Issue #2 of the Lighthouse Chronicles series titled As I Burn Babylon, takes a deep look at culture, religion and the many victims who have found themselves suffocating underneath the weight of a forced doctrine, myself being one of them. Illustrated by the talented Laourde, the poetry I have written over the last 16 years chronicles my own journey as an LGBTQ+ person who has been faced with church camps, exorcisms, conversion therapy and more, all at the hands of those who preach a scripture that bellows of love and acceptance.

I have made a mini comic zine as a teaser for the official second issue, the first issue being Love By Lamplight. The mini comic zine showcases one of the 4 poems you’ll find in the full comic book that will be available for purchase in November. Additionally, the mini comic zine includes a behind the scenes manifesto-type explosion of words that shed light into the inspiration for the poem and the title of the comic book.

To get your hands on the mini comic zine, come hang out with me at Drawn To Comics on 10/5/24 at 11AM - 4PM or message me on my IG @thelighthousemonocle.

Drawn to Comics: 5801 W. Glendale Ave, Glendale, AZ, 85301

Scan the QR code for more info on my other projects and IG page.

There was a time that I needed you, right by my side.

There was a time I felt alone, when you weren’t with me at night.

There was a time I had respect for you as the half that gave me life.

This is now the time that I look down on you, shamed of what you’ve done.

Today, I feel embarrassed of what you have become.

You created the monster that you see when you look into your eyes.

The monster that resembles you from the inside.

The day you tried to take me as you would a bride.

That horrid day you showed me the piece of you that died.

Remember what you did? How you tried to split my soul?

The disrespect, the insolence of the man I did not know.

How you tried to gain my trust and strip it all the same.

The arrogance, you narcissist, you never feel the shame.

You put it in your mind that I’m the one to blame.

But understand me when I tell you, I always walk with pride.

I have done nothing wrong; I have no need to hide.

I have been blessed from birth with the will to fight.

I walk amongst the lions, in this land that I adore.

Watch your steps around me, lest you feel me roar.

I am the reason you still breathe, the reason that you soar.

I’ve learned from your mistakes and how you’re rotten to the core.

Remember when you leave this place, the world you called your home,

recall the reasons that you lay to your death alone.

Remember how you killed the people that you once known

and burnt the bridges that we walked, so you could have your throne.

Subscribe now

To experience my poetry come to life, consider becoming a paid subscriber where you'll gain access to my Comic Poetry series. Artists around the world have helped breathe life into my poetry with fascinating art and color.

Additionally, I provide notes on some poem that go deep between the lines and provides information to the reader about the experiences and emotions of each piece.

*The first comic poetry book in this series is now available in print. Visit the Store tab on the main page to purchase a copy of LOVE BY LAMPLIGHT.

Chapter 5

The clock ticked on the wall, its hands drawing close to 11. The city got brighter with neon lights, the clubs and bars noisier, but the suburbs turned quiet and dark, and the narrow alleys - more dangerous.

Munir sat on the sofa, bouncing her leg up and down as she watched Cam and Chaz walk inside, returning from work.

Share Musings of a Young Contrarian

Lia walked out of her bedroom, putting her hair up and searching for her glasses with narrow, sleepy eyes. The night robe slid from her shoulder, revealing her silky, ivory-white skin. Munir leaned in, taking her glasses from the corner of the couch and handing it to Lia.

“Thanks,” she smiled and flopped next to her.

“You took a nap?” Munir asked, her voice overdrawn by Chaz and Cam chatting.

“A long nap,” Lia chuckled shyly and sipped water from a tall glass.

Finally taking their jackets off, Cam and Chaz entered the living room and joined the two on the couch. Cam opened the take-out Thai food and put the paper boxes on the table. Chaz quickly grabbed the chopsticks and opened one of the boxes, slurping the noodles.

“We found out about Chaz’s new coworker, Angel,” said Cam and popped a bottle of beer. “She is the one who stole from Mr. Shilo.”

“I recognized her tattoo,” Chaz said with her cheeks full.

“And I followed the van I texted you about,” Lia said and took one of the beer bottles. “It went to Chinatown to some weird black building. A man with two guards took the items and paid those traitors.”

Munir looked at her with her eyes wide, surprised to see Lia so calm as though they talked about their skincare routine.

“What?” Lia asked as she felt Munir’s eyes drilling her face.

“Why did you go all alone? You know how dangerous it is!” Munir let out an unhidden shock.

“What could I do? It was the right thing to do at that time,” Lia shrugged.

“We would not have that information now,” Chaz added quietly as if scared of angering Munir.

Lia sighed. “Sorry, I know it was dangerous.”

Munir shook her head from disappointment but at the same time, she felt thankful to Lia.

“How are we going to find out who that man was?” Asked Chaz.

She stood up, pulling out her phone. The women who had begun eating looked up at her with wide eyes.

“I know a woman in Chinatown,” she said and began searching through her contact list. “She’s a chef in one of the restaurants.”

Cam shared a surprised look with her friends though this expression was mixed with acceptance as if they expected to hear something similar.

To distance herself from her friends’ curious gazes and the intense scent of fried noodles, Munir walked into her bedroom, closing the door. Lights coming from outside scattered the darkness.

“Yes?” The woman’s strict voice answered.

“J, it’s me, Munir,” said Munir with a smile.

“Oh, how are you?” The woman’s voice turned welcoming and Munir soon heard the noisy restaurant kitchen sounds halting. J seemed to lock herself in another room too.

“Fine, thanks. I’m calling to ask you something.”

“What is it?”

“Do you know a three-story black building in Chinatown and a short chubby man with two guards?”

J was silent before she breathed deeply.

“Why are you asking?” J asked Munir without giving an answer.

“There’s some weird stuff going on and I think he may be the link to it all, I would rather not involve you more than I need to.”

“I shouldn’t be telling you this, but… they call him Kin.”

“What does he do?”

“Sells drugs. He is looking to expand his empire and is using robberies and black market goods as capital.”

Munir nodded.

“I see; thanks, J.”

As she walked back to the living room, the women had finished eating. Only her box lay untouched.

Telling them the new information, Munir flopped on the couch and grabbed the fork.

Cam watched her as if watching a rare animal coming out of its lair.

“How do you know so many informants?”

Munir shrugged, putting the bite in her mouth. The grease stuck to her tongue.

“Working in the food and wine business, you meet many people,” she said. “I just have a habit of keeping every contact and also good memory to remember the right people.”

Chaz smiled as though listening to a professor in her first lecture.

Cam sat quiet, her eyes following Munir’s movements, her lips, fingers, and hands as the memories began floating back.

**

The police station was loud and stuffy. Cam had just finished her workday and was going home. Walking out in the corridor, she put her bag over her shoulder, walking through the usual noise she was already used to, not paying attention to the different voices and the stomping of feet.

But her attention was drawn by two women arguing with a police officer. He stood shaking his hands while they kept on asking.

“We know his address,” the dark-haired woman demanded. “You just need to follow us, and every evidence is there.”

“We will look into it,” the officer said monotonously.

“You keep saying that and don’t take action,” the red-haired one almost yelled.

Their pleading faces made Cam stare, and she couldn’t look away. She could feel their anger spreading onto her.

Suddenly the brunette’s eyes met hers, and she shoved the policeman away, hurrying to Cam.

“Please, help us,” Munir said and grabbed Cam’s hands. “You are a woman, I know you understand how important it is to arrest a man who assaults women. Doesn’t matter how many or in what way; he does it with one woman, and it’s enough to arrest him. You don’t need proof to believe the victim. The proof is there in her eyes, on her tainted body, in her words. Police keep asking questions on and on when there are no questions, just one fact that is enough to do what’s right. If this man is not arrested now and punished for what he did, he will continue assaulting women and doing it as if it’s his right.”

Cam had gazed into Munir’s eyes, and she couldn’t help but agree. That’s when their story began. Their friendship and their legion.

Cam had followed Munir and Lia to the address and arrested the man. Munir had been right- his culpability was obvious right away.

