Paintings of Scarlet is just a short story I wrote for my English Creative Writing class. Due at midnight, I very stupidly started writing this at about nine pm. I am not boasting or anything. Really. Had I more time to write it, it would have been infinitely better, and infinitely longer. I had much more planned for this story than what I could write. It is pretty naive and immature, and rather vague. You never get to see the action. You don't know anything about this man, Zhora, or his brother Aseem. How was Zhora so trained? Why did the Uncle want all these attacks? What was the purpose? How did he so easily manage to do it and get away with it? How old is he? How old is his brother?
Even I have the same question, and I would like to understand those and answer them, but three hours doesn't leave much space for details or backgrounds. I wish it did.
I know they are in Tajikistan, and should be speaking in Tajik. However, since Google was my only source, I had to make do with Persian. It's not even Persian. I have basically used Urdu and Hindi, and Arabic in some parts.
As for the title, I couldn't think of anything, but in the last line, he looks at his hands, and they're described as paintings of scarlet, and I thought that'd be rather apt, since what he is doing in this entire story is painting, paintings of scarlet. Scarlet, blood, murder, painting, get it?
But, in spite of all that, I hope my story isn't too bad :)
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Paintings of Scarlet - Part 5
“The country, still in mourning from the terrible, terrible playground explosion on 12th April, is now being faced with another tragedy, just a few weeks later. President Griffin was assassinated at 4:03 pm this evening. The circumstances are still completely unknown, though it appears to be linked to the recent murders from the past month. The country lies in mourning, and we must all join together in the trail of this tragedy. We ask every person in this country, and even the world, to devote a few minutes of silence and prayer in mourning for all the lives recently lost by our country...”
Millions of people were in panic. Thousands of candles were burnt. Hundreds of gallons of tears were shed. Yet my heart still lay, tied up in an iron fist. I sat on the bed, staring at the TV. I stared at it, breathing, in and out, in and out. My hands were still, symmetrically placed on my thighs, and my legs lay out flat, limp. I sat, still and limp, breathing evenly. My mind was exploding. My head shook, swinging from side to side, spinning in circles; spinning, so fast, the world was a blur of white and black, a blur of fire and blood, a blur of pain and tears. My mind pounded, hammering at my head to escape, to escape from this fusion of regret and pain and anger. My soul struggled to jump out from my eyes, and I sat there, still and limp.
I blinked my eyes, and travelled back ten minutes.
The phone rang.
“Assalamu Alaikum, Baba,” I said.
“Wa’alaikum Assalum, Zhora,” he said, his voice flecked with amusement and joy. “I am proud of you, son. Oh, I am proud of you.” He chuckled, a deep, throaty voice echoing through his throat.
“Proud? I haven’t found Aseem, Baba! Where is he? I did what you asked me to, and you said I would find him! Where is he? I did everything. I did all this. All these lives, all this bloodshed. I haven’t found Aseem. I haven’t found him! Tell me, what must I do now? How do I find him?”
“Oh, Zhora, there is nothing you can do now. There is nothing you need to do, son,” he spoke, sounding satisfied. “Zhora, you have done what you had to. Are you fine? I hope you didn’t leave any trail behind. Come back now. Your time is up, and you have completed the task.”
“My task was to find my brother,” I said through clenched teeth. “My task was to find him, and bring him home. I haven’t found him, and I will not come home till I do. So you tell me. What do I have to do?”
“Zhora... Come back. We found Aseem. We found him!”
“Wh- wha- wh- what?!? You found him? How? When? How did that happen? Did the Americans send him back? Is he safe? Is he fine? I hope they didn’t hurt him! Uncle! Where is he? How did you find him?” I yelled on the phone, my heart about to burst, frantically pacing the room, from mirror to cupboard, cupboard to mirror.
“Zhora, you silly boy. Hahahahaha. Are you really that naive? Are you really that innocent?” said a strange, frightening voice from Tajikistan.
