had taken to calling me Tappo since the day I walked in through the doors of Stella’s. It means “short” apparently, a jest at my height, which I didn’t mind.

“No,” I grunted as I heaved a bag of flour onto a shelf. “Just a haircut.”

“Just a haircut,” he repeated with a laugh. “Okay, Tappo, come out to the front, I have a delivery for you.”

I had only started working at Stella’s six days ago. I needed some spending money, this place was nearby, it required almost no skills, and the pay was better than other places. The free lunch was a plus, too, although I wasn’t exactly a devoted pizza fan. But things were generally going well.

And we know that that never, ever lasts.

The beginning started when I came in to open up the store on the seventh day of my employment. It was odd; the metal roll up gate was unlocked. I scanned the sidewalk for the huge padlock that would normally have been there, but it was missing, completely gone.

Who closed up last night?

Did they forget to lock the gate?

How the hell do you forget to do something like that?

But then where’s the pad lock?

Could it be robbers?

My mind was reeling at 60 miles per hour.

Just earlier that year, a mere three months ago, some mafia group called the Red Brigades had kidnapped the Italian prime minister and shot him to death when the government wouldn’t comply with their demands.

Sure, that was in Italy, and the mafias here weren’t nearly as daring, but still. I heard stories. It didn’t help that the whole neighborhood was full of Italians.

And I wasn’t Italian.

I was an outsider. I had immigrated to the States when I was 9 years old. I didn’t know the first thing about how to win the approval of a Mafioso. I had enough common sense to know how to stay out of trouble, but what about when trouble finds you?

Why don’t they teach us about this crap in high school?!

I unlocked the store’s glass door and propped it open, cursing myself for not continuing with those karate classes I used to take as a kid. It was 8AM on a Saturday morning. Everyone was asleep. No one would wake, even if I did scream. How comforting.

“Hello?” I called out, flipping light switches on as I ventured deeper into the store. I was surprised to find that my voice was steadier than my nerves. I paused, ears straining to hear. The fan was on in Vinnie’s small office next to the kitchen. Was it always that loud?

“Hello?” I called again.

“That you, Tappo?” Vinnie called back. His voice was dull, rusty, like that was the first sentence he had spoken in a long time. I heaved a breath of relief that I didn’t realize I was holding and made my way to his office. It was dark; I could just distinguish a vague outline of someone sitting at the desk. I flipped the light switch on.

Vinnie was in yesterday’s clothes, his face buried in his hands. From the way his hair was standing, it seemed like he had ran his hands through it one too many times.

I was only eighteen. I didn’t know squat about life. But I knew the look of a ruined man. I knew it because of the look on Vinnie’s face when he finally glanced at me.

“Go get us some coffee, Tappo. Take money from the register.”

When I returned with the coffee, Vinnie took the cup wordlessly and sat there, staring off into space. I waited for him to say something, but he didn’t, and I was awkward and uncomfortable, and the coffee was really hot in my hands and I didn’t want to reach over and put it on his desk because the desk was a little out of reach from where the chair I was sitting in was, and it was already a few minutes to 10, we’d be open soon, but I was really curious –

“Gooooood mornin’!”

One of the kitchen boys had arrived. I looked at Vinnie, who didn’t seem to hear him. I cleared my throat and took my leave from his office.

The kitchen boy caught me at the door way to the office. He was the one with the chipped front tooth. “Tappo. You opened today?” Then he looked behind me and saw Vinnie sitting at his desk. His smile faltered and his eyes took up a look of pity.

“Hey boss,” Chip said solemnly. Vinnie waved his greeting aside. Chip took me by the elbow and ushered me out. He closed the door to Vinnie’s office and shook his head. “Come on, we gotta lot-a work to do.”

An hour into kneading dough, mixing pizza sauce, and rolling garlic knots, I decided to ask what the hell was going on. Don’t misunderstand me; my ethnic background had adopted the ‘nosy people lose their noses’ standpoint. I never venture into other people’s lives.

But I was so curious.

Perhaps that’s where my fault lay.

I looked up from my work. Chip was at the sink, elbow deep in soap suds.

“Um.”

He looked up at me. I titled my head in the general direction of Vinnie’s office, and raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

Chip sighed and took his hands out of the sink, wiping them on his apron.