Chapter 6                                                    

The afternoon was noisy, the usual din of Chinatown rising to the sky and reaching every corner.

Sitting in her car parked behind the stack of boxes and unused building materials, Lia peered from the windshield window. She had lowered her chair so ducking her head to hide any moment would be easy, the key still dangling below the wheel, ready to start the car and hurl away if necessary.

But there seemed to be no danger lurking from the shadows just yet. So, Lia leaned forward with her arms folded on the wheel and chin resting on them and stared at the familiar Chinese restaurant across the street. She had pushed her hair up in a bun, thin-framed, square glasses firm on her button nose. Dressed in all black and with a focused, scrutinizing gaze, she looked like a thief waiting for the right time to attack a bank. But no, Lia was there for the opposite - in this case, she was justice, and those inside the restaurant were thieves, not only of money but much more.

Suddenly the doors opened, and Kin walked out with four guards surrounding him, two leading in the front, two following back, all dressed in black suits, wearing shaded sunglasses, hair shaved, and face - square.

Kin walked with his round beer gut hanging out of his shiny, tacky attire. The piece of fake hair he had glued to his bald head was fluttering in the slight breeze, letting his empty scalp peek through. Oval-framed glasses looked too small on his round, chubby face, scars of acne spotting his soggy cheeks. He walked confidently as if there was no bullet in the world that could cut through his chest, a weak but meek smile curling his lips.

Lia furrowed, unable to hide the grimace. There was something unsettling about this man, something that could make anyone shiver with disgust and dread, that would drive people away or make them obey out of fear.

As the doors swung close behind Kin, they opened again, and a young girl ran after the man. Barely 20 years old, the girl was screaming something that Lia couldn't hear; she could only see her gaping mouth and young face warped with despair.

"Dad!" That was the only word Lia heard and she leaned forward to see better. How could this beautiful girl be a daughter of such a horrible man?

The long pitch-black hair reached her waist, so straight and light as if constantly damp with rose water. Her pale arms looked even whiter under the sunshine, and her slim face was adorned by full lips and a wide-bridged nose. Mono-lid, almond-shaped eyes were teary, desperate.

The moment Kin heard her voice, he turned and began waving his hands, pointing back to the restaurant before he lifted his right hand and slapped across the girl's face. As the girl fell to the ground, one of the guards grabbed her, threw her across his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and took her inside. As he returned back, Kin got in the car with his four men and drove off, the shining surface of the Mercedes fading through the cloud of dust.

Sighing, Lia shook her head. Not only was he a thief, but an abuser too.

She pulled her phone out and began playing games, waiting for something to happen.

The sun passed the zenith, and the restaurant doors stayed closed. Lia began getting impatient, the games turning boring too. And when she thought nothing else would happen that day, the doors opened, and a young boy who seemed to be a servant dragged a garbage can outside. He struggled and huffed before finally putting it next to the entrance and going back. As soon as he closed the door, a lid was lifted off the can and the girl crawled out, peering around like a scared cat and running to the small, white car. Then jumping in it, she drove off hastily as if scared others would chase her.

Wasting no second, Lia started her car and followed the girl.

She found herself in front of a deserted bar, in some dark alley, far from the noisy streets and bright parks. Here, in this shaded alley, only those came who had been here many times before.

Walking inside, Lia sized up the dimly lit surroundings, a few clients crammed in the corners, and the smell of cheap alcohol. Her eyes quickly landed on the girl by the counter, talking to the bartender. The vivid red and blue reflecting off the different colored alcohol bottles danced on her face and turned her pale skin pink and dark eyes - blue.

"Vodka martini," said the girl, and standing next to her, Lia smiled at the bartender.

"Make it two."

The girl looked at her confused, but as she ran into Lia's charming smile and sweet eyes shaded by red lashes, she smiled too.

"I haven't seen you around here," said the girl and clicked her long nails on the counter. "Are you new?"

"Yeah, I am," Lia nodded and sipped the drink from her glass. The bitter yet pleasant taste tinged her tongue. "Can I ask your name?"

The girl smiled shyly but then put the hair behind her ear and twinkled at Lia.

"I'm Alex."

"Lia."

They continued beaming and sparkling at one another before Lia felt how wrong lying to Alex was. Deceiving people was part of her job and daily tasks, but she hated lying to innocent people.

"Actually, I don't want to lie to you, Alex," she confessed, and Alex's hand froze with the glass in it. "I know you are Kin's daughter."

As the surprise faded, Alex's eyes darted toward the exit.

"Don't worry. I don't want to hurt you or rat you out," Lia quickly added. "I need your help to put your criminal and abusive father away."

Alex narrowed her eyes, at first with shock and then with doubt.

"I know about the crimes your father does to innocent people. My friends and I can't defeat him without your help."

"What do I have to do?" Alex asked, still suspicious.

Lia put a scrap of paper on the counter, small text scribbled on it.

"This is our place," she said. "You can drive there yourself. If you don't like anything or change your mind, no one's stopping you from leaving."

Alex took the paper, twirling it in her hand before nodding, curiosity, and intrigue sparkling in her eyes.

Agreeing, she got up and left before Lia followed, seeing her getting in the car and reading the address before starting it.

Share Musings of a Young Contrarian

Chapter 7

It didn't take more than twenty minutes to reach the apartment building that was so familiar to Lia but completely strange to Alex. Lia saw how the girl stopped the car and got out, staring up at the building. Getting out of her car, Lia approached her, and they stood quietly next to one another while Alex examined the surroundings.

"I know what your father does to you," Lia broke the silence. "You are not alone."

Alex looked at her with tinges of sadness.

"These words meant so much to me when I was younger, around your age," Lia continued. "I had an anonymous account online and posted that my friends ostracized me for being gay. I couldn't take any more of it. I was sure my grandparents wouldn't understand. I lived with them as my mother died and my father was a deadbeat. That was when I received the first message. It was from Munir, who is my best friend and leader of our Legion now. Her message stopped me from committing suicide," Lia smiled melancholically. "We went on to chat the whole night and became close, closer than I had ever been with someone. I brcame the second member of the Lex Tal Legion."

Alex listened quietly before she nodded and raised her brows.

"Okay, I will help you," she said and looked at the building. "Take me to your apartment."

Cam had just left for work and gathered in the kitchen. Lia, Munir, and Chaz watched Alex sitting on the sofa and staring out the window with unblinking eyes, her expression empty and devoid of emotion.

"She doesn't look good," Chaz murmured as she poured tea into a mug and went into the living room.

Unable to notice her, Alex kept gazing out the window, sitting with her hands between her knees, lips slightly droopy.

"Hey," Chaz said. To attract her attention, touched her shoulder, and as if hit by electricity, the girl jolted and jumped from the seat, staring at Chaz with horrified eyes.

Startled by her reaction, Chaz stepped back, too, shaking her hands.

"Did I hurt you? Are you okay?" she asked, confused.

Alex, realizing she was safe, shook her head and apologized.

"Thank you," she said and took the teacup, sitting back on the sofa and slowly sipping the hot liquid.

Returning back to her friends, Chaz glared at her with the same shocked eyes.

"Even a slight touch or movement scares her," she said.

"That's another sign of being abused," Munir said.

"Is she even an adult?" Chaz asked.

"She's 20," Lia replied before they noticed Alex standing up.

"Can I go to the bathroom?" she asked like a kid, staring at the women with eyes pleading for approval.

"Of course," Lia smiled. "It's down the hall and right."

Alex smiled back, weakly but still gratefully, and headed to the bathroom.

"Asking permission for everything is another sign of being a victim," Chaz whispered.

"I think she's the most comfortable around you," Munir looked at Lia. "I think you should lead the conversation."

Lia nodded, and when Alex returned, they all gathered on the couch. The evening let the sun slide behind the horizon, and streetlights twinkle like fireflies.

"Is your father acting violent?" Lia asked carefully.

Alex was quiet before she nodded.