“What, what do you mean, baba? What are you saying? Where is Aseem?”
“Zhora. Aseem never disappeared. He was never kidnapped, Zhora. I wanted to scare the Americans. I wanted to show them they are not the most powerful country, Zhora. And you are the only one who could have done this, my son. Aseem was never kidnapped. They never took him. But look. Look at them now. They used to be so proud and powerful, and look at them now. They are scared with every step they take. Isn’t it marvellous? Isn’t it just wonderful? And it’s all because of you! People will worship you. You are a hero, Zhora. You are our hero!”
“Uncle, what are you saying? No-no, no. You are lying to me. You haven’t found Aseem. Did they kill him? Are you trying to hide it?” I collapsed into the bed. “Tell me, Uncle! You’re lying! No, no, no! You’re lying. Tell me you are lying, uncle!”
“Of course I am not lying! Are you stupid, boy? You should be happy! You should be proud! Don’t be silly, now. Come back home now. Come back, and we will reward you. You will spend your life at home feeling happy and easy, Zhora. Come back home,” lulled that monstrous man, his voice reeking of satisfaction.
“You disgust me,” I screamed, throwing the phone into the dull, white wall. The phone hit the wall, exploding into bits. Glass, plastic, black bits, exploding like the bodies of those little children. The pieces of the phone fell to the floor, limp and still, like the woman had, as her life flowed out from her, sucked by me.
I sat on the bed, still and limp, as I watched my soul take the silver object of death that said on it, inscribed in beautiful, lyrical Arabic, from the Qur’an, “If ye are slain, or die, in the way of Allah, forgiveness and mercy from Allah are far better than all they could amass.” My soul took that silver blade, and struck it into the stillness and limpness. I got up, and walked slowly to the bathroom, staring at the mirror. The soul followed. It was time for me to face that face – to look into it, to stare at it, to dive and slowly cut into those eyes, those empty eyes. I struck the lightning, excited the thunder, and the rain dropped, deep red and burning, drop by drop. ‘Drip, drip, drip, drip...’
The raindrops fell, flowing from the thunder, meandering to the floor. My hands reached up, slowly crawling like spiders to my stomach. I look at my hands, those paintings of scarlet. Metallic and red. Wet. And the world went dark.
Millions of people were in panic. Thousands of candles were burnt. Hundreds of gallons of tears were shed. Yet my heart still lay, tied up in an iron fist. I sat on the bed, staring at the TV. I stared at it, breathing, in and out, in and out. My hands were still, symmetrically placed on my thighs, and my legs lay out flat, limp. I sat, still and limp, breathing evenly. My mind was exploding. My head shook, swinging from side to side, spinning in circles; spinning, so fast, the world was a blur of white and black, a blur of fire and blood, a blur of pain and tears. My mind pounded, hammering at my head to escape, to escape from this fusion of regret and pain and anger. My soul struggled to jump out from my eyes, and I sat there, still and limp.
I blinked my eyes, and travelled back ten minutes.
The phone rang.
“Assalamu Alaikum, Baba,” I said.
“Wa’alaikum Assalum, Zhora,” he said, his voice flecked with amusement and joy. “I am proud of you, son. Oh, I am proud of you.” He chuckled, a deep, throaty voice echoing through his throat.
“Proud? I haven’t found Aseem, Baba! Where is he? I did what you asked me to, and you said I would find him! Where is he? I did everything. I did all this. All these lives, all this bloodshed. I haven’t found Aseem. I haven’t found him! Tell me, what must I do now? How do I find him?”
“Oh, Zhora, there is nothing you can do now. There is nothing you need to do, son,” he spoke, sounding satisfied. “Zhora, you have done what you had to. Are you fine? I hope you didn’t leave any trail behind. Come back now. Your time is up, and you have completed the task.”
“My task was to find my brother,” I said through clenched teeth. “My task was to find him, and bring him home. I haven’t found him, and I will not come home till I do. So you tell me. What do I have to do?”
