Dead next to three photos.

Life of a lonely, old lady.

 

 

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.

 

The memories raced back into her head as she looked at the empty bed next to her. Hussein had left without even saying Goodbye. And it didn’t sadden her for she never cared about him since he got married. He was the only boy she got and she thought he’d remain until the day she died beside her, but it was no use imagining things. Reality, although harsh, was far more consoling than imagination.

 

The same question that hunted her every morning, remerged in her head as she peed. “Why am I still alive?” The answer was never there for she found reason for being alive. A warm grave was the most appropriate place for someone like her.

 

What was the aim of life if all whom you loved were gone? She kept on wondering. The questions never ended. They dashed into her head, like arrows out of heaven. Will I ever be happy again?  The answer for the last question raced into her head, jostling against all the other words, ideas and answers. “No.”

 

As she walked out of the bathroom, she glimpsed the mosquitoes gathering around some crumbs of bread. She thought of having one, but her well-trained feet had already led her back to her room. Her feet never got used to standing for longer than ten minutes.

 

The light fell with a narrower slant on Hussein’s bed. She could barely see the pillow, bending at one corner of the bed, but the red color of an envelope that rested against the wall caught her eyes so fiercely.

 

She remained motionless for some seconds. Why would Hussein leave her an envelope? He might had left her some money. She thought of all the possible things that an envelope could hold and she found nothing appropriate for her to expect from Hussein.

 

Her knuckles burned with pain as she pressed them over the sheet, trying to reach for the other side of the bed to bring the envelope. She dropped right over her left cheek with a brief shriek. The envelope was safe in her hand. She turned to her back and tore it off. A yellow piece of paper twirled down over her face.  She held it against the light and read,

 

“Dad gave me those pictures before he died. I hope you like them.

 

                    Hussein.”

 

She held the three pictures in one hand. They all had this brown haired man with green eyes and a wide smile. He was Adel; her husband. A rush of excitement took over her the moment she peered deep into those green eyes. As if those eyes, infused life once again with in her expressionless, pale face. She sat up and held the pictures nearer to her chest.

 

Once again, she could feel Adel next to her. The images sent a strange feeling of elation that she had never experienced even when he was alive. She realized that may be we appreciate the things we posses more when they’re gone. We start missing them. And the mere idea of having a glimpse of them sends us into bursts of jubilance.

 

The next morning, she’d wake up once again with in his arms. Nothing could hurt her there, nothing could shatter her.

 

The hours passed as she talked to her husband. How delightful can a machine capture such strong memories on a piece of paper? It captures an eternal soul; it captures happiness.

 

Now, she could answer the question differently. Would she ever find happiness? The answer was “ Yes”

 

Night had fallen so swiftly. The three lampposts facing her window shone

With orange light over the narrow alley. The shrieks of children reverberated in the air as they played with stones and chalk. The world progressed around her, heedless of her last breath.

 

As a smile took hold of her face, her lashes fell down softly over her eyes. Her left hand pressed one picture against her chest while the other two pictures remained on the bed, beside her dead body. 

 

By the time her son would visit her again, her body would have smelt rot. Her lips would have turned blue, and her bones would have felt as soft as biscuits; the smell of dead fish and the body of a cricket. 

 

But after all, she found happiness before she died.

 

 

Reviews

[...]

. oh gosh ... astonishing work, tariq ... spectacular narration ... and so profound ... i have tears in my eyes ... and for me ... this ain't a sad story ... i mean i wish she wasn't alone ... but at least she found happiness before she died ... my soul mate fortunately is still alive ... but he left last july ... and i know how torn apart i feel ... especially when i think that maybe he won't ever make it home again ... for whatever reason ... his poetry ... his pictures ... a recording of his voice is all i have ... am so moved by your story ... you write from the heart and reach the heart of the reader ...

[Geralyn Miller]

A sad, but all too frequently true story. I like the affection you put into your writing, you seem to care about this woman; that makes what could be a tragic story; hopeful.
English is probably not your first language, there are a few usage errors, nothing major. I respect anyone who strives to write in a language not native to them.