"Is he violent toward you?" she nodded again, her eyes turning moist. "And others?"

"Toward everyone," Alex muttered.

"Do you know that he steals from people?" Lia kept on. Munir and Chaz listened quietly, only nodding and trying to encourage Alex with their compassionate eyes.

"Yes, he does," Alex almost whispered before tears flowed out of her red eyes, and she broke down.

Burying her face in her hands, Alex began sobbing and forcing the words out of her tight throat.

"His real name is Daniel Lim. He stole everything," she sobbed. "Cars, estates, bank accounts, yachts... he owns everything."

Munir, who had prepared her phone, searched through her contacts and found the familiar number right away. Her fingers quickly typed the short text that was enough to say everything needed.

Get ready. We're coming.

Chapter 8

The lights of Munir's car brightened the huge metal gates of a mansion. Sitting behind the wheel, Munir stared ahead at the iron doors as if waiting for the huge monster to open its jaws. She could hear the deep, sharp breathing of the women sitting next to her and on the backseats. She glanced at the rear view mirror to catch a glimpse of Alex. The girl was perched on the car seat quietly and unmoving, but Munir could see the nervousness making her young features twitch.

"We can do this another time if you don't feel ready," Munir finally broke the silence, and everyone stayed staring ahead instead of watching Alex, not to pressure her.

"No, I'm ready," the girl replied with a confident tone. "I want to do it now."

Opening the door, she jumped out of the car and began typing a code on the security entrance machine twinkling next to the gates. Her fingers clinked away before the machine beeped and shone in green, and soon the gates began opening too, heavily and slowly like the legs of an old, tired animal.

After Alex got back in the car, Munir drove into the vast yard, followed by the big white truck.

She peered out of the window while spinning the wheel, sneaking her eyes at the lanterns illuminating the smooth path, tall pine trees, the big round swimming pool, and the red underwater lights reflecting on its calm, glimmering surface; the marble sculptures like artworks in Greek museums; rose bushes and the three-story, endless mansion that seemed to stretch from one end of the earth to the other. The wide stairs led to a porch decorated with flowers and rocking chairs, gilded squares framed the windows, brick walls seemingly freshly repainted.

"Uhu," Chaz whistled. "I wonder how many years of stealing it took to build something like this."

"It took almost all of my father's life," Alex responded with her voice full of disgust and sorrow before she got out and looked at the house. "I hate this place more than anything."

The Legion got out, and Munir turned, waving at the white truck. As she did, five women jumped out, dressed in black overalls and wearing hats, long ponytails dangling down their shoulders.

Munir smiled at the first, oldest woman leading her team of movers. Munir had known her since their first mission together seven years before, and as more time passed, the more she trusted them.

"Didn't know you started your own independent moving all-women business, Fran," Munir smiled and hugged the woman.

Fran smiled, her wrinkled face revealing her age but still lively and energetic.

"So, should we get to work?" She asked and rubbed her hands, looking back at others.

"Yes," Alex responded and hurried toward the mansion. She was the first one to enter the house.

Munir followed the others, stepping into the house. Hatred and wrath mounted in her as she couldn't hold the gasp of astonishment as she gawked at the overbearing, overshadowing wealth and luxury the whole house screamed of. Every spot was full of objects that were enough for a few people to build their whole lives on, to have a roof over their heads and food to survive. And here they were - golden and diamond jewelry, precious stone tables, hand-carved sculptures, expensive fabric sofas and smart TVs, crystal chandeliers, and real fur carpets.

"Grab everything you can," Munir ordered the Legion and Fran's employees. "Anything valuable. We have to empty this prison cell."

It took three hours to take some of the sculptures, most of the furniture, a few paintings, and a lot of jewelry out of the house and cram them into the truck. The women huffed and sweated, wasting all their energy on carrying the heavy objects, but in the end, when they closed the truck doors, they all breathed out, knowing they still had the energy to reach the end of their goal.

The mansion was not completely empty, but they didn't have much time and also didn't want to continue taking the stuff. They felt like they were sticky with the dirty money the objects had been bought with. Just one touch was enough to feel like all the sins and wickedness the house held transported onto their skin.

As women gathered in the yard, Munir looked at Alex and handed her the bottle of gasoline, carrying one herself like Lia, Cam, and Chaz.

"We're ready if you are," Munir said and opened her hand, a box of matches lying on it.

Nodding, Alex opened the bottle and poured the pungent liquid around, and so did Munir and the Legion as they splashed gasoline over the walls, on the stairs, into the open windows, and around the perfectly trimmed bushes.

Then, Alex scraped the match, and the sound of little fire kindling off it broke the dead silence. The fire lit up her teary eyes with warm yellow before she flicked it and the match fell into the ground damp with gasoline.

In a split second, the fire broke through the wet traces and raised, running toward the house and spreading over the walls. The red flames licked the gilded windows and crawled through the wooden floor. Only seconds later, the burning fire had already enveloped the mansion and crept to the new corners.

After a quiet tear, Alex wept, opening her mouth and letting the whales out. Munir, holding her from falling, hugged the girl.

"I feel like I'm finally free for the first time in my life, like I'm the one in control, not him," Alex let out as the sparking flames shone on her sad but relieved face.

Chapter 9

Chaz and Alex sat by the kitchen table as Lia searched through the system on her laptop. The glasses reflected the long codes and texts from the screen.

Alex quietly drank coffee, eating biscuits like Chaz who smiled and chatted about her job.

"I haven't seen Angel lately, by the way," she remembered, and Lia looked back from the couch.

"Maybe Alex knows her," she said, and Chaz opened Angel's photo on her phone, one she had taken of the nurse secretly.

Alex narrowed her eyes before nodding at the photo.

"Yes, I know her. She came over to my father often. I think he called her Janette."

"Janette," Lia repeated and put the name into the system she used to search people. For the rest of the legion, this system was just an endless, messy, and brain-hurting lists of codes and texts they would never understand. But for Lia, reading through it was as easy as doing a third-grader's homework.

"Oh, here she is," Lia smiled. "Janette Wonders. She has quite a big property nearby."

Chaz turned to Alex, who had put down her cup, and peered over Lia's shoulder.

"Do you know other names too of people who worked for your father?" she asked.

"Yes, I…" Alex took her phone out. "I can write down every name I remember. Janette was pretending to be a nurse, right?"

Chaz nodded.

"Actually, these people are not only posing as bank tellers and nurses but also as first responders, movers, and even funeral home owners. Just everything."

Lia and Chaz shared a disappointed, furious look.

"Money makes them do anything," Alex added. "Most of them have families, kids, wives, and husbands who have no idea."

As Alex continued writing down the names, Chaz typed a text to Cam and Munir, letting them know that Angel would be the first of many they would attack and threaten.

Munir and Chaz banged on Angel's door and heard her scared footsteps reaching the door. Chaz noticed the camera turning toward them from above the door.

"Janette, open up, or we are calling the police!" Chaz yelled. "We know everything, and we have proof."

She turned the photo of Angel running out of a house after theft to the camera.

After a few seconds of hesitation, the door buzzed open, and Angel peered from behind it.

Chaz, kicking the door open, barged inside, followed by Munir. Horrified, Angel jumped back and tried to grab a gun from a table drawer, but before she could open it, Munir grabbed her hands and forced her down on the couch.

"Now listen," Chaz warned as Munir stood next to Angel. "We know about your boss Daniel Lim and we have every proof to put him and you in jail. Well, he is going to prison without a doubt, and your future depends on what you decide."

Angel listened with an ashen face, eyes red from anger and realization of defeat.

"We are not taking your belongings like we are doing to others from your crew," Chaz continued. "You have an option of being a witness to everything he and his too people did and having your crimes written off, or keeping quiet and going to jail," Chaz smirked. "Which one is it?"

Angel swallowed, her gaunt features death-like. She glanced at Munir and back at Chaz.

"You have until tomorrow," Chaz said. "Don't even try running, or handcuffs will be on your wrists before you know it."