“Vinnie, ah,” he took out a pack of Newports, tapped the box against his palm until one came out, and stuck it between his teeth. “He likes to gamble.” He paused. “Addicted, you know?” he added. He offered me a cigarette, which I declined, and then continued to pat in his pockets in search of a lighter. When he couldn’t find it, he turned on the burner and lowered his face to it so he could light his cigarette. I remember foolishly thinking how cool he looked; I was so young and watched too many movies.

“You know Atlantic City?” He asked me from behind a cloud of smoke.

I nodded. I wasn’t a total social outcast, even though I’d never been there myself.

“Yeah. Vinnie, he likes to go there on Friday night after closing time. Leaves here at eleven, gets there at maybe one or two in the morning.” He took a long drag on his cigarette. “Comes back broke as a beggar, you know?” He flicked cigarette ash into the sink. “Bad luck.”

I looked away, feeling embarrassed for some reason.

“He doesn’t go home after he finishes at Atlantic City, you know? Can’t face Stella – that’s his wife, Stella,” he pointed at the ground. “He named the store after her. Anyway. He can’t face Stella and the kids after blowing away so much money, you know?” Chip put his cigarette down to turn a pie of pizza in the oven. “Always same thing, every week.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But listen Tappo, Vinnie makes good money. The store,” he picked up his cigarette again as he gestured widely. “Make a lot-a money, you know? And he has another store, too. Vinnie’s not poor, Tappo.” He shook his head. “Vinnie, he makes more money than you or me ever make in our whole life.” Another flick into the sink, and then he shrugged. “But he burns it all on gambling.” He pointed at me to make his next point, “Stella knows. She knows about his gambling. She just tired of arguing about it, you know?”

Chip was silent for a few minutes, so I figured that was the end of that. I went back to kneading dough.

“But there’s other stuff too, Tappo.” His tone made me look up again. His face was grave. “Vinnie, he’s stupid.” He shook his head in – in what? Disappointment? Sympathy?

He put out his cigarette in the sink and went back to work.

I stared at his back for a moment longer before resuming my own work, thoughts still swimming in my head.

Later that night, as I was taking the garbage out, something else happened. It was like a scene out of movie, I tell ya.

A man in a pinstripe suit and cuff links that caught the light walked into the store. I could see a shock of dark hair under his fedora, streaked with grey at his temples.

“We’re closed,” I said, but when he looked at me in a way that made the little hairs on the back of my neck stand, I quickly added, “sir.”

He leaned on his glossy cane and gave me a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, revealing a row of crooked teeth. “You must be new here.”

I shifted from one foot to the other, suddenly aware of the loud laughing going on in the kitchen. I wished one of the other guys would come out already.

“Go fetch Vinnie, kid.” An order. He pulled up a bar stool and sat down, placing his cane and a briefcase on the counter. “I’ll wait.” Another dead smile.

I told Vinnie that there was someone outside asking for him. It might have been the look on my face that gave it away: this was no ordinary person. I remember naively thinking maybe he was a lawyer or something. Vinnie got up tucked his shirt into his pants as he rushed out the door. I went to the kitchen and watched from the doorway. There was some talk between the two, and then Vinnie pulled out his keys and unlocked the register. He took out all the money in it – all of it – and handed it to the stranger. The stranger tucked the cash into his brief case and then pointed at Vinnie and said something before leaving.

He didn’t even use the cane. It was clear he didn’t need it. He didn’t eve limp.

Who was this guy?

Vinnie lingered in his place, head bent, looking dismal.

“See, Tappo?” I jumped at the voice that was suddenly close, and turned around. Chip was looking at Vinnie and then raised his eyebrows at me. “He burns all his money, you know? And then he takes loans from the wrong people, only to burn all that away, too.”

“I thought you said he makes a lot of money?”

Chip nodded. “He does. He keeps up with his payments, you know? But still. Would you want someone like that coming into your store every week to collect?”

No, sir.

Two days later, Vinnie was gone. No one knew where he was, and no one wanted to call the cops. Stella came in and started running the store, a perpetual look of anxiety on her face, a constant frown pulling at the corners of her lips.