“Zhora... Come back. We found Aseem. We found him!”
“Wh- wha- wh- what?!? You found him? How? When? How did that happen? Did the Americans send him back? Is he safe? Is he fine? I hope they didn’t hurt him! Uncle! Where is he? How did you find him?” I yelled on the phone, my heart about to burst, frantically pacing the room, from mirror to cupboard, cupboard to mirror.
“Zhora, you silly boy. Hahahahaha. Are you really that naive? Are you really that innocent?” said a strange, frightening voice from Tajikistan.
“What, what do you mean, baba? What are you saying? Where is Aseem?”
“Zhora. Aseem never disappeared. He was never kidnapped, Zhora. I wanted to scare the Americans. I wanted to show them they are not the most powerful country, Zhora. And you are the only one who could have done this, my son. Aseem was never kidnapped. They never took him. But look. Look at them now. They used to be so proud and powerful, and look at them now. They are scared with every step they take. Isn’t it marvellous? Isn’t it just wonderful? And it’s all because of you! People will worship you. You are a hero, Zhora. You are our hero!”
“Uncle, what are you saying? No-no, no. You are lying to me. You haven’t found Aseem. Did they kill him? Are you trying to hide it?” I collapsed into the bed. “Tell me, Uncle! You’re lying! No, no, no! You’re lying. Tell me you are lying, uncle!”
“Of course I am not lying! Are you stupid, boy? You should be happy! You should be proud! Don’t be silly, now. Come back home now. Come back, and we will reward you. You will spend your life at home feeling happy and easy, Zhora. Come back home,” lulled that monstrous man, his voice reeking of satisfaction.
“You disgust me,” I screamed, throwing the phone into the dull, white wall. The phone hit the wall, exploding into bits. Glass, plastic, black bits, exploding like the bodies of those little children. The pieces of the phone fell to the floor, limp and still, like the woman had, as her life flowed out from her, sucked by me.
I sat on the bed, still and limp, as I watched my soul take the silver object of death that said on it, inscribed in beautiful, lyrical Arabic, from the Qur’an, “If ye are slain, or die, in the way of Allah, forgiveness and mercy from Allah are far better than all they could amass.” My soul took that silver blade, and struck it into the stillness and limpness. I got up, and walked slowly to the bathroom, staring at the mirror. The soul followed. It was time for me to face that face – to look into it, to stare at it, to dive and slowly cut into those eyes, those empty eyes. I struck the lightning, excited the thunder, and the rain dropped, deep red and burning, drop by drop. ‘Drip, drip, drip, drip...’
The raindrops fell, flowing from the thunder, meandering to the floor. My hands reached up, slowly crawling like spiders to my stomach. I look at my hands, those paintings of scarlet. Metallic and red. Wet. And the world went dark.
Paintings of Scarlet - Part 4
“It’s done, uncle,” I said, my voice shaking uncontrollably. “It’s done. Those men stole my brother and all the other men, and I have avenged their deaths. It is done, Uncle. They killed our children, and we killed theirs. How will I find my little brother now? Where is Aseem? How does this help me?”
“There is just one last thing you must do, Zhora, and one last person you must meet. He will know where Aseem is. We needed to scare these men, Zhora, if we wanted to know anything. You must meet this last man, and you will find your brother...”
I listened to him, as he gave me details of what I must do next. The horror of the playground still played in my head, like a reluctant song, the same part playing over and over in my head. I saw the little child hitting my knee, blowing up into tiny pieces of flesh and fire.
Times when I felt this way, I would go back to this same day, forty-three days ago, as I sat with my mother in my home in Isfara, holding her hand as she sobbed.
“Where is he? Where is my son?” her body shook in waves of tears. “Where is he, Zhora? Find him. Aseem! Where are you? What did they do to you?”
“Amma, Amma, don’t cry,” I tried to console her, fighting back my own tears. “I’ll find him, I promise. I’ll do whatever I have to.”