Munir stepped back as Chaz nodded and walked to the door.

"Who the hell are you anyway?" Angel screamed.

"You can tell the police we are the justice itself," Chaz winked with a smile before slamming the door.

 Chapter 10

A slow melody poured out of the radio as Lia drove the car, smiling at Alex sitting next to her and Munir in the back. Cam and Chaz tittered next to Munir while trying to sing along to the trendy new song.

"Oh, we're too old for this," Cam chortled.

"Speak for yourself," Chaz raised her brow. "I'm never getting old."

They all laughed, and Munir felt relief coating her heart like a warm blanket. It had taken five days to barge into every house of people who worked for Kin, take their belongings, and warn them about that being their last chance to change for good. Then a week passed, as they sold the items only for a few bucks in thrift stores and roadside open shops, making people astonished as they could purchase luxurious items for only five or ten dollars. Though, in the end, they had gathered some money and added it to their savings to make enough for…

"Where are we going?" Alex distracted Munir from her train of thought.

"You will see," Lia asked.

Alex sighed with relief but also a hint of melancholy.

"I'm so glad my dad and his men are finally behind bars," she said. "How did you convince Janette to testify?"

"We have our secrets," Chaz smiled enthusiastically.

As the sun shone through the white clouds, Lia stopped the car and led Alex out of it, then onto the third floor of a newly built apartment building.

The door was open, and Alex walked in, peering around the small but tastefully designed apartment.

"What is it?" She asked before Lia put a key in her hand.

"It's yours," she said. "You are the last victim to be compensated."

With her eyes tearing up, Alex hugged her and then hurried to the others, wrapping her trembling arms around them too.

"Thank you for everything," she smiled, her eyes now watery from happiness. "For taking me in, for helping me be a survivor. And for helping so many others, my father could have ruined."

The Legion hugged the girl, letting her cry before her heart became lighter. Then it was time to celebrate the beginning of Alex's new life.

The End

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Check back for more short stories, comic poetry and essays that will be posted on a monthly basis!

Chapter 1

The muffled din accompanied the distant noise of the jammed streets and the beeping of vehicles crammed like beetles. Their glistening surfaces mirrored the shining traffic lights, the tired faces of passersby with hot cups of tasteless instant coffee in their hands or scrolling through phones at the bus stops. The suffocating scent of pollution mingled with the cigarette smoke and the small clouds of mist floating off the mugs. The chatter coming from the open car windows mixed into the cries of babies or children squealing, emerging into an ear-shattering, frustrating composition every big city is embedded with.

But this clamor was distant for the four women sitting in the tiny park in front of their apartment building. The hubbub turned muffled before reaching their ears as they had gathered on a wooden bench, caramel tea rippling in the paper cups in their hands.

Sipping the tea that glided down her throat and warmed her insides like a childhood blanket warming her body on a cold winter night, Munir looked up at the identical short buildings of the suburb. Some windows were brightened by artificial light from inside; some were covered with curtains, while in others, she could discern blurry silhouettes. Somehow, this quiet suburb was melancholy and peaceful at the same time. The grey buildings rose the feeling of emptiness while these tiny apartments that were so close to each other created a feeling of unity - as if the neighbors were one big family. And it was somewhat true; they all knew and loved each other.

"It was worth spending money on this park," Lia's voice made Munir look toward her. "It really came out well."

"Yeah, kids like it now more," Cam agreed and sipped her tea.

They all looked at the three children on the playground. While a little curly boy giggled on the swig, the other two bounced on the seesaw.

"Not only the kids are enjoying it," said Chaz and pointed her chin toward two elderly strolling on the narrow path, their walkers rolling and leading their slow, heavy steps. Smile raised to Munir's lips as she watched the elderly couple gently holding hands and helping each other. She wished she had someone who would take her hand just as gently and lovingly when she got old.

"Well, it's small but not bad for spending half an hour drinking tea after work," Lia tittered and put the cup to her lips. The red stain of her lipstick clung to the cup edge. The trees surrounded wooden benches with one small cupid-shaped fountain in the center, a playground, and a round field of grass for a picnic that would hold no more than ten people.

Suddenly piercing sirens of the ambulance broke the peaceful ambiance, and Milner saw the car driving speedily into the neighborhood, its shining red and blue lights boded for nothing but tragedy.

Springing to their feet, the women watched the ambulance stop and the paramedics jump from it.

"What's going on?" Munir asked as they all rushed toward the ambulance car.

But the paramedics who had prepared the stretcher and were now running into the building where Munir and her friends lived didn't say a word, too immersed in their job.

People gathered around the ambulance, whispering, murmuring, questioning, and predicting. Mostly elderlies had circled the car and peered to the building entrance to see who'd be lying on the stretcher.

Munir shared a look with Lia, their eyes exchanging a worried look, Chez holding onto Cam as they all watched the entrance that was still empty but made everyone's hearts race.

In a few minutes, which felt like an hour, the footsteps came from the stairs, and soon paramedics appeared with the stretcher, hurrying back to the car. People's eyes gaped toward the man lying under the thin white blanket, his eyes closed, his mouth slightly open, and his face - completely pale.

"Stevie!" Cam exclaimed, and people gasped as if only now recognizing their neighbor. Munir's heart wrenched as she saw the sixty-year-old man with his grey hair, bushy brows, slightly protruding belly, and old-fashioned sweater rolled into the ambulance car. She didn't want to admit that she couldn't see his chest moving.

"Poor Stevie," Lia murmured. "What happened to him?"

"I hope he'll be okay," Chaz added.

"Let's visit him in the hospital this evening," Cam added.

Munir nodded, her eyes following the ambulance car as it began disappearing at the end of the street. Still shaking their heads with worry and chattering, the neighbors scattered. The thoughts about what kind of flowers she'd bring to Stevie in the hospital pierced her mind, the images of him smiling modestly as he'd talk about a fall that had only slightly injured his hip.

But deep in her heart, Munir felt she would never hear Stevie's voice again.

 Chapter 2

The priest's smooth voice flowed over the open grave like a cool breeze through the leaves. His black dress rippled as he read from the bible, murmuring the words without taking a breath.

Munir could hardly see the dirt piled up next to the grave and the casket hovering above it. Her watery eyes only saw the blurry outlines of the white coffin and the bouquet of colorful flowers on top of it.

The neighbors had gathered for the funeral, sobbing quietly.

"At least Stevie had us," Lia whispered to Munir.

She was right. All alone after his wife's death, Stevie had no children or grandchildren. So, the neighbors took turns grabbing the dirt and throwing it into the grave as the casket was lowered into it. The scoops of dirt fell on its spotless white surface without a sound and slowly covered it before the gravediggers began throwing the earth into the grave with shovels.

People dressed in all black started returning to their cars, some rubbing their red eyes, some trying to smile while telling stories about Stevie. But the melancholy cast down on everyone else.

Lia walked to her car, waiting for her friends while they slowly left the grave behind. Looking back, Munir saw a young woman lingering near the grave and watching it slowly filling to the rim.

Munir stopped, looking at the woman staring into the grave, her head ducked, hands placed in front almost as if praying. The long black dress hid her knees, revealing her long, lean arms. Wide-brimmed hat shaded her pale face, and teardrops hung from her dark lashes.

Cam and Chaz didn't notice how Munir separated from them and walked back to the grave. The shuddersome sound of the dirt pouring on the coffin turned stifled as the grave slowly filled.

The woman gently wiped her teary eyes. Munir stood next to her, her eyes fixed on the grave too. She felt shivers trickling down her spine when she imagined how she would feel if she found herself deep under that damp, cold soil, in the total darkness where the squirming of worms and beetles would be all she'd hear.

"People thought Stevie was a bit of a snob," Munir chuckled. "But actually, he was really friendly. You had to just get to know and show him your heart, then he'd show you his heart." The woman nodded, a sad smile curving her colorless lips.