On the morning of the third day of Vinnie’s disappearance, I came in to work to find yellow tape marking off the sidewalk in front of the store. A crowd of nosy onlookers had collected nearby, hoping to catch sight of something worth telling stories about. Confused, I made my way through the crowd to the front of the yellow tape and ducked underneath it.

“Hey!” A police officer put his hand on the top of my head and pushed me back under the tape and to the other side. “Don’t you see the tape? This is off of bounds.”

I opened my mouth to explain that I worked here, but someone called my name.

“Tappo!”

Well, sort of.

I looked past the police officer and saw one of the other delivery boys, the one with the red hair, making his way toward me from inside the store. His face looked pale, and a knot formed in my stomach.

“It’s okay officer, he’s with us,” Red told the officer. When the officer shook his head, Red insisted. “He’s family.”

The officer looked from me to Red incredulously and I felt my ears turn warm in embarrassment. I looked nothing like family.

“You gotta be kidding me,” the officer said to Red, who was already pulling me under the yellow tape.

“Through marriage,” he said to the officer who was now frowning at us, but at the same time made no move to stop me.

When we finally got into the store, everything came crashing in around me; it was like a sudden burst of “too much”. Too much noise, too much lighting, too much of that horrible smell – what the hell was that?

I slowly started to take in the scene, bits at a time.

There were detectives with their notepads out, Chip standing to my right by the door, an unlit cigarette between his teeth. Red went to stand next to Chip, and the other guys stood next to him. I felt my heel slip a little, and I glanced down to see a trail of little droplets of pizza sauce that disappeared into a crowd of people crouching on the floor, rubber gloves on their hands.

Finally my eyes settled on the chair at the back of the store’s dining area, and the woman sitting in it: Stella. It was almost like the whole scene was building up to this.

To her.

The way she was sobbing into a napkin, mascara running down her face. She occasionally gave a wail so heart wrenching, it sounded only like the sort of cries a woman would make if she had lost her…

Suddenly, I felt bile in the back of my throat. I turned away from her quickly and my eyes found Chip. I grabbed his shoulder.

“It’s Vinnie,” he began. I felt dread build up in my stomach. It was in the middle of June, but it suddenly felt as cold as Antarctica. I waited for Chip to tell me what I already knew. And he did. “They killed him.”

My mouth was dry, I couldn’t even swallow my own spit – I had none. “How?” I croaked.

“Stella came to open up this morning. Said there was a big black garbage bag in front of the store, so she tried to move it so she can unlock the door, you know? And then she saw that the bag…” He took a deep breath. “The bag was leaking blood, so she called the police.” He looked away and tried to take a drag on his cigarette, realized it was unlit, and then tucked it behind his ear. “Vinnie was in the bag. Not in one piece.”

I felt my arms slack, my knees started to shake. And I was so cold.

I had meant to ask him “who”, but it had come out “how”. But after hearing this, I didn’t even want to know who it was anymore.

This was crazy.

It was insane.

Stuff like this didn’t happen in real life.

Not in my real life at least.

I didn’t know anybody. I didn’t talk to people. I come from a middle class immigrant family, we never had anything to do with anyone.

I just wanted a temporary summer job for some spending money.

None of this stuff.

I was suddenly aware that it wasn’t pizza sauce that I had stepped in.

The realization made me throw up this morning’s breakfast, right there, in the middle of the store, on Chip’s sneakers.

Obsidian

            There are no dreams in this world.

            You put your head to your pillow, close your eyes, and sink into a bottomless obsidian. No thoughts exist there, no worries, no memories.

Where do you go when you fall asleep in this world? It’s almost like asking, where does your computer go when it hibernates?

            Nowhere.

            You don’t feel in dreams. You can’t.

Or can you?

            I should mention that there are dream simulators. They sell them in little packets at drug stores now, behind locked glass cases. (NOTE: Today, every child is fitted with a standard USB port at 18 months, called a Mastoid Port, or MP for short. It’s placed behind the right ear and it’s as natural as an ear piercing and has many uses. Dream simulators look something like mini flash drives that you plug into your MP).