“Please find him Zhora, or I’ll die. My bacha, what’ll I do without him? My poor Aseem.”
It was only a day after this incident that my uncle came to my house. He paid his condolences to my mother, reassuring her that Aseem would be found, and spoke to me alone.
“Zhora, my men know who took Aseem away,” he said, speaking in a low, confidential tone. “It was those Americans, those bloody men. They had been snooping around the office a few days ago, claiming that some secret information had been leaked in your brothers’ office. They were asking me about him, and that was the day he disappeared. It’s those Americans who took him away.”
I listened to him, absorbing every word coming out of his mouth, my mind slowly flooding with anger and rage.
“You, Zhora, you are the only man who can bring him back. With your training, and your physical abilities, and your capacity to control your emotions, you are the only one who can bring him back, Zhora. Do it. Do it for your mother,” he said.
“Of course I will! How can you even doubt me? Tell me what I have to do,” I had told him, bravely.
I travelled back from these memories, listening as Baba told me the plan. Anger and excitement raged through my veins, electrifying me, shocking me with the thought of saving my brother. These months of living like a chameleon in the United States, of acting like a serial killer, shedding blood and tears, here was the prize. I listened to his voice, soaking in his words like a cotton soaking kerosene, ready to flame at any time.
“There is just one last thing you must do, Zhora, and one last person you must meet. He will know where Aseem is. We needed to scare these men, Zhora, if we wanted to know anything. You must meet this last man, and you will find your brother...”
I listened to him, as he gave me details of what I must do next. The horror of the playground still played in my head, like a reluctant song, the same part playing over and over in my head. I saw the little child hitting my knee, blowing up into tiny pieces of flesh and fire.
Times when I felt this way, I would go back to this same day, forty-three days ago, as I sat with my mother in my home in Isfara, holding her hand as she sobbed.
“Where is he? Where is my son?” her body shook in waves of tears. “Where is he, Zhora? Find him. Aseem! Where are you? What did they do to you?”
“Amma, Amma, don’t cry,” I tried to console her, fighting back my own tears. “I’ll find him, I promise. I’ll do whatever I have to.”
“Please find him Zhora, or I’ll die. My bacha, what’ll I do without him? My poor Aseem.”
It was only a day after this incident that my uncle came to my house. He paid his condolences to my mother, reassuring her that Aseem would be found, and spoke to me alone.
“Zhora, my men know who took Aseem away,” he said, speaking in a low, confidential tone. “It was those Americans, those bloody men. They had been snooping around the office a few days ago, claiming that some secret information had been leaked in your brothers’ office. They were asking me about him, and that was the day he disappeared. It’s those Americans who took him away.”
I listened to him, absorbing every word coming out of his mouth, my mind slowly flooding with anger and rage.
“You, Zhora, you are the only man who can bring him back. With your training, and your physical abilities, and your capacity to control your emotions, you are the only one who can bring him back, Zhora. Do it. Do it for your mother,” he said.
“Of course I will! How can you even doubt me? Tell me what I have to do,” I had told him, bravely.
I travelled back from these memories, listening as Baba told me the plan. Anger and excitement raged through my veins, electrifying me, shocking me with the thought of saving my brother. These months of living like a chameleon in the United States, of acting like a serial killer, shedding blood and tears, here was the prize. I listened to his voice, soaking in his words like a cotton soaking kerosene, ready to flame at any time.
Paintings of Scarlet - Part 3
Little chubby fingers grabbed cold, thin rails. Little chubby fingers, with little chubby feet and chubby arms and legs, bouncing and running around, laughing and crying. The sun smiled down at these little beings, so happy and lost in their own pretty, cheerful heads. The children played – some on see-saws, some on the slides; some swung from the sky to the ground, while some spun themselves round into fits of delirium, till they crashed laughing to the ground. It was a masquerade of green and pink and yellow and blue and red and orange; feet and toes and fingers and noses and hair and snot and tears and teeth, all glaring at the world, daring it to ruin this place of happiness, mocking its failure to do so.
