The sky was light blue and calm. The streets were empty. A man in shalwaar kameez on a bicycle here or there. A rickshaw wandering around, seemingly aimlessly. A man in a small cultus. But generally empty. The park was clean and empty. Usually it was littered with empty soda bottles and crowded with skinny, lanky kids playing cricket. Now it was empty. It was too early for cricket. Though the weather was pretty nice. She drove on. The air conditioning was cool and heavy. The sweat was making her hair clump together. She brushed a hand through her scalp, hair locked together. Opening up those locks. She drove on. The air was chilly. Her clothes were drenched in sweat. The purple bag caught the light of the sun. The golden hues of the bag glimmered with light. The dark and black felt like shadows. Outside, the streets were empty. A dog sauntered here. Crows were more frequent. There was always something to nibble on. She drove on. The songs blaring from her speakers were catchy and unending. The vents blasted air near her ears, not quite her face. Her sweat had started to dry out. Her hair was still thick and heavy with all the moisture. The sun glimmered as she turned a corner, the light reflecting off her dashboard. She noticed a white police car by the side of the road, sitting leisurely idly. No, it wasn’t a police car. It was the security car of the neighborhood. A man was standing by it. As she drove by him, slowing down, watching him curiously, she noticed that he was polishing his car diligently.

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No consequences

The throngs were seas. Sweat. Bright lights. Excited chattering. High voices. Salty breeze. Hard, gravel pavement. He stretched, hands behind his back, locked, and pushing out.

The sky kept erupting in beautiful colors. Frequently. How much money it must have cost to put those things in the sky. For what? A few minutes of entertainment?

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The Jazz was soft. The restaurant was dim. It was attractive from the outside, but in an old school, old timey sort of way. If you looked at it from a modern perspective, whatever that may be, it looked work down, the paint was chipped, the windows too big, the sign too garish. But if you suffered from that human affliction of being optimistically stuck in the past, longing for better times that may or may not exist only in your memory, otherwise known as nostalgia, then it was pretty beautiful to you. You were drawn to it. Even if there were only a few diners in it at any given point, even jazz nights such as this one.

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It’s funny. People sometimes ask me why I don’t like them. The trigger was a personal event. But it was related to the theme I'm about to discuss. Their cult promotes humanism. In its purest form. At least that’s the message I’m being indoctrinated with. Try as they might, they won’t win. Because how do ten people to the power of nine, basically an eighth of all the people in the world, how do the majority of those people not see this particular aspect of their cult. The humanism part. They’re all so engrossed in ritual and mass slaughter twice a year. Where is the humanism part. Anyways, moving on. Not moving on, moving forward. I was always taught that the people of my third world country didn’t properly follow their religion because they didn’t have the vision or foresight or intelligence to read it. To understand it. Okay, that’s fair. I expect Muslims in a different country to be better. They were not. They were much smarter, yes. But that made them worse, not better Muslims. I went to one of the elite schools in the world. I was privileged. I was lucky. At the start, I would spend all the time I had between classes at the mosque area. It wasn’t a traditional mosque. There was a prayer room. But there was a lounge, that is the area I am talking about. The lounge promoted community. Or so the propaganda claimed. In my very humble, and probably biased opinion, it mass manufactured an army of robots with degrees from one of the most respected colleges in the world. Robots that would go out and do the bidding of their mullah. Whatever it may be.

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It isn’t like a cliche. Cliches exist for a reason. It is a cliche. But sometimes they make sense. Sometimes they’re not outdated and redundant. Sometimes they’re not too overdramatized. The rain was pouring down in droves. The droplets were so loud, he had to turn the volume up by five points to be able to listen to the music in the car. He hadn’t listened to the song that he looked up as he drove, admittedly dangerously, with his eyes on the phone, typing with one hand on his phone, another on the wheel, eyes down, darting up. But not enough. As if there were ever enough.

And this is where the cliche came into play.

It had been at least half a decade since he had heard this song.

When he first listened to it, it had been while he’d been sitting at the krusty sofa in his first dorm, lounging as the night drew ever darker, and got ever older. Across from him, on the other sofa sat his friend. They were talking. His best friend in this new place. The vending machine glowed with the bright light from within as the night made its way over and across the continent.

