oneshot

A whistling breeze carved its way through the little cracks in the shabby window making my spine twist and shiver under my skin, I didn’t move.

I lay down there in utter silence like a corpse long forgotten, like a ghost just unseen, like nothing but yet another dead sheep in the barnyard.

I lay there in my old purple dress that was torn from the side and allowed cold to devour me under it cruel mercy. My hair and arms were flung about the floor as my right arm grew numb under the pressure of my body as I refused to shift from the position I lay in for so long. The whistling breeze soon became a howling wind that shook and played with this old cabin in the woods. There was no light any more so I guess it’s evening again.

I’ve been here for a few days now I don’t remember how many but I remember why I came and I remember who I am and I remember my sorrow and pain that followed me.

I moved my eye from the window to the fireplace and a long deserted chimney that forgot the definition of warmth. A small sigh slipped my lips as I muttered the only words in what seemed like a lifetime of wait for death “so this is my grave”.

Flashbacks played in my mind as I kept remembering bits and pieces of my life. I recall people saying that this was normal for a dying person. Clips from my life played like an old film reel before my eyes, I remember these memories that were just meaningless events.

“NO” I muttered to myself.

I spent my life sheltered within the pages of my religion; I was always a believer that everything happens for a reason, a good reason. Only god can see the full picture and we are mere mortals, we can only believe, and believe I did.

But I can’t seem to let go as I stress on the fact that there are memories that changed my very nature, turning points if we may say, that altered my reality completely.

It has been 10 years since I was bullied for the last time in school, I as bullied for 11 years before that. I even remember my first bully who was a chubby bronze skin boy on my school bus. Rashid was his name I guess, I still remember those psychological scars that ashamed me as a child.

It has been 15 years since I met my oldest friends, she wasn’t the first but she was the one that lasted the longest. She thought me the most and disciplined me the most.

It has been 3 years since I graduated from university with my bachelor’s degree, though it seems like a lifetime for me.

It has been 2 years and 6 months since my grandmother passed away taking with her the blessing that she once had upon us.

It has been 3 years 3months and 4 weeks since I fell in love last time. It’s the longest and the shortest one-sided affair that still twitches my heart. Every time our eyes met it was like the cold of winter night and heat of the summer day, we existed in one reality but were never destined to unit, just ignite in our flames of pain.

It has been forever since I lost faith in so many people around me, why; I can’t count the reasons why, for they are endless.

I have no regrets in life because I believe that everything happens for a good reason, yes I was hurt, and yes it wasn’t easy and it wasn’t the worst of the plagues that descended upon me. It was not nearly as big as the crime I ran away only to die this painful death, alone in the darkness, petrified in the cold. After all I deserve this. I killed my own husband.

All I could hear while hiding in the darkness is sound of my breath, as the wind decided to be merciful on my departing soul. My breath kept getting heavier as the world kept spinning around me. I was fighting now for each single breath in this pitch-black darkness. I tried to move my feet that kept touching a cold object near me; it was a shiny CD slipping from my purse that I brought with me. They were Mansoor’s CD’s that he asked me to carry. I could almost hear the music of Fairooz as those memories flushed upon me, Mansoor loved listening to Fairooz, he played her songs in every road trip we took together, I hated it.

We were on a road trip again that day traveling on sheikh Zayed road from Dubai to Abu Dhabi to meet Mansoor’s family for the weekend. He was a good husband but he was not the love of my life. That was the first of my sins.

“Did you carry Fairooz’s CDs?” he asked me as we were storming out of the house, late as usual.

“Yes” I answered.

We took the same rout, as always, listening to the same music, his phone would ring from time to time and he would spend the trip discussing future investments with his cousins and friends. I would spend the drive texting my friends on my phone and checking my Instagram, stalking people has never been easier. We were together but apart nonetheless. He was the moon when I desired the sun, I was his sea but he was afraid to dive in, we were 2 strangers brought together by the body of the car only.

I wished for this to end, this forced reality of endless complements, responsibilities, expectations, pride and formalities. I closed my eyes as the voice of Fairooz’s music and Mansoor’s laughs were suffocating my very existence. A dim voice in the horizon of a nearby mosque reciting Athan forced that prayer again from my lips, I wished I would get rid of this life, this was my second sin.

Not a moment passed next as I saw us drift from the road into the fences of Ghantoot forest. Mansoor lost control over the car and tried to gain it back with no luck. Endless lines of trees passed by quickly before we hit a trunk of an old tree really hard. Mansoor saw us approaching the tree and couldn’t stop the car so he shifts his right hand from the steering wheel to me to hold me still as his other hand swung the steering wheel to the right to make sure that the tree hit Mansoor only. It all happened in a flash of a second, so fast as though it was a dream I ought to wake up from soon. But the reality was malicious as always. This was not a dream at all.

I woke up moments later to the warmth of Mansoor’s wet hands; he was covered in blood and dirt. He couldn’t speak he just gestured by his one good arm and kept pushing me out of the car. I was petrified with shaky hands I opened the door and carried my purse while abandoning my husband.

I looked at him from the shattered windshield as seams of hot tears burned my bloody cheeks. I watched him dripping blood until his white kandoora wasn’t white anymore. I watched as my husband took his last breath of life and I didn’t even help him nor comfort him. I watched as the car engine burst into flames burning everything I loathed in that car. My prayers were answered. This was my ultimate sin.

I ran into the woods until everything looked the same and there was no path to follow. I didn’t expect the forest to get cold, the reality remains that I haven’t been in a forest before, and we were enjoying the January winter of the UAE at that time, nevertheless the cold was unexpected.

I don’t recall much of what happened next all I know is that I found this old wooden cabin and took shelter in it. Little did I know this was going to be my grave. I haven’t seen or heard any human pass this devilish place when I was there.

It was another cold night in a long winter that refused to end like an uninvited guest determined to stay. It’s a dark shadow; they call them clouds, its grey grim grip tightens on our hearts. It’s ironic that I desire Mansoor’s hands around me now to keep me warm, but I lay here unheard, unseen, I can feel my senses numbing as life slip through my fingers.

“Its Karma , its my time to go now.” With those last words I departed from this world. My breath vanished, my gaze darkened, and my heart embarked upon an agony, that’s the story of the last turning point that stole the music out of my heart beat and my symphony was forever lost.

Hessa AlBanafsaj

Amateur Writer and Creator

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