I smiled at the boy as he hit my knee with his tiny fist. The sun illuminated the golden locks on his head, radiating off his beautiful round cheeks. He scowled at me, standing with his red-clad arms crossed, angry at me for not playing with him. I looked at him, at this perfectly oblivious little person, my insides slowly dissolving into light, fluttery powder.
“Go away,” I suddenly said to him, urgently. “Go! Run away. Far from here. Run away and don’t turn back!” I urgently pushed him away, my heart pounding in my mouth, my hair sticking to my back. He burst into tears, and I collapsed. I collapsed, worn down and dead, and I ran. I had to run, away from that place, away from that happiness. I slowly walked, one step after another, right foot, left foot. My eyes closed themselves, and I took a deep breath, silently counting in my head. I stopped and looked at those little chubby fingers, once again. My breath stopped and a devil smiled on my lips, and I turned away and walked. “Tick, tick, tick...” went the clock in my head.
Hundreds of little fingers flew into the air. There it was. Hundreds of little fingers, lost in that great, breathing mass of red and orange and yellow. It spread, eating everything, destroying everything in its way. It screamed and exploded, spreading its wrath and fury to those little beings.
Fire. Red, hot fire. Burning. Burning their skin, burning their hearts, their brains; like a tsunami, washing everything away, cleaning everything, burning everything, eating everything. The burning, hot, red fire.
It lumped at my throat, collected at my eyes, forming hot, shooting balls of fury in my own throat. Tears dripped, burning my skin, burning my eyes, hot and red, as I looked at the little object burning and destroying all these little lives. One little bomb, and so much red, hot, burning fire, taking so many innocent, happy little lives.
I watched, and it seared through my ribs, piercing my skin, that sharp, sharp pain. It collected at my throat, as I gasped. The screams, the shrill words of shock, of pain, as little children and their parents cried for help.
And then I thought of my brother – being tortured, being taken hostage for no reason; not alone, but with eleven more little brothers and sons of other people, who were all killed, but my brother. I thought of them, and I looked at this, and there was coolness. Like cool, calm water, running over me, over my skin; easing my soul, easing the pain, calming everything; solemn, cold, smooth water. It ran over my neck, flowing, soothing, cold water, cleaning away my sorrow, wiping away my guilt. I breathed, and turned away.
I smiled at the boy as he hit my knee with his tiny fist. The sun illuminated the golden locks on his head, radiating off his beautiful round cheeks. He scowled at me, standing with his red-clad arms crossed, angry at me for not playing with him. I looked at him, at this perfectly oblivious little person, my insides slowly dissolving into light, fluttery powder.
“Go away,” I suddenly said to him, urgently. “Go! Run away. Far from here. Run away and don’t turn back!” I urgently pushed him away, my heart pounding in my mouth, my hair sticking to my back. He burst into tears, and I collapsed. I collapsed, worn down and dead, and I ran. I had to run, away from that place, away from that happiness. I slowly walked, one step after another, right foot, left foot. My eyes closed themselves, and I took a deep breath, silently counting in my head. I stopped and looked at those little chubby fingers, once again. My breath stopped and a devil smiled on my lips, and I turned away and walked. “Tick, tick, tick...” went the clock in my head.
Hundreds of little fingers flew into the air. There it was. Hundreds of little fingers, lost in that great, breathing mass of red and orange and yellow. It spread, eating everything, destroying everything in its way. It screamed and exploded, spreading its wrath and fury to those little beings.
Fire. Red, hot fire. Burning. Burning their skin, burning their hearts, their brains; like a tsunami, washing everything away, cleaning everything, burning everything, eating everything. The burning, hot, red fire.
It lumped at my throat, collected at my eyes, forming hot, shooting balls of fury in my own throat. Tears dripped, burning my skin, burning my eyes, hot and red, as I looked at the little object burning and destroying all these little lives. One little bomb, and so much red, hot, burning fire, taking so many innocent, happy little lives.
