Apocalyptic measures, Pt. 1
“I’m afraid I’ve run out of ideas,” she said, baffling her head into the notebook, then engrossing her hair into the pages, slowly rubbing her head into them. She continued, “maybe stories were a phase for me, maybe… I’m not supposed to be writing stories anymore.” Nobody spoke back, as she was alone, devouring her mind to come up with a piece to write. “This is the longest Writer’s Block I’ve had.” Just as she was about to give up, lights went out and darkness caved in.
Waiting didn’t seem to solve the problem, the ticking clock became louder and louder. Creepy, one would think — the emptiness wasn’t used to such darkness. “Where’s that phone when you need it?!” she spoke nervously while looking around for her cellphone, as the darkness was becoming darker and darker, and the only thing helping the situation could be her missing cellphone right now. It was the only thing with a flashlight that she could think of. “I wonder if the whole block is out of power, this is unacceptable,” she said as she walked towards the window and realized, only her house — a 2-bedroom, ground-level house, on the outskirts of Jerusalem — was dark.
In the dark, as she stood in the window staring into the dirt road in front of her entrance door, there was a man walking slowly. She focused on his walk, something was odd. He was too slow. And looked almost like a modified recording, playing at x0.75 speed. It wasn’t much to consider, just a man walking slowly, eh?
Finally, a brisk of hope popped (phone ringing), “Hello?” she said as she picked up, the caller replied, “Hi Shereen, how are you? It’s me, Ibrahim.” She froze, “Ibrahim? Is it really you? What’s up? Tell me everything.” Ibrahim unsubtly replied, “what do you think should be up sis, huh? I am stuck in this shit-hole again. I had promised myself to not call you again. But here I am, I need clearance to pass the border, and don’t get flattered because I’m asking for your help, and don’t get your hopes up I always call to say ‘salam’ anyways.”
Shereen, eyes full of tears, smiling, “okay azize min, I will see what I can do. Where are you exactly?” she continued, “you know I can only help if you’re on the Syrian border.”
Ibrahim, furious with anguish, didn’t like how it was going at all, he was much more used to everything going smoothly — regardless of how he treated people, he always expected good deeds in return. For his pride was much bigger than anything, after all, his pride was his most precious possession. Without pride, he was only a spoiled man. Replying to Shereen, “what about your Palestinian boyfriend, can’t he jump in when we need him?! What is he even good for? Che Guevara too busy scratching his ass now, I bet.”
Shereen, still patient, replied, “he is not my boyfriend, I work for him. Please just tell me where you are, please. It’s been too long, I’m worried sick about you!”
Things hadn’t been so great for Shereen’s family since she left Syria; her parents were martyred and Ibrahim was active since youth in civil wars, all around the heart of the Middle East. Quite a few times, he was held in captivity by governments, for suspicion of terrorism and ISIS affiliation. However, he was merely a very disturbed mind, very bright but also very disturbed. Luckily for Shereen, things were much easier. By the time she lost everyone in her family, she was already a graduated reporter and was on a job in Jordan, then Palestine — where she currently is.
Finally, Ibrahim sighed and said, “I killed a man, sis.” There was an abrupt silence until he spoke again, “I don’t regret it. Fuck this being, Shereen. I envy your spot, please save me from myself!”
Shereen, reluctant and panicking, “WHAT?! Who did you kill???!! What have you done this time, Ibrahim?!” she said as she burst into crying and yelling. She continued yelling into the phone, “tell me why you did it?? Tell me where you are!!”
Ibrahim hung up the call and laid down on the rooftop of a house in Al-Hol, a house belonging to a friend he used to call Abdo. He stargazed and ran his hand over his empty stomach, and said to himself, “argh, this is your end Ibrahim, this time you’re done.”
Shereen, living the good life, unlike her family that had met an unfortunate fate, was often filled with guilt and paranoia. Although she lived quietly and preserved her life by doing what she was told to do, sometimes death seemed more interesting than her life, which was like a still barge in an ocean of depression and boredom. So, she spent most of her time writing sad unfortunate tales of characters often inspired by her previous life in Syria.
When Ibrahim left the call, she was left in the dark, alone again, but this time she was left more paranoid and intensively crying. She turned on her cellphone’s flashlight and moved into the window. She noticed the man walking around the block, but now at a normal pace. “Strange,” she thought to herself, as her curiosity grew. “What is this man doing here? And can it be connected to the reason why I don’t have power in my house?” She thought and dialed her boss — Ibrahim previously nicknamed Che Guevara. “Hello, Mustafa, can you please come over?” She said on the phone.