"you are right," she said with a fragile voice as if her words were balanced on a shaky glass. "He was really friendly with me too. Though he was often alone. Kind of outcast."

"Not a lot of neighbors saw how kind he was," Munir added and looked at the woman. "How did you know him?"

"I was his pharmacist," she said. "Gina."

"I see," Munir nodded. "We live on the same floor”.

The grave was filled, and the men had begun to flatten the uneven surface. Soon, grass would grow over the grave, and only the marble stone with his name would stay as a sign of his existence.

"I didn't see him much recently," Gina took her hat off and let her short curly hair down. "He stopped coming to buy medicine. Even though I desperately needed them. "

"Yeah, he had open heart surgery a month ago," Munir agreed. "We visited him in the hospital."

Munir narrowed her eyes, curious. "Do you know why he stopped buying medications?"

Gina shrugged.

"I figured he didn't have money," she sniffled. "I was so worried, and it turns out I had the reason to."

Munir heard her name and, looking back, saw Lia waving from the car.

"Would you like me to drive you?" She smiled at Gina, but she shook her head.

"Thanks, my husband is driving me."

Nodding, Munir shook her hand.

"It was nice to meet you, Gina. Glad to know Stevie had friends like you."

Smiling, Gina headed toward a red car in the distance.

Sighing, Munir looked at the grave again and the square stone with Stevie's name and years engraved on it. Somehow his grave was further from the rest as if even after death, he was an outcast.

As she got in the passenger's seat and closed the door, she turned back at Chaz and Cam. Lia started the car, passing by the graves and following the narrow path. The somehow peaceful atmosphere had embedded between those white stones, green grass, and heavy silence.

"Who was that woman?" Cam asked.

"Stevie's pharmacist," Munir put on the seat belt. "And you know what she told me? She said Stevie stopped buying the medications he needed for his heart condition."

"Why?" Chaz peeled her eyes off the mirror she had opened to reapply her red lipgloss.

"She said he probably didn't have enough money," Munir replied. "But we all know…."

"He received his pension fund a little while ago," Lia finished the sentence.

The women shared a curious, suspenseful look.

"Something doesn't feel right about this," Munir shook her head and gazed out of the windshield. They had left the graveyard and joined the cars in the streets. The silence had vanished, replaced by the city noise.

"We have to figure out what happened to Stevie," Cam emitted.

Everyone nodded. The legion knew if a situation raised even one question, then there would be much more in the depths of it.

Lia slammed the door close as they returned home, tossing the bags aside and flopping on the couch.

Putting on her glasses, Lia opened the laptop and put it on her lap. Munir leaned in from her left while Cam and Chaz peered, sitting to her right. Lia knitted her lips and began clanking on the keyboard. Watching her fingers effortlessly move on the keys like ten feathers that had flown off from a swan's wings, Munir couldn't help but feel at ease that she had such a nerdy, talented friend.

"Are you hacking into Stevie's account?" Chaz asked, her eyes searching the laptop screen.

"Yeah, to see if he still has that pension fund," Lia responded. "And if he has, then he didn't buy the medications for some other reason."

As the window opened, all four women gaped at the number on the bank account.

"0," Munir murmured.

"Someone had drained everything out all at once," Lia pointed at the withdrawal date. "see?"

They nodded.

"Stevie wouldn't withdraw all this out," said Cam. "Why would he?"

"Yes, I think so too," Lia nodded. "He didn't need that much money unless someone forced him to take it out or took it out themselves."

The legion fell to thinking, pondering where their neighbor's money could have vanished.

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Chapter 3

The tall white walls almost shook with the noise embedded in the hospital. The nurses hurried from spot to spot, their fast steps blending into one another like a blurry photograph. The patients complained, sniffled, sobbed, or smiled at the nurses who tried to help everyone at the same time, their energy slowly draining. The doctors rushed into the emergency room with white gowns rippling behind their legs.

Chaz held an elderly woman's arm while escorting her from the hospital. The lady's skinny hand lightly lay on Chaz's strong arm, and she could hardly feel the patient's grip. Smiling at her, Chaz kept nodding at her questions while the woman murmured endlessly. The long black dotted dress fluttered around her ankles, her grey hair tied in a bun behind her head. Chaz could hardly hear her low voice as the woman couldn't even reach her shoulder and, hunched, got even shorter.

"Do you feel well, Ms. Gutierez?" Chaz asked as they walked out of the building at snail's speed.

The evening had brought a cool breeze, and the cars that had been parked since the morning had begun leaving. While some patients headed home, new ones arrived. The hospital yard was noisy and full.

"I feel all right," the elderly nodded before Chaz waved at the nearby taxi.

She opened the back seat door and let the woman get in. The lady waved at Chaz as the car began driving by, and Chaz waved back with a smile.

Finally, when the car disappeared from her sight, Chaz sighed and turned around, returning to the hospital. She had hours left to work, and opening her shoulders, she prepared to do so.

The different voices mingling with one another reached from the hospital rooms as Chaz walked down the hallway, peeking at the doors. Suddenly she noticed an unfamiliar woman standing in one of the rooms, the rooms where she knew exactly which patients lay and who his usual visitors were.

Opening the door, Chaz stopped in the doorway. The nurse and patients chatted with smiles before looking at Chaz. It was just a nurse, and Chaz felt embarrassed for doubting everything.

"How is everything going?" Chaz tried to hide her embarrassment and walked inside. "How are you, Charles?"

The patient nodded with gratitude, his bald head moving like a bouncing ball. The white blanket hardly covered his round body as the IV dripped next to him.

"I'm good, Chaz," the man smiled, showing his tiny, yellowish teeth. "How are you?"

"Fine, thank you," she said, and Charles raised his hand to hold hers. Not to disappoint the patient, Chaz held his hand - small and fragile.

"Chaz and I are good friends," the man turned to the other nurse. "Even our names are so alike!"

"They are," the nurse agreed.

Char looked at her. The young woman had tied her thick hickory-brown hair into a ponytail on the back of her head, her big dolly eyes gazing back at Chaz.

Chaz tried to remember if she was someone she knew: a nurse who had worked here before or an intern who had decided to start working, but she couldn't remember. The nurse's oval face, small, round lips, and slightly hooked nose were unfamiliar.

"I haven't seen you here before," Chaz said politely.

She peered at the woman's notebook and the few scribbles made on the blank page.

"I just started," the nurse smiled and spread her hand toward Chaz. "Angel."

"Chaz," she shook her hand, her young and smooth skin noticeably more pleasant to touch than the patient's.

"Nice to meet you," Angel fluttered her long lashes. "I'm happy to be working with you."

"Me too," Angel smiled. "Now, if you excuse me, I have to check on another patient.

Saying goodbye to Charles, Angel walked out with light steps.

Chaz stared at the closed door for a few minutes before looking back at the man who was still smiling.

"What did she ask you, Charles?" She said and checked his heart rate.

"She just asked my full name, birthday, and things like that," Charles nodded, amused by Chaz checking his pulse.

"What else?"

"I don't remember," Charles didn't even try to recall as he continued fingering his iv cord.

Chaz took her hands down and sighed. She had to ask around about this Angel. She couldn't help but feel that the nurse was everything but an angel.

"You wanna watch the tv?" She asked, and the patient nodded

While she arranged the fresh laundry and the patient kept giggling at the TV, Chaz couldn't l stop thinking about the mystery nurse.

Cam sat at her computer, the loud music banging in her ears distracting her from the noise in the police office. The officers kept scurrying back and forth, uniforms clinging to their bodies, guns lightly bouncing on their belts.

Focusing on her work, Cam raised the volume of the song and wordlessly followed her lips along the lyrics. She kept typing, her gaze blurring the surroundings while she immersed herself in the tiring process.

Suddenly, she felt someone tapping her shoulder, and looking up, she saw her partner Larisa talking to her. But Cam could only see her lips moving, her tense look fixed on Cam. Her short, boy-styled hair had begun to grow over her ears. Larisa's pink lips didn't stop moving like two tiny energetic animals.