I watched, and it seared through my ribs, piercing my skin, that sharp, sharp pain. It collected at my throat, as I gasped. The screams, the shrill words of shock, of pain, as little children and their parents cried for help.
And then I thought of my brother – being tortured, being taken hostage for no reason; not alone, but with eleven more little brothers and sons of other people, who were all killed, but my brother. I thought of them, and I looked at this, and there was coolness. Like cool, calm water, running over me, over my skin; easing my soul, easing the pain, calming everything; solemn, cold, smooth water. It ran over my neck, flowing, soothing, cold water, cleaning away my sorrow, wiping away my guilt. I breathed, and turned away.
Paintings of Scarlet - Part 2
“We have just received a report from our reporter in D.C., Ms. Miranda Schwinsky, about the situation that has just occurred two hours ago. Ms. Miranda Shwinsky, live from D.C.”
“I am standing here at General Snyder’s house, where we have received news of Mrs. Snyder’s death. While the General refuses to speak of the matter, it is rumoured that Mrs. Charlotte Snyder’s body was found outside the house, at 7:15 pm. The guards spotted a black, unmarked sedan without a license plate just minutes before the body was discovered. Her body was found with a note stuck on her forehead saying, “You will repent, America. You will regret it.” It is reported as a case of kidnapping and homicide, and the police are investigating in the matter and will reveal information once they have received any evidence. The identity of the murderer is still unknown. This is the third reported murder of this week, after Senator Monroe and Minister Wolfe’s loved ones passing away, and the country is in mourning. This is Miranda Schwinsky, reporting live from Star News...”
I turned off the TV. This news did not interest me. People were murdered every day. Today, it was the General’s wife. Tomorrow, it might be the President’s wife. As long as it wasn’t the General or President themselves, none of it mattered.
I walked to the bathroom. It was as most motel bathrooms are – clean, bare, stocked with cheap soap and flimsy toilet paper. I took off my shoes, mortified suddenly by the stench emanating from them. They were new shoes, still squeaky and stiff. I held them in the tub, pouring water on them, watching as streams of yellow and red and brown flowed from them. I should be more careful next time; cleaner, more precise. Her blood was splattered all over me, caked on my protective shell, like miserable remnants of a job poorly done.
I stared at that man; the man with short, crisp black hair and yesterday’s stubble. I looked into his eyes; piercing black eyes that would look straight through your eyes, to your brain, and into your soul. The man looked straight into my soul, through the blood covered clothes, the flexible, trained body, as if he understood me and my reasons. The mirror seemed to tremble with the intensity of my glare, and was just about to burst when the phone rang.
“Salaam,” I said to the phone, standing still.
“Salaam, Zhora. I saw the news today,” said the man on the other side of the wires, in another continent. “Was it of any use?”
“Nahi, Baba. She didn’t know anything. Her life was lost in vain. We must be more careful now, since they will be on alert now,” I said.
“You know what you must do next, Zhora. Tell me when you are ready. Khuda Hafiz,” said the deep voice on the other end, hanging up abruptly.
“Yes, uncle,” I whispered into the dial tone. “I know what I must do next.”
A sick feeling was slowly spreading into my stomach, with the constant beep of the dial tone. I could hear a clock ticking, and it felt like I stood there for ages, phone still held to my ear, sickness spreading in my stomach. It spread like a hurricane, twisting and destructive, destroying anything that came in its path. Me, I was the hurricane.
But then I remembered; I remembered why I was here, why I must do what I had to do. I thought of my brother, laughing as Amma scolded him for not eating lunch. I shot back through time, to the little yellow kitchen in my house in Tajikistan; to the fading, mustard walls, the big steel glasses, covered with dents and scratches, with a matching set of dented silver bowls and the huge, bent thalis, laid out on an old, beautiful rug embroidered by my mother. I remembered her sweet voice calling my brother and me to have hot, delicious kehwa that we greedily drank, sighing with pleasure as we felt it making its meandering way down our throats, into our bellies. That sweet tea, made with so much happiness, was something my brother always missed and wrote to me about when he went away to work for his secret government job. The last letter I received from him was a small world of nostalgia, filled with tears and smiles. My little brother. Aseem.
