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.