"Sorry," Cam pulled the earphones out. "What were you saying?"

"There was a robbery near the 6th avenue," Larisa sucked her teeth from frustration. "But luckily, there's CCTV footage from the nearby store."

"Oh," Cam exclaimed and turned back to her computer while Larissa leaned in next to her. Cam felt the subtle scent of cigarette and green apple shampoo radiating off her skin.

"Tell me the address data," Cam said and closed the file she was working on.

Larisa murmured the numbers, and Cam hastily typed them on the keyboard.

"Oh, here they are!" Cam exclaimed as the camera footage opened up and a woman appeared on the screen.

From a distance, she was hard to discern. Cam and Larisa narrowed their eyes, zooming on the silhouette running across the street. Cam's eyes sipped up the thick brown hair partly hidden under a cap and a tattoo on her slender arm.

"Quite a big tattoo," Larisa whispered. "Point for us."

The black ink screamed on her pale skin: a mixture of a flower and a wolf howling to the moon. Cam nodded before she resumed the video and watched the woman disappear into a dark alley.

"This is not enough to identify her," Larisa growled from anger and turned around. "I'm gonna search for other CCTV near the area."

Nodding, Cam didn't take her eyes off the video, watching it over and over again. The robber's silhouette kept flashing by on the screen like a ghost.

Chapter 4

The evening turned damp and humid as the clouds cast the sky, the sun slowly sliding behind them and hiding under their thick layers like a turtle going to sleep in its shell. It was still early, but the gloom seemed to take over the light, spread on the sky, and hang in the air above the city.

The darkness slowly growing in the room began to shroud Lia sitting on the couch. Her bored face was brightened by the phone screen and the cold white light illuminating her half-lidded eyes and downward lips.

She peered from the window, her eyes reaching the buildings and the brightened windows flickering like jewelry, the streetlights lined up on the busy roads, and the sky that came closer and closer to the ground.

Sighing, Lia looked back at her phone, her thumb moving almost instinctively as she scrolled through the social media she hated so much but was so addicted to - though she didn’t want to admit it.

As the street noise reached her - the inaudible blend of people returning home and the cars beeping to rush in the same direction- Lia wished she had an office job like others, like her friends. Working from home always seemed like the best-case scenario, and at first, when she really did start it, it seemed fun: working in the comfort of her room, near her kitchen, a step away from her books and TV. She had thought she could keep a perfect balance between work and play. But eventually, as time passed and work grew, Lia realized how hard it was to have the home as her workplace: soon, she began wasting days and pulling all-nighters, unable to separate her personal life from her professional one.

And now, too, as her laptop lay open next to her with the undone work open on it, Lia continued scrolling through her phone, her thin-framed glasses reflecting the speedily moving feed.

Suddenly, unfamiliar noise reached her ears, and Lia pricked them, realizing it came from the hallway.

Tossing her phone away, she pushed her glasses close to her eyes and stood up, the messy bun hanging from the side of her head, warm hoodie reaching her knees. Without putting on the slippers, Lia hurried to the small square screen next to her front door.

The white-framed screen was open, lit up. Lia got closer, staring at its screen as it showed the life of what was going on outside her door.

Lia had installed the tiny camera above their door to control the hallway and keep an eye on the strangers. The tiny camera eye was hardly visible and only shone in faint red in the dark.

As Lia examined the video on the camera, her eyes scrutinized the people gathered in the hallway. A small group of neighbors. But they were not gathered at her front door but around Stevie’s, right before Lia’s and her friend’s apartment.

Confused, Lia narrowed her eyes, her nose wrinkling from questions as she watched the middle-aged men and women drag boxes out of Stevie’s home. She couldn’t hear them, but the movements of their hands, the expressions, and the hurried steps raised an eerie feeling in her. These people she had known for years now seemed like a group of thieves trying to complete their job before getting caught.

Without hesitation, Lia stepped into her slippers and pulled the door open. The loud thud made the neighbors look toward the door. For a few seconds, silence ensued as they stared at Lia quietly, and she gazed back silently, too, her eyes jumping from one face to the other: different but the same. Wrinkles around the mouth, lines in the forehead, saggy or sunken cheeks, brownish age spots on the hands, grey or dyed hair, thick glasses, and the old-fashioned, hand-knitted sweaters.

“Hello,” Lia tried to sound casual and smiled.

Slowly letting the door go, she plodded toward the group, who slowly slackened, too, smiling back.

Lia looked at the carton boxes, some small, some big, piled up on each other, organized. Some were still open with objects peeking from the top, and some were so huge as if fitting a whole wardrobe. Two armchairs stood outside, and Lia remembered Stevie and her sitting in them, drinking tea and watching football. The spotless green velvet surface and wood details made the armchairs a true discovery for any antique store.

“Hi, Lia,” one of the women smiled.

There were five of them, and while the two talked to her and seemed to block the entrance, the other three continued scurrying through the apartment, speedily moving from one room to the other.

“What’s going on?” Lia asked.

“The landlord told us to remove Stevie’s items,” answered the man. “And move them to the storage facility.”

“Also, there will be a new tenant soon,” added the woman with a grin.

“Oh, I see,” Lia nodded and peered through the open doorway again, seeing how empty Stevie’s home was - as if they were trying to erase every sign of him.

Nodding, Lia walked back to her apartment and closed the door. But she didn’t move from the camera as she watched the neighbors gathering the items.

The dark was already deep, and the night replaced the evening when they finished gathering Stevie’s belongings and pushed them down the stairs.

Quickly putting on her shoes and a jacket, Lia grabbed her car keys and quietly opened the door, gaping over the people who had reached the first floor. They moved quietly as if trying not to draw any attention.

Lia, too, followed with quiet and careful steps, watching from behind the wall how they pushed the boxes into a truck and then got in, driving away.

Getting in her car, Lia followed the big white truck, her eyes pinned on it as she felt that it would soon lead her to a new, unfamiliar destination.

After a twenty-minute drive, the van finally stopped in Chinatown, and Lia parked her car nearby, in the corner of the building, watching the people hop out of the van one by one like monkeys jumping from tree branches.

Pushing her glasses up on her nose bridge, Lia gaped at the three-story building with dark windows and only one door - metal, huge, and locked from the inside.

The neighbors stood impatiently, waiting with their feet tapping, fidgeting, and murmuring before the door opened with loud noise as if it had been dragged across the door.

Lia squinted as she saw a chubby, short man coming out of the door with two tall, muscly men dressed in the same black tank tops - clearly, his guards. They followed the older men with their buffy arms tense as though ready to protect their boss at any moment.

The older Chinese man stood at the van and folded his arms, sizing up the van with scrutinizing gaze. Lia noticed the fear infused with respect on her neighbors’ faces as they stepped back to let the guards open the van.

The two men opened up the van doors, and the older man walked closer, peering inside as if making sure he was seeing everything he expected to see.

After two long minutes, he waved his hand at the guards, and they began taking the boxes out of the van and into the dark building while the man handed out cash. Lia felt the flash of anger and disappointment rising up in her as she watched her neighbors take the money with modest smiles and red faces. She couldn’t believe they had traded Stevie’s cherished belongings for cash.

Lia narrowed her eyes, trying to see through the open door what was inside the building, but only darkness seeped out of it.

She sat unmoving while her neighbors crammed in the van and drove away. The older man walked back into the building the locked the door from inside.

The night didn’t bring anything but more work to Chaz as she sat at the hospital reception, filling out the forms for her new patients.

Some of the hospital rooms had gone silently, and lights had gone dimmer as the patients fell asleep, lulled by the medications or the nurses’ hopeful words. Some had turned their small TVs on, watching the news, some read books and newspapers, and some lay awake, staring at the ceiling, aching with fresh pain or depressing thoughts caving on them.

Chaz looked across the hospital, making sure no patient was wandering through the corridors, sleepwalking, or searching for a nurse. But everything was calm; the hallways sunk in gloom, and the nurses, finally able to take a breath, stood at the coffee machines or fridge, taking a few minute breaks before one of the many patients would call for some help.