I thought of him, of the Americans taking him away, and the hurricane in my stomach stopped. It stopped, slowly changing to flaming balls of fury, balls of anger. Yes, I would do what I had to do. Yes, it was the right thing to do and they deserved it.
“I am standing here at General Snyder’s house, where we have received news of Mrs. Snyder’s death. While the General refuses to speak of the matter, it is rumoured that Mrs. Charlotte Snyder’s body was found outside the house, at 7:15 pm. The guards spotted a black, unmarked sedan without a license plate just minutes before the body was discovered. Her body was found with a note stuck on her forehead saying, “You will repent, America. You will regret it.” It is reported as a case of kidnapping and homicide, and the police are investigating in the matter and will reveal information once they have received any evidence. The identity of the murderer is still unknown. This is the third reported murder of this week, after Senator Monroe and Minister Wolfe’s loved ones passing away, and the country is in mourning. This is Miranda Schwinsky, reporting live from Star News...”
I turned off the TV. This news did not interest me. People were murdered every day. Today, it was the General’s wife. Tomorrow, it might be the President’s wife. As long as it wasn’t the General or President themselves, none of it mattered.
I walked to the bathroom. It was as most motel bathrooms are – clean, bare, stocked with cheap soap and flimsy toilet paper. I took off my shoes, mortified suddenly by the stench emanating from them. They were new shoes, still squeaky and stiff. I held them in the tub, pouring water on them, watching as streams of yellow and red and brown flowed from them. I should be more careful next time; cleaner, more precise. Her blood was splattered all over me, caked on my protective shell, like miserable remnants of a job poorly done.
I stared at that man; the man with short, crisp black hair and yesterday’s stubble. I looked into his eyes; piercing black eyes that would look straight through your eyes, to your brain, and into your soul. The man looked straight into my soul, through the blood covered clothes, the flexible, trained body, as if he understood me and my reasons. The mirror seemed to tremble with the intensity of my glare, and was just about to burst when the phone rang.
“Salaam,” I said to the phone, standing still.
“Salaam, Zhora. I saw the news today,” said the man on the other side of the wires, in another continent. “Was it of any use?”
“Nahi, Baba. She didn’t know anything. Her life was lost in vain. We must be more careful now, since they will be on alert now,” I said.
“You know what you must do next, Zhora. Tell me when you are ready. Khuda Hafiz,” said the deep voice on the other end, hanging up abruptly.
“Yes, uncle,” I whispered into the dial tone. “I know what I must do next.”
A sick feeling was slowly spreading into my stomach, with the constant beep of the dial tone. I could hear a clock ticking, and it felt like I stood there for ages, phone still held to my ear, sickness spreading in my stomach. It spread like a hurricane, twisting and destructive, destroying anything that came in its path. Me, I was the hurricane.
But then I remembered; I remembered why I was here, why I must do what I had to do. I thought of my brother, laughing as Amma scolded him for not eating lunch. I shot back through time, to the little yellow kitchen in my house in Tajikistan; to the fading, mustard walls, the big steel glasses, covered with dents and scratches, with a matching set of dented silver bowls and the huge, bent thalis, laid out on an old, beautiful rug embroidered by my mother. I remembered her sweet voice calling my brother and me to have hot, delicious kehwa that we greedily drank, sighing with pleasure as we felt it making its meandering way down our throats, into our bellies. That sweet tea, made with so much happiness, was something my brother always missed and wrote to me about when he went away to work for his secret government job. The last letter I received from him was a small world of nostalgia, filled with tears and smiles. My little brother. Aseem.