These simulators come in a large variety of genres: high school parties, wars, childhood memories that you never had, travelling to other countres, falling in love (always requited of course), and even nightmares for the horror enthusiasts. It’s like watching a movie from first person point of view. Thing is, once you’ve seen 50 movies, you’ve seen them all, and after a while, simulators don’t satisfy you anymore. Companies picked up on this, and at one point, they made simulators that allowed you to share dreams with others, almost like an MMO. But those were banned a mere 7 months after they hit the market. Too many users died due to “overdose” where they just refused to leave the dream state. You can still buy those types of dream simulators, from the same low profile sellers you’d get heroine from, complete with glitches and poor quality. But hey, anything to get away from here, right?

I mean, think about it. It’s a nasty world to be in, one where you can’t dream for yourself. The dreams they sell behind locked glass cases are all shadow government approved, shadow government constructed, and shadow government limited.

That’s another thing about today’s world I guess. Saysul once gifted me an ancient newspaper dated all the way back to 2007 AD for my name day (I have no idea how she managed to get her hands on it, or how much of a fortune it cost her). There was one article in it that described a group of people’s theories on how the government was controlling the media, staging terrorist attacks on itself, and watching everyone.

It made me laugh bitterly. I wonder how “Stanley Alexander”, author of that article would have felt if he knew that today’s shadow government had micro-chips implanted in cats to help keep tabs on its people.

This “Stanley Alexander”, who was so upset about his government manipulating his reality TV shows, doesn't know about today’s shadow government that manipulates my dreams. “Stanley Alexander”, the government controls the food I eat, the papers I read, the websites I search, the history I’m told and even the stupid TV I don’t watch.

“Stanley Alexander”, the shadow government is in my head, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Sudden disappearances are not something uncommon today. That ancient newspaper I told you about? Saysul disappeared three hours after she gave it to me. I got a letter from her saying that she joined The Draft. Aledar, a mutual friend, had gotten the same letter, supposedly written by Saysul. And when we went to Saysul’s house to “investigate”, her mother had no idea who we were referring to.

“Saysul?” she had asked. “I’ve never heard that name before.”

That’s when I noticed that the photo on the mantle contained a picture of Saysul’s parents. The same picture had once contained a smiling Saysul, too. I looked at Aledar, and his eyes were fixed on the same photo. We apologized to Saysul’s mother for interrupting her evening, and we took our leave.

I knew then. “Efficient, Omnipotent, and Powerful”. That was our shadow government’s motto. They had taken Saysul, like they took so many others before her, and they had erased her mother’s memories. We knew the truth. We knew. And we did nothing.

I haven’t heard from Aledar since that evening, although I see him from time to time at the market. He never speaks to me, and I can understand why. He blames me for Saysul. I blame myself, too.

I didn’t cry that day, though. I hadn’t cried, ever, so I know nothing of tears. But I felt something take root in my chest: something dark, cold, calculating, and consuming. It was only a speck, just a seed, but it was enough. It was the first time I had tasted anger, and I knew it wouldn’t be the last.

Two weeks later, I filled out my application for The Draft.

A standard Mastoid Port (MP).

... to be continued. 

I just unwrapped a new eraser.

I don't know why, but I never tear off the plastic wrapper off a brand new Staedtler eraser; I always take my time with unwrapping them. Maybe it's because of the way they're wrapped, so neatly, each end folded meticulously, just like the way you would gift wrap a present.

They have such a distinct smell, brand new erasers. They smell like growing up. I don't know how to explain it.

My kindergarten teacher used to have this little box filled with cute, Japanese style erasers that she would keep on her desk. Every Friday, right before Jumu'ah, she would call on the students that got five gold stickers on their weekly behavior sheet, and then those students would get to pick something out of the little box. I remember once, when it was my turn, I picked one out that looked like a cute little frog. And I never used it.  I just kept it in my pencil case and took it out every now and then just to look at the cute little frog eyes and then I'd put it back. I was gonna keep it forever and ever. And next week, I'd be good and get the other eraser shaped like an ice cream. And the week after that, I'd get the one shaped like a star. But for now, I had my frog eraser and I was content.

And then my little brother bit the head off. Broke my six-year-old heart.