Chaz’s eyes returned to the paper, and she checked the last parts of the form before putting it aside on top of a tall tower of other papers and taking another blank one to fill.

Suddenly, she noticed the new nurse hurrying from the entrance toward the hallway with patient rooms. She walked hastily, gripping the edges of her scrubs. Chaz’s eyes narrowed as she watched Angel’s wide brown eyes and lips slightly parted from huffing. Where was she hurrying to?

Springing up from her seat, Chaz left the form, dropped the pen, and scurried toward Angel, blocking her way with a sweet smile. She faked her polite expression and lingered before Angel as though accidentally appearing in her way.

“I thought your shift ended,” Chaz said, trying not to reveal her curiosity too much.

To look casual, she turned and began pouring coffee from the machine. It whirred, breaking the awkward silence.

“I work the night shift today,” Angel responded but didn’t smile. Tension began to turn her face stiff.

“You know, Sophie, the receptionist?” Chaz stared at Angel and felt the hot liquid warming up the cup. “We are good friends. She told me there were no job applications sent out recently.”

Angel stood quietly but impatiently. Chaz could feel how anxiety began pulling on Angels’ nerves.

“Did you get the job through a recommendation from someone there?” Chaz chuckled and looked up. “You know, higher-ups.”

Angel swallowed, now completely unable to hide the pressure, and she stepped back, her eyes scanning the surroundings like a rat in a trap trying to find a way out. Chaz felt that Angel was about to run away and let the coffee cup go. The mug fell on the hard floor, breaking into pieces with a screeching sound.

As soon as the cup shattered, Angel pushed Chaz away, thrusting her elbow into the side of her stomach, and hurried away. Groaning with pain, Chaz looked behind, seeing Angel almost running toward the elevator.

She saw one of the nurses furrowing with confusion as she saw Angel speeding away, and Chaz bent over with her hands on her stomach.

“Are you okay?” Ashe asked and knelt to pick up the glass pieces.

Still feeling the tinges of pain, Chaz nodded and straightened her back.

“Yeah,” she knelt too and gathered the tiny pieces in her palm. The wet black ceramic pieces reminded her of Munir’s black, teary eyes.

“What’s her problem?” The girl asked and threw the glass into the trash. She jerked her chin toward the direction Angel had run to.

“Nothing,” Chaz snickered. “She’s just weird.”

She watched the nurse walk away and then pulled her phone out. Chaz walked toward the empty corner and dialed the number she knew by heart. In a split second, Cam’s voice tickled her ears.

“You remember the new nurse I told you about?” Chaz whispered. “She got really tense over my questions and ran away like a child. She is suspicious.”

Cam sighed, and Chaz heard the sound of her computer shutting.

“Yeah, we got no lead with the thief either,” Cam sounded disappointed. “The one who stole from Mr. Thompson.”

“Thompson?” Chaz asked. “It is the same name of the patient who was discharged early.”

Cam fell quiet, both thinking.

“Tell me what the thief looks like,” Chaz exclaimed as she began to connect the dots.

“We don’t know anything about the thief, just her dark hair, skinny shape, and a tattoo on her right forearm.”

Chaz frowned, biting her lower lip.

“Tattoo on her right forearm?” She repeated. “What does it look like?”

“Hmm,” Cam pondered. “A weird mixture of a wolf howling at a moon while rising out of a flower, something like that. All black.”

Chaz felt her heart skipping a beat, her mind filled with the image she had seen a day before: Angel standing at the patient’s bed, writing, and the sleeve sliding down her arm to reveal a snippet of her tattoo - the open mouth of a wolf and flower stems.

“Oh my god, I think you’re searching for Angel,” she said quietly. “Send me the picture!”

Cam didn’t need even a second to send the picture of the thief from surveillance footage. Squinting, Chaz put her phone close to her face, studying the low-quality, blurred image but it was enough for her to recognize Angel in the black cap and tight overalls.

It’s her, she texted Cam.

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Check back for part 2 of Issue 2: Wicked Nightingale

Chapter 5

The day brought noise and bustle to the hospital, the usual clamor now louder, messier. Patients, visitors, nurses, and doctors blended in a colorful mass, filling the white-blue surroundings.

Hurrying down the corridor, Chaz folded the hospital gown she was rushing to a new patient. With quick and effortless footsteps, so light it was as if she didn't even touch the ground, Chaz fixed the clothing without even looking down. Her hands moved instinctively, as she knew every motion by heart.

Suddenly her eyes caught a glimpse through one of the hospital door windows, seeing the red-headed patient dozing off in her bed. Her face wrapped in white bandages, she looked better, though her skin was pale and lips colorless.

Swallowing and putting up a kind smile, Chaz opened the door, peeking inside.

"How are you feeling today?" she asked and walked inside. She took out her form and a pen, pretending to be checking on her.

"I'm okay," the woman replied and glanced at her. Chaz could see her burnt skin peeking through the gaps of bandages - the red blisters turning white while healing.

"You didn't need an operation," Chaz smiled. "That's really great."
"I'm lucky," the patient scoffed ironically and pinned her eyes on the ceiling.
A bottle of sedatives lay on her bedside table. It seemed like the nurse had just given her

one, and she was now calmer, slowly drifting off to sleep.
"Does it hurt?" Chaz asked casually while acting like she was checking off something in her notebook.
"Not anymore, thanks to the meds," she murmured. "But it hurt like hell at first. I thought I was going to die."

"You were in bad condition when they brought you here," Chaz agreed, trying to naturally make the conversation flow toward the direction she aimed. "Only the most horrible people can do something like that."

"Hmm..." the patient hummed like a song fading away on the radio, her eyes closing. "Do you know who did this to you?" Chaz continued carefully.
But the woman glanced at her as though Chaz had woken her up by hitting drums. Her gaze was momentary but sharp as though she had figured out Chaz's intentions immediately. Her eyes returned to the ceiling in a second, and she pursed her lips.

"If you didn't see their faces, maybe you recognized their voices?" Chaz still continued. "It could help the police find them." But the patient's lips stayed pursed, her eyes on the ceiling, her expression stubborn and stern.

Chaz sighed, realizing that she wasn't going to get any answers. She fixed the woman's blanket, feeling her gaze following her motions.

"Rest," she said and walked to the door.

Opening it, Chaz looked back one more time, locking eyes with the patient who watched her. And Chaz felt like she saw hints of pleading in her gaze - as if Chaz were to ask again, she'd answer. But before she could open her mouth, the patient closed her eyes.

Chaz ducked her head and silently walked out, aware of how hard opening up to people was after being hurt. She knew this feeling well. Even though she had left her hometown with her parents years before, she remembered all the bullying and torture everyone had made her go through for being different, for not wanting to be a boy. Chaz squeezed her eyes shut as the sharp voice calling her "sick" pierced her mind; the images came flooding back: elderly ladies singing chants, making her pray and drink strange herbal teas to cure her “illness.” But then the visions of her parents hugging her and drying her tears warmed her heart. She had moved far away, the torture had stopped, but her soul needed more time to heal.

Chaz exhaled deeply and forced a smile before entering the hospital room.

Chapter 6

Cam stared at the dark coffee pouring into her mug, the workplace din muffling around her as her mind drifted away. She could feel her palm burning, clasped around the cup as the hot drink filled it, but the daze casting down her mind softened her senses. All she could think about was the new victim and Eugene's terrified eyes - she could see the terror he had witnessed in them.

"You'll burn your hand!" The hoarse, annoyingly high-pitched voice snapped her out, and Cam saw her coworker, another police officer standing next to her, clicking the coffee machine to turn it off. "It was about to pour over your hand." Cam pushed the mug aside and felt her palm stinging.

'Yes, thanks," she glanced at the man looking down at her. His eyes pinned on her face as he smiled, shaking his head.