I thought of him, of the Americans taking him away, and the hurricane in my stomach stopped. It stopped, slowly changing to flaming balls of fury, balls of anger. Yes, I would do what I had to do. Yes, it was the right thing to do and they deserved it.
Paintings of Scarlet - Part 1
“Yes,” the wall seemed to say, staring straight at him with dull, white eyes, tears spilling at its sides. He sighed and turned away, looking at the shivering mass in front of him. She writhed, her eyes pouring out rivers of horror, her hands tugging desperately at the red scarf her husband had gifted her, trying to wriggle her hands out. Sweat poured from her, making her hair stick to her face like wet, slimy worms.
“Please, I don’t know anything. I don’t know anything. No, I swear,” she cried, yelping the words out like a hurt puppy. “Leave me alone, I won’t tell anyone. Just please... please leave me. Please. Let me go, let me go!”
She screamed, desperately trying to move, to free herself. A pool dripped from between her legs, eroding the air with its putrid, yellow odour; flowing, a murky stream of fear.
“Now, don’t lie to me. He’s your husband. I’m sure he tells you all his dirty little secrets,” he slowly whispered to her. “So tell me. Where is he? Tell me, and I’ll let you go. Simple as that.”
The clock spoke, ‘tick, tick, tick, tick, tick’ flowing in rhythm with the dripping of her pee as it formed a filthy, yellow pool beneath the chair. He looked at her through those slits around his eyes, tracing her up from her naked legs dipped in golden, stunningly high shoes, travelling up to her short black dress designed to attract young men. Her hair flew wildly about her head, struggling to be freed like its master, a few strands sticking to her wet, agonised face.
“I don’t know, I don’t know,” snot flowed over her face, and she moaned.
“Well, I don’t need you then,” he whispered, reaching for his pocket. He slowly pulled out a bold, silver object from his pocket. It was plain, but for a small inscription in a foreign language, written with strange symbols, carved into the smoothness of the silver. His hands were steady as he slowly pulled out the thin, shiny strip of death. Sharp, loud frenzy pierced through the room, her screams cutting through the air at the sight of that sharp piece of metal. His arms moved swiftly, making precise cuts with the carelessness of one who is skilled in the art. Rivers of scarlet flowed from her limp body, following his path as he walked out of the room.
“Please, I don’t know anything. I don’t know anything. No, I swear,” she cried, yelping the words out like a hurt puppy. “Leave me alone, I won’t tell anyone. Just please... please leave me. Please. Let me go, let me go!”
She screamed, desperately trying to move, to free herself. A pool dripped from between her legs, eroding the air with its putrid, yellow odour; flowing, a murky stream of fear.
“Now, don’t lie to me. He’s your husband. I’m sure he tells you all his dirty little secrets,” he slowly whispered to her. “So tell me. Where is he? Tell me, and I’ll let you go. Simple as that.”
The clock spoke, ‘tick, tick, tick, tick, tick’ flowing in rhythm with the dripping of her pee as it formed a filthy, yellow pool beneath the chair. He looked at her through those slits around his eyes, tracing her up from her naked legs dipped in golden, stunningly high shoes, travelling up to her short black dress designed to attract young men. Her hair flew wildly about her head, struggling to be freed like its master, a few strands sticking to her wet, agonised face.
“I don’t know, I don’t know,” snot flowed over her face, and she moaned.
“Well, I don’t need you then,” he whispered, reaching for his pocket. He slowly pulled out a bold, silver object from his pocket. It was plain, but for a small inscription in a foreign language, written with strange symbols, carved into the smoothness of the silver. His hands were steady as he slowly pulled out the thin, shiny strip of death. Sharp, loud frenzy pierced through the room, her screams cutting through the air at the sight of that sharp piece of metal. His arms moved swiftly, making precise cuts with the carelessness of one who is skilled in the art. Rivers of scarlet flowed from her limp body, following his path as he walked out of the room.
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