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They made their harsh sound as they circled above. One dove down. The others left. It wasn’t worth it. The one that flew down was the runt of the litter. Its decision was based on two things. First, food was food. Second, it didn’t have the foresight or the intelligence to see that all food was not the same. Food as small as this was barely a snack. Its eyes were mean and beady. Its head was crooked. It landed atop a stone by the animal. Back hunched. Crooked. Wings folding in on themselves. There was a pool of blood around its head, gleaming crimson in the light of the dying sun. It crooked its head. There were some ants scuttling to and from the animal. The stone it was perched on was cracked but solid. The bird lay long dead. The blood was fresh. So maybe this morning?

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Flushing it with water. Sprinkling of a white powder that almost looked like salt. But it was slightly bigger, thicker, and clumped together. One pinch. It was red and watery. But not bright red. Red that has stayed out in the sun too long and can’t decide whether it wants to be brown or crimson. The steel pincers opened as they dropped what had been extracted from it into a gleaming steel bowl filled with water. The plastic wrapped hands squeezed it again. One more pinch. The liquid inside seemed to seep out. He asked his assistant to shine a light into it. Dozens of glistening white worms. Larvae. Hatched from fly eggs into an open wound. They had made a home. As per the vet, they had made tunnels, and squeezing the wound forced them out. The dog whined and whimpered. With one hand, the vet kept the pressure on the wound. With the other, he used the steel pincers to pull them out.

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It was a chilly morning. He wrapped the towel tighter around him, his arms around his chest. He felt a warmth rising in his chest as he thought of the fireplace downstairs. How they would sit around it for an hour, habitual, as his grandparents watched tv and in between, peppered him and his brother, two years his junior, with questions. He got ready and checked the time on the old clock on the wall. He had fifteen minutes. He turned on the television. He could smell the smoke wafting from the kitchen. Eggs being made for breakfast. And toast. Crispy toast. The runny yolk of the eggs. His mouth watered. It was December. He flicked through the channels, looking for Disney or Nickelodeon or Cartoon Network. They were all adjacent to one another but he couldn’t find any at the moment. “Bachoun, nashta!” His grandmother called up from downstairs. He ran down. His brother was still in the shower.

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“Freak”

Slam.

He glared at them, rubbed his right arm.

“Dummy.”

Slam.

He punched the other kid. By that afternoon, he was nursing a swollen jaw, feeling the two holes in his mouth with his tongue where his teeth had been.

“Ghora. Fatass.”

Slam.

He kept his eyes down low. Demure. His spirit had finally been broken.

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The leaves of the cicada waved gently in the wind. The sun was bright and cheery, the mountain still. The squirrels were napping. They had enough to last them the coming winter. Their impulses urged them to find more. And they would. But right now, they were asleep. It was a drowsy sort of a day. A rock stumbled down through the mountain. A thud as it landed. The sun moved further in the sky. The clouds passed slowly. Hours passed. The silence remained. Squirrels began to wake up. Their soft patter disturbing the peace in this serene view. A shriek pierced the silence. Louder. Heartbreaking. Heart wrenching. Wings flapping. A mighty eagle flying low, impossibly low. Her head frantically looking from side to side. Too low for her kind. Something was off about her. Her right wing was a little lower than the left, as if it were not strong enough to be on the same level. Her caws pierced the sky. Shrieks. The squirrels stood still, and then they began to run. Scrambling. The trees rustled as she flew past them, uncaring whether they grazed her or not. Graze her they did. Droplets of blood falling in her wake. Shriek. The clouds continued lazily dancing in the sky. The sun stood still. Watching. Curious. Shriek. The squirrels chattered loudly. Concerned. Communicating about where she was, and how to avoid her. The owls inside their nests opened their yellow eyes, rolled them, and winced them shut as the shrieks cut through their sleep and peace. A deer grazing in the forest perked up its ears, tilting its head as it tracked the sound of the eagle as it flew by. The wolf tracking it stopped and watched as it flew by. The clouds were calm. The sun was still.