After that, I moved onto the Papermate eraser phase. Whenever my mother would take me back-to-school shopping, I would always, always pick out those Papermate erasers where one half was white and erased pencil and the other half was a grey and had a grainy sort of texture and erased pen. I remember I'd open it the night before school started so I can put it in my pencil case, but first, I'd rub my thumb across the grainy side of the eraser. It never worked by the way. The pen eraser. It always just left holes in my composition notebook paper. But I would still pick out the same eraser every year. I didn't even care that the grainy side didn't really do anything. I was in, what, second grade? I didn't even use pens yet.

Throughout high school, I was a pencil-cap-eraser girl, through and through. I don't think I ever used my pencils' actual eraser. I would always use the pencil cap ones. And then during my junior year when I started taking studio art, I converted to kneaded-eraser-ism.

But through out all those years, one thing remained the same - no, still remains the same... There is no forgiveness for the person who asks to borrow my eraser and uses the pointy corner. I always use my erasers one corner at a time. And the few times that I tell someone not to use a new corner, they give me strange looks.

"Hey Nehal, can I borrow your eraser?"
"Yeah, but don't use the pointy corner. Use the corner that's already used."
"Get out."

I can't explain to you the little screams of agony that go off in my mind when I see my eraser's pointy corners all being used at the same time. Kills me.

And finally, I shall hit you directly in the nostalgia. Enjoy.

I had that frog one! KAWAII!!

I don't know a single girl in second grade that didn't have some sort of variation of this.

The Birth of Heartbreak

It happened while I was flipping through the pages of my fourth year Latin classics book. That was when I glimpsed the word that brought me back to my childhood days with Didi. I rummaged through the book again, frantically trying to locate the page that had the word on it. I flipped through the pages once. Twice. Three times, this time with my nose inches from the yellowed pages of the old text.

Aha. There it is.

I stared at the four-lettered word, reading it in my mind. Then I read the entire sentence.

Aut neca aut necare.

            I was eleven when I first met Didi. She transferred to our fifth grade class in May, which was strange. Most things about her were. She wasn’t popular, which I always found surprising. Her hair was so long, she could sit on it if she ever let it down. And it was darker than the darkness trapped underneath your blanket. She had the most peculiar eyes. I remember thinking they didn’t fit her thin face; they looked so much older than her eleven years. Most days they were the color of the deepest oceans, and other days they were the stormy clouds that loomed above it. I swear, the first time I saw lightning, it was in Didi’s eyes.

            We took to each other instantly. It was odd, the way I felt my soul cling to hers. I never felt lonely before Didi, but after Didi, that was all I felt.

            It was a hot and sticky Friday afternoon, so Didi decided that we should spend our time down by the river that my mother told me to never go near. We were still in our school clothes and my pockets were heavy with the two juice boxes I stole from the cabinet in the kitchen. When we got to the river, Didi picked a spot and I waited patiently for her to cast the “invisibility spells” around us.  “That way grown ups won’t find us, ever,” she’d say.

            Satisfied with her work, she sat on an amputated tree trunk and motioned for me to sit next to her. I handed her a juice box and sat down on the grassy patch at her feet. “Didi, how come we never go to your house?” I asked as I poked my straw into the top of my juice box. She didn’t answer me at first, so I turned to look at her. Strom clouds stared back at me.

            “I told you not to ask me that again.”

            Fear grabbed hold of my insides and my mouth dried up. “What did I tell you the last time you asked?” she asked in that quiet way of hers.

            “Th-that you wouldn’t be my friend again.”

            “That’s right. I ought to push you into this river right now!”

            I looked away from her and fixed my gaze on the juice box in my lap. “I’m sorry, Didi. I won’t ask you again. I promise.”

            “You know what happens when you break a promise?” she threatened.

            “Yes,” I mumbled.

            “Good.”

            Even though I wasn’t looking at her, I knew she was running her fingers through her hair. I pulled at the grass around my legs. After a few minutes of silence, she spoke.

            “Do you want to hear a story?”

            I tilted my head back to look at her. The storm clouds had broken, giving way to the ocean currents. Feeling a bit easier, I grinned. “Yes.”

            “Good. Turn around and face me.”

            I did as I was told and watched as Didi put down her juice box, and tied back her long hair.

            “This one my great great great grandmother told me,” she began.

A long, long time ago, when the world was still young, there lived a beautiful woman in the middle of the forest in a far, far away place, where there were no other humans. She made friends with the birds, and the trees. She could even speak to the river. And she was happy.

