admin September 13th, 2011
Dead next to three photos.
Part 1.
Mrs. Fatima sat at her chair that stood against the yellow painted wall of the living room. The fan whirred above her, squeaking as it turned from side to side. The door of the room facing her remained closed for two months. To her right side, the kitchen smelt of rot bananas with a cup of coffee lying at the bottom of the sink since her son’s last visit, two weeks ago.
The grey light from the round lamp at the ceiling, gave a mysterious aura to Mrs. Fatima’s brown, wrinkled skin. She clicked the golden ring at the forefinger against her knee, and then raised her head to the ceiling. In her white night dress she looked a like a pride waiting for her lover to return, but a dying pride would be of no use.
She dreaded mirrors. She escaped them, afraid to see how time had misshaped her, leaving nothing of her once charming features. Beauty abandoned her. Her cheekbones stuck out under her green eyes and her nose got longer with the skin flattening at around it. Her teeth went yellow and weaker; her jaw dropped to her neck and stiffened at the edges that she could barely move it up and down to eat.
The reality of change had destroyed her life. Her husband died and her three daughters and son got married and left her to the silence of her apartment. Her body stiffened all over and her back arched forward; the front of her feet swelled. She’d feel like walking on hard wood that broke apart and stuck out, piercing through her skin.
The crying went on for four years, since the death of her husband. But by the beginning of the fifth year, she realized that there was no use. Her tears dried up and she knew that no one would ever care to watch them as they twinkled in the light of the room, falling to the ground. The tears were gone.
No one would hug her when she felt cold; no one would sleep beside her and show her how it felt to be a woman. She wondered, what was the use of pain if no one could see it?
She raised her head to the ceiling and her jaw shook as she tried to talk. “God, can you hear me?” She pressed the wooden handle of the chair. “ I cannot be alone any longer. I wish to die.”
She imagined that by tomorrow morning, Mrs. Dalia her neighbor would keep on knocking but she wouldn’t open for she‘d be dead. The neighbors would break the door and Mrs. Dalia would scream and run to her bed and hug her. She’d talk of how she visited her everyday and how she took care of her, of how she told her of her secrets and how she loved her like a mother.
Some minutes later, someone knocked at the door. Mrs. Fatima pressed her hand against the wooden handle of the chair and got to her feet. Bowing forward, she walked to the door. Her whole body shook and stiffened as she tried to steady herself. “Who’s there?” A raspy voice replied back, “Hussein, Mom.” She pushed back the lock with one finger and the door flung open. The door had newly painted white bars behind which thick, non-transparent glass stood. She could see the shadow of the one knocking, like a ghost, arriving to summon her soul.
The bathroom was so small that you couldn’t have a shower unless you were standing. The shower handle hung right above the toilet with the soap bar resting under it at the tiled floor. After having a quick shower, Hussein peed, wore back his shirt and trousers then went to his mother’s room.
Mrs. Fatima Sat at her bed, her feet crossed in the darkness and her thumbs rolling around each other in illusionary circles. Hussein sat next to her and pressed her hand gently against the bed sheet. “How are you, Mom?” She closed her eyes then tugged her hand and pressed it against her chest.
“Mom, I know how it feels to be alone. I’m doing my best. I have a job to do, kids to feed. I can’t be around here beside you all day long. Please, forgive me.” Mrs. Fatima turned her face to the wall as Hussein lowered his face to ground. “I know you feel so bad about me. You’re wondering why is life so cruel to you. I don’t have an answer. I’m sorry.” He patted her on the shoulder and went to the bed next to her.
“It’d be better if you talked to me.” He said examining the ceiling. “What the heck? Good night.” He placed the pillow over his head and after some minutes, he was snoring.
Mrs. Fatima closed her eyes and remained ever conscious to the soft hum of air outside her window.
Part 2
She realized it was morning, not from the light seeping from the window next to her bed, but from the smell of fried beans that twirled up her window every morning for the last forty-five years. The smell wafted up from the small restaurant, belonging to a short man called El. Hag Ahmed. Mrs. Fatima woke to the sound of Hag Ahmed’s shrill voice every morning. He shouted, laughed and spitted. She never got fed up. It reminded her of her younger days when she used to sprint down the stairs and buy her parents and sister some beans from his shop.