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The nest was littered with straws. Some were golden, reflecting the rays of the sun. A bird teetered on the edge. It looked down, chirped, flapped its wings. It took a step back. A head about the size of the whole body of the bird rose from the nest. It looked at the little baby bird, resting against the big golden ball on the horizon. The wind picked up just a little, the head made to move towards the baby bird, hesitated, and then stopped. Not today.

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It was cool. Refreshing. Tickling every pore, he looked down at his chest to see the strands of hair that grew there, floating above, defying gravity. Though his atmosphere defied gravity by itself. His hands cut through it like butter knives. One after the other. The air was cool, when he rotated his head to his right to breathe, it hit him like a breath of fresh air. There was a trepidation building in his chest. The air was cool and fresh. Cold on his back. It glistened with drops of water like sweat as the sunlight glimmered off of them. The water was salty, burning his nose. His tongue lapped it up. His stomach grumbles. His shoulders moved today. But he felt that tomorrow they would be sore. Like that time he swam two hundred lengths as a birthday present to himself. Cold, glistening. Stinging like painful sores. Salt being poured into them. His eyes, they were open, and they did not burn. He could see all the glistening colors beneath him. The coral. The emerald. The reef stacked, one on top of the other. The fish swimming, unperturbed. Undisturbed. Unafraid of humans swimming above. They should be. This was the last spot left. Soon it would be. And then it would be their turn. He swam on. The sun beat down on him.

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The sun was hot. Beating down, flapping its rays, painful gusts of heat flying around everywhere, sweat in the eyes and brows of those who were caught in its wingspan. The smell of cigarettes and the sound of the television mumbling audibly, and unintelligibly, as anchors and esteemed guests, people at the top of their fields shouted at one another. Drama. Drama. Drama. I tapped on the stained wooden table in front of me. A car stopped, all eyes turned to it. Two girls could be seen through the passenger seat. They didn’t leave the car. Probably for the best. I looked around. He would have made it the worst for them. Staring shamelessly. Cigarette hanging from his mouth, giving the tongue that would have been out at the sight of those girls, giving that muscle a break. His belly pushed the table halfway through. Half of it clumped above his legs, which were thick drumsticks.

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Sweat leaked from the pores on his skin like water flowing out through cupped hands. Each drop was like thunder when it hit the ground. Boom. Echoing across for miles. His hair was matted and hung heavy on his forehead. Eyes twinkling. Expression indiscernible. The smell of salt hung about loosely like too big clothes on a homeless person and sticky wet beads of moisture lined his face. The taste of a hollow emptiness on his tongue, the feel of old and worn down limbs on his feet. Everything falls apart. Each footstep, when he bothered to take them was a creak, the hinges in his feet rusty, unoiled and wearing down faster than paper burning in an inferno.

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The fan swirled. He watched the blades as they spun. It shook a little. He wondered what would happen if it fell. Was it not fixed to the room enough. Of course it wasn’t. Nothing here was a job fully done. Of course it hadn’t been. Why would it. Who would care. None did. If it wasn’t in the self interest of someone, and doing a good job wasn’t because everyone was equally as useless, then they didn’t care. Even if only to save a few seconds, they would leave it. And from day one, the fans would shake as they spun. Just one example. Others were equally as bad. Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war. They would come to pick him up. One day, it would be done and dusted. One day, it would be all there was. Dust. Chaos. Rubble. Silence. Emptiness. None would remain. Life as we know it, would have ceased to exist. Nothing in this pathetic rabble of humanity, sneers and wide grins with hearts made of stone. Eyes coveting thy neighbor's wife.

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Gnawing always. Tiny little worms. Gnawing. Deeper and deeper. Burrowing. The pangs were like a stake through his heart. Guts spilling out into his stomach. The smell of something stale rose in his nostrils. His throat was choking up. His ears felt hot and red. He saw all around him, but it, as in his vision, was dulled. He couldn’t focus. His right eye twitched. A dull throbbing in his head. The taste of his own saliva, furiously trying to replicate itself. He could feel the furrows in his fingers, the furrows that in common parlance were referred to as fingerprints. He lay in bed gazing sightlessly up at the ceiling. He had been here for hours. Each time, it felt the same. The entire time, it felt the same. He was wishing for it to end. The end was not coming. He stared at the off white ceiling. The day had been long. It had started with those feelings. No, even further than that. Breakfast. His daily pizza.