            Then one day, a man got lost and ended up passing through her forest. So the woman hid and watched the man through the eyes of the sparrows, and she learned his actions through the dirt he walked on. She had never seen a man before, but she knew that whatever souls were made of, his and hers were the same. And so, she instantly fell in love.

            She followed him around the forest, staying hidden the entire time, and the further his footsteps lead him away from her, the more her entire being ached for him, until she could bear it no more. Her heart leapt each time he smiled in day dream. Wanting to be the cause of such a beautiful smile, she did a foolish thing that would haunt her until the end of time.

Gathering up her courage, she approached this stranger and began confessing her love to him. The man’s eyes rounded in fear, and he took several steps backward, almost stumbling in the process. The woman, needing to hear a similar confession from his lips, followed him. The man put a hand out and shouted some words in a foreign language. She stopped in her tracks and stared at him, not understanding his words, and not wanting to understand his energy. She felt his fear, his repulsion.

With another string of foreign words, the man got up and ran. She watched him leave. And that was the first time heart break had touched a woman.

She couldn’t go on. Every time she walked through her forest, she felt the lingering presence of the stranger. Her heart clenched when she passed the tree he had rested against. She was no longer living, and yet she wasn’t dead. The constant state of hovering between two realms and the sleeplessness that came with it drove her to the brink of insanity.

And so one night under a moonless sky, she sharpened her thinnest bone-dagger and inserted it between her ribs. She carefully cut out the treacherous organ, until it lay on the grass, still beating. She asked the Earth to swallow it up, burying it in the deepest recesses of the underground.

The woman had become a demon, a beautiful, heartless demon. She never was the same again, and she haunted the world for the rest of eternity. She was heart break. She became that pretty girl you fell in love with at a party, but never returned your phone calls. She became that girl that kissed you once, and then disappeared, leaving you crippled. She became that great girl next door that moved after she became your best friend. She became the girl you courted all throughout college that ended up marrying your best friend.

She fed on the hearts of men. She never died, she just moved on. Once she had one man’s heart, she took it and moved onto the next meal.

Didi’s eyes were alive by the time she had finished the story. It sounded more like a nightmare to me. I stared into the distance, feeling my skin crawl.

“You better watch out,” she said with a smile that broke me. “She could come for you, too.”

“How do I stop her?”

Didi tossed her head back in a laugh. “It’s nearly impossible to stop her!”

I shivered.

“But I’ll tell you how.”

            I dared to meet her eyes. “How?”

            The legend states that heartbreak is made of two halves of two different souls. Two souls that were ripped in half for the same reason. If one of the halves of the two half-souls belonged to the woman, who did the other half-soul belong to?

That same night, the man that was lost in the forest finally found his way back to his village, where he found that his sweet heart had assumed he was dead and carried on without him. Feeling his heart tearing apart, he went back to the forest and ripped the organ from his chest and offered it to the Earth. Caliming the two half-souls as its own, heart break was born. The male demon roamed the Earth, a hollow man. He fed on the hearts of young women. He became that shy boy from your English class that laughed about your glasses behind your back. He became every man that ever ignored you. He became every man that returned your shy smile with a sneer. He became every man that made you feel fat, or ugly, or stupid.

And the only way to get rid of both these demons is to reunite their hearts, deep within the Earth.

*     *     *

            I stared at the sentence again. 

Aut neca aut necare. 

            Kill before you are killed. 
            Bile collided with the back of my throat as the realization dawned upon me. Didi’s full name was Dimidium Neca.

Latin for half death.

Some People Are Like Bruises

You wake up one uneventful morning and they're already stamped into your life, like an unknown bruise. You don't know where they came from, and even though they're as close to you as a second skin, you forget all about them underneath all your clothes and security. You only remember them when you're in most vulnerable state: your nakedness. It's when you realize, "Oh, there's that bruise. Wonder where it came from." And you think about them for a moment or two before donning your clothes again, forgetting them once more.

And then you wake up one morning, several days later, and you suddenly realize the bruise isn't there anymore. It couldn't possibly have gone overnight, it's a process that takes time. But you only realize its absence, not its gradual fading.

Just as suddenly as they appeared, they're now gone, those beautiful bruises.

Photo cred: OlexD

Gray Matter

Why do we lay in bed, waiting for our alarm to go off, even though we're already awake?

He stared unseeingly at the neon green numbers. It was already 7:32AM, but he had been awake for hours ever since that coughing fit took over. His glasses lay on a book that had gathered dust on his night stand. It was the same book he picked up and leafed through every time he couldn't sleep and even then, he couldn't tell you what it was about if his life depended on it.

The conversations from last night drifted through his mind, like the last cheerios in a bowl of milk that he always chased around with a spoon, never catching them.

He rolled over and looked at her side of the bed. It was empty, he had felt her get up an hour ago. The pillow wasn't warm anymore. He suspected she got as much sleep as he did, both awake for the same reason, re-running the same conversations in their heads. In a way, being awake for the same reasons should have made them closer, but then why did he feel so much distance between them even though they slept inches away from each other?

And the hardest thing about it all was that he could have closed this distance. Just one word from him would mend all the things he said yesterday.

He thought about this as he touched her pillow, the same place her head had rested just an hour ago. And when that wasn't enough for him, he rolled over onto her side of the bed and rested his cheek on her blue pillow case, breathing in the scent of her hair.

That was when he noticed the stack of books on her night stand. She liked to read when she couldn't sleep too. Her books all had similar keywords: child care, babies, pregnancy.

Except the book that lay at the top of the stack. This one was "Eat to Fight Cancer". He brushed his fingertips across the spine of that book and thought back to the lonely book that was gathering dust on his nightstand.

He picked up the container of her hand cream from on top of the books, unscrewed the cap, and sniffed it before screwing the cap back on and replacing it on top of the stack of books. His eyes lingered on that cancer book for a second longer before he rolled over and sat up on his side of the bed.

One word from him and everything would be okay. He didn't want to do it. He was a grown man, pushing fifty, and he never made his own decision, not once.

He had a solid argument. He didn't want to spend the rest of whatever time he had left in hospital beds. He wanted her to understand. Maybe she did. But there was no taking back the hurt he saw in her eyes. There was no taking back the tears she quietly sobbed into her pillow last night when she thought he was asleep.

He reached over and took his glasses off the book on his nightstand and made his way downstairs to the kitchen.

She was standing over the sink scrubbing at a pan, her belly making it difficult for her to get closed to the sink. She stopped scrubbing when he wrapped his arms around her, resting his head against her shoulder, the scent of her hair stronger here than it was on the pillow case.

"Alright."

She turned her head slightly to the left. "Alright what?" she asked.

He waited before saying the words. "I'll do the treatment."

*     *     *

For those of you who found this post a little familiar, that's because it's based on an episode from the TV series Breaking Bad. I started watching it a few days ago and this scene really just got to me. You know how sometimes you see something really beautiful and you're just so awe-struck by it that you wanna recreate it and show it to the world? Maybe that's why we take pictures of sunsets and post them on facebook, because we want to share that beauty with anyone, everyone. That's why I had to re-create this scene, except I did it in what I'm good at - writing.

I guess imitation is the highest form of flattery.

Hijab: A Love Story

"Why do you wear that?" she asks as she traces invisible circles around her face, referring to my hijab.

Whether its at a da'wah table, or while I'm standing in line at a 7-Eleven, or even during group projects at school, the question always comes up. After being a hijabi for ten years (going on eleven), I've learned to anticipate the question. I've gotten so good, I can almost predict when it'll come up.

You'd think that answering this question would have gotten easier over the years, but it hasn't. To me, hijab is my most loyal friend; my hijab is part of me, it makes up a good portion of my identity. I can tell you why I wear the hijab, but I can tell you what the hijab has done for me so much better. But I guess in order for you to understand that, I'd have to start at the beginning, when I first began my journey.

Alhamdulilah, I started wearing my hijab around this time, when I was in seventh grade. At the time, we were living in Egypt for a year and my parents were on Hajj, so my Aunt, who wasn't married yet, was staying with us. I woke up for school one morning and BAM! puberty. My Aunt pretty much asked me, "Do you want to start wearing the hijab?" I said yes, and that was the end of that. It wasn't anything I really thought about. I was raised all my life in an Islamic school, and I knew that once a young lady hit puberty, hijab becomes mandatory. All my other friends were wearing it, my teachers wore it. My mom and aunts wore it, as did my cousins. It was a no-brainer for me. I never went a sleepless night because I was up thinking about how people would start treating me once I wore my hijab. Hijab just wasn't something I worried about.