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A dog. Shaded in different shades of pencil. The air conditioner hummed on, it felt as if I had been struck by lightning. I stood still. The tension in the air felt palpable. It was also light, airy. The wooden floor was not registering to my feet. Senses still in disarray. And I remembered.

A memory shook me to my core. I was sitting in that chair where he, the other I, was not sitting. I was working on my desk. Pencil scratching, sometimes furiously, sometimes with caution. Always working. Eraser, every now and then. But for the most part, I was trying to do it carefully enough that I didn’t need the eraser. Arms cupped around the paper, head bending over just enough to let the light in, and to be able to see all the details in depth. Every now and then, I would get up, make the paper stand on the desk, leaning against the wall, and take a few steps back. From the distance, I would be able to see things I might have missed from so far away.

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The room spinning, the chair impossibly here, and there, and there, and there. Each second, it is in a different place, as is the bed. Each second, there are varying intensities of light streaming in through the windows, soft radiance of the dawn sun, enveloping darkness of the night, warm glow of the evening, bright glare of noon. Different degrees of dust. I close my eyes, the feeling remains. It stops. I can tell. The room is not spinning. This is not a seizure. I can tell. I’ve had one of those. With those, you can’t tell you’re seizing. One second, you’re in your chair, the next, you’re wearing a too-loose gown and staring up at characterless white ceilings. Indifferent bulbs. This is not a seizure. My head is fine. It doesn’t hurt. Maybe I’m delusional. A fly buzzes around. I can feel it. I smack my hands around my left ear. The buzzing stops. I bring them to my face, still closed, open my eyes, and then my palms. It is there. I wring my hands. It falls off. I look up. He is staring at me. I am staring at me. It is me. He shakes his head, eyes confused. He is seeing past me. I have a strange feeling in my head. A throbbing in the back of my brain. I am having an out of body experience. That must be it. The senses here are both dulled and oddly specific.

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The grass was soft, a cushion. His neck was being tickled, his chin was being stroked by the breeze. The sun was bright and hung high in the sky. He stared ahead, eyes open comfortably. Not too big, not too small. He kicked off his shoes and sighed in delight, a little shiver as the wind tickled his feet. The sounds of nature whispered to him. The grass as it swayed by his ears. The soft thump thump on the earth as the bunnies hopped around, unafraid, looking for food. That evening, there would be the sizzle of a barbecue, and warmth lights staring out from the windows, unwavering. The sky would be twinkling with stars. The city would glow with lights, like so many unblinking fireflies. And here, from this castle on the hill. Figurative hill. Figurative castle. Though if anything were a modern castle, in a village of castles, this would be it. Beautiful house beside him. His favorite place in the whole world. It allowed him an escape from his home. There was so much love and warmth, things that were not present elsewhere. Things that were not present where he came from. But when he came here, he always felt at home. She laid out the chocolates. There was always junk food stocked up. She always made it feel so warm. Even though the air conditioning was always excessive. Even though the place was so cold.

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“I didn’t say anything when you were seeing that girl.” I looked at him deadpan. Then I smiled. A sneer. “You did. You said plenty.” You called her a whore. You called her a gold digger. How much money do you think you have? We’re comfortable. We’re not filthy rich. The people I met that night were ten times richer than we have ever been or will ever be. You called a random stranger, a girl you’d never met a liar, a gold digger, and a whore. How does that fit in with your humanism. You enjoy letting the whole office know that you give millions away in charity. That’s why you get four different people to donate on your behalf, from your accounts. So that there is a higher likelihood of the whole office knowing about your benevolence. And then you call a random stranger all those nasty things? Is it because you think no one can ever date me for who I am? That no one will love me? That I’m not enough? “I expressed my opinion. I didn’t kick… in our family, someone dated a whore, and married her.

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