Looking back at that segment of my life, I now realize that I took that comfort for granted.

I didn't start becoming aware of my hijab until I was entering eleventh grade in high school. My parents transferred me from Ghazaly to Marist High School (long story) and just so you know, Marist is a catholic school. Obviously I was extremely upset with this decision (and I took advantage of every opportunity possible to illustrate this), and that was before I even digested the fact that this was a catholic school and I was coming from an Islamic school. Let's just say that it wasn't really the smoothest transition. Ghazaly was my entire life, it was the bubble within which I existed; I knew nothing beyond it's pecan-green (I wonder what color they are now) walls. If you asked me to recite a Surah in the Quran, I'd recite it to you and even give you the Tafseer in a jiffy. If you asked me where in the Sunnah it described the steps to Tayammum, I'd rattle off the hadith, no problem. If you needed a du'aa for something, I'd give you two. But if you asked me why I wore the hijab, I'd tell you, well duh, because it's fard, and I'd expect no further questions after that. Obviously, this isn't a sufficient answer for a non-Muslim; I didn't understand that. If you asked me my views on the trinity, I'd have no idea what you were talking about. Point is, I had a solid Islamic education, but when it came to giving da'wah, I was all stammers, blank face, and baffled stares. In a way, I knew everything (not even) and nothing at the same time. But anyway, I digress; if you wanna read a little more about my experience at Marist, just click here.

Entering college was just another step on the journey. I liked the college atmosphere much better than I did the high school one. People were more mature, less judgmental, all that good stuff. And in the occasional event someone did make a snide remark about my hijab, the first few weeks at Marist had already hardened me against that, and I didn't respond with anger or tears; I was more rational, alhamdulilah. Hijab did that for me; it showed me the real world and it made me stronger, and above all, it made me fall in love with my deen over and over again.

Walking into a lecture hall on the first day of classes and seeing another hijabi is a very comforting feeling, you men don't even know. It's like I automatically have a friend in the class, because it's totally cool for me to go and sit next to her, smile, and introduce myself. She'd automatically know that I chose to sit next to her because she was also wearing the hijab, and it wouldn't be something weird. It's like the hijabi code. That's part of the reason why hijabi's tend to "flock" together. We're all on the same journey, and yet, we're on different ones. It's really somethin' else.

Hijab has made me a better person, too. If my years at Marist taught me anything, it's that if you wear the hijab, you're automatically labeled as a Muslim. I mean, it's different with men and the Sunnah beards, because that's not necessarily exclusive to the Islamic faith. Hijab, on the other hand, is. My hijab is the reason I make sure to take the extra few seconds to hold the door open for someone. My hijab is the reason I'm patient with rude people and women drivers (joke, ha ha). My hijab is the reason I really try to bite my tongue when I'm angry. My hijab is the reason I volunteer to do things even though I reeeeally don't want to (y'know, to get the image out there that Muslims aren't complete hermits).

My hijab is a constant reminder of who I am, and of the religion I am following. It has done nothing but improve my character. But you wanna know somethin' else? My hijab changes the people around me, too. Sometimes a classmate will refrain from cracking a dirty joke around me because I'm Muslim (as evidenced by my hijab). Sometimes people will apologize profusely when they curse in front of me for the same reason. My hijab has taught me to respect my religion, and myself. And consequently, when you have respect for yourself, people start having respect for you, too.

Hijab is so beautiful, just absolutely beautiful, and I can't see a hijabi as anything but the reflection of that. Is it really a wonder why I get so aggravated when girls use sub par analogies to describe their hijab? Enough with the "hijab is like a shell, and a hijabi is the pearl" nonsense. We can do so much better than that!

Makes me that much stronger,

Makes me work a little bit harder,

It makes me that much wiser,

So thanks for making me a fighter.

Made me learn a little bit faster,

Made my skin a little bit thicker,

Makes me that much smarter,

So thanks for making me a fighter.

I love my hijab, alhamdulilah.