"You can thank me over dinner." She wanted to sigh and rush out of the kitchen but suppressed the urge. "I already told you, James," Cam curved her lips with a fake smile. "I can't." "Why, you are single, right?" James shrugged. "What's the big deal?" "I don't have time or energy for dating right now," Cam bit her lower lip to hide the frustration. "Come on, it will be fun," James pleaded. Cam looked through the open door revealing the busy office. Police were going back and forth dressed in dark blue uniforms and hats, some with golden stars on their shoulders, some carrying a gun. She wondered what expression their faces would make if she exposed she was lesbian. Maybe they wouldn't even care; maybe they would ignore this fact just like other irrelevant personal facts of coworkers. But what if the opposite happened? What if they sneered and scowled, turned their back on Cam, and avoided her, making her an outcast? She remembered her boss, the middle-aged man, and his remark on one of the thieves they had arrested a week before.

"Prison shouldn't be such a terrible place for him, hm?" He had snickered under his thick gray mustache. "Surrounded by so many men, it’ll be a paradise for him."

Cam swallowed her anger and turned to James, whose blabbering had turned into a hazy cloud. "I have to get back to work," she said and grabbed the mug.

She could feel James’ eyes fastened on her back like parasites, and she suppressed a shiver before sitting at her desk. Instinctively taking a sip of her coffee, she felt the bitter liquid turning her throat sore, as if the toxins she felt in the atmosphere had seeped into her coffee too.

Putting up her invisible shield to mute out the noise, Cam checked her message again and typed the car plate number in the search program she and her coworkers had access to. The loading circle turned a few times before the name popped up on the screen. She quickly sent the information on her phone.

Lia and Munir had flopped on the couch with the laptop in Lia's lap as Munir's phone chimed. Her eyes ran over the text message.

"Ebrima Reza," Munir read aloud. "Should be around 35 years old, male."

Nodding, Lia quickly typed the name into her laptop, pushing the glasses closer to her eyes.

"Let's see if we can find something on him," she said and grabbed the mouse.

Google turned up a hundred photos of different people, but Lia quickly scrolled through the colorful pictures before clicking on an image of a dark-haired man with his arm around another's shoulder as they both wore aprons, seemingly celebrating opening up a dining place.

"He doesn't have an Instagram," Lia licked her lips. "But he has Facebook."

The women's eyes landed on a social media account where Ebrima had posted photos of the same few people over and over in different surroundings, sharing some thoughts on songs or his travel plans. But mostly, his account was full of pictures of him and people who looked like him: one of them, five or six years younger than Ebrima, looked so much like him, like a younger and more smily version of him.

"Must be his brother," Munir concluded.

"But Ebrima stopped posting his brother's photos around six months ago," Lia said and scrolled through the photos. "See? No brother. What happened? Everything else is the same."

Munir and Lia shared a confused look, lost with this new information.

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Chapter 7

Patients had settled into their rooms, muffled sounds of snoring and murmuring in sleep reaching through the doors, filling the atmosphere.

Sitting in a plastic chair, Chaz had crossed her legs, filling out blanks for some of the new patients. She could feel the fatigue surging through her veins, flowing with her blood. Her bones creaked, and her eyes stung. The image of her bed, waiting for Chaz to be wrapped up in the blankets and sunk in the fluffy pillows, floated in her mind like an oasis. She felt her body slowly shutting down.

Sighing, she glanced at her watch. Still, one hour was left for her shift to end. Soon, the sun would peek from behind the horizon, the reddish glow would pour onto the city, the streetlights would dim, and the empty streets would turn noisy again. The orange sky would be cast with gray smog of smoke and pollution, and people would stain their organisms with cheap, instant coffee. And then, finally, Chaz would go home and sleep.

Suddenly, loud thuds reached her from the nearby room. Startled, she pricked her ears and put down the pen: the thuds repeated, now louder and harsher, and soon something shattered on the floor, followed by yelling and shouting of inaudible words.

Chaz sprung from her seat, looking around for help, but the nurses had scattered, and only a few visitors were lingering in the hallway.

As the stifled screams repeated, Chaz stopped looking around and ran toward the room. The closer she got, the clearer the shouts became and the noise of things bumping into each other - a sign of struggle as if an animal was trying to break out of a cage.

She barged inside without hesitation, horror mounting as she saw someone leaning over the patient, choking her. Chaz immediately recognized the face-burnt patient, who was desperately grasping an assaulter's hands that wrapped tightly around her neck. Her face had turned red like her hair, eyes popping from the sockets, veins bulging under the skin. The attacker, dressed in all black, looked like a shadow growing over the woman's head as if stepping out of the wall and materializing. But he was a human, a man, trying to kill the patient while twisting her neck with all his strength, feeling her bones creaking under the tight grip.

"Stop!" Chaz screamed with a shrill voice and dashed to the bed.

The man seemed to only now notice the nurse, immersed in the anger and aggression, finally snapping out of the daze. He stepped back, watching Chaz, who opened her arms, trying to catch him. But the man slipped through her arms like a snake between river rocks and dashed to the door.

Huffing from panic, Chaz stepped forward to follow the man but heard the patient gagging behind her. She turned instinctively, seeing the woman gasping and trying to breeze while still holding her neck.

"Oh god," Chaz ran to her, sobbing from the pressure, fear and horror. "Help! We need help!" She screamed.

Dark purple bruises were already forming on the woman's neck, the trails of strong fingers still tainting her skin, marks of nails leaving bloody cuts. Her face had turned whiter than a sheet of paper, and her eyes red as if all the blood had accumulated in them. Chaz could see the veins pulsing in her temples.

She felt someone pulling her back and soon saw the nurses enveloping the patient, who still coughed and gagged.

"Step aside," someone ordered Chaz, and she obeyed, watching the nurses inject sedatives into the patient's veins, push her down on the bed and check her pulse. Four nurses surrounded the bed, and Chaz couldn't see the woman anymore, only catching glances of her pale face and closed eyes.

Suddenly, she remembered and hurried out of the room, looking around. But the attacker had vanished without a trace.

Sighing deeply, Chaz collapsed on the chair, digging her face in her hands. Her brain buzzed, the surroundings shook and the patient's pleading screams still thundered in her memories.

She sniffed, drying her eyes and taking a deep breath. Her heart galloped, and she still felt the scare making her bones tremble.

Someone touched her shoulder, and Chaz looked up, seeing one of the nurses.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
"Yeah," Chaz swallowed and sat up straight. She glimpsed at the room, but the door had been closed. "How's the patient?"

"Under shock," the nurse peeled off her nitrile gloves, making a popping sound like a child pulling candy out of her mouth. "But we gave her sedatives and something for her anxiety, and she is asleep now."

Chaz inhaled, feeling the plastic and medicine-scented air filling her lungs. The silence fell in the hospital, and she could hear her heartbeat in the rhythm of the IV drops falling. Tip, tip, tip. She clenched her chest.

"She'll be okay, right?"

"Yes," the nurse nodded. "You saved her, Chaz. She was a few seconds away from being suffocated."

The nurse tapped on her shoulder again before walking away. Sitting in the same spot, Chaz couldn't take her eyes off the door, horrified at the thought of the man returning.

The night pulled a dark blanket over the city. Layers of darkness settled into the narrow alleys and dimmed the lights behind the windows. Sleep began cycling through the corridors, peering into the houses, at the families gathering around the dinner tables.

At the window, Lia puffed on a cigarette, the thick gray cloud shading her pale face. The sound of the cigarette burning pierced the silence, the small orange light radiant like a tiny sunrise in the gloom. She felt the scorching smoke filling and stinging her lungs, and she took another drag. She liked this feeling, of this poisonous pollution burning her throat and leaving a light mint taste on her tongue. She liked standing at the window alone, staring at the dark city.

New York was never completely dark or silent, though. The streetlights blended with the red and yellow of cars and traffic lights, people laughing and chattering aloud on the roads, music from bars and clubs turning into a barely audible buzzing din: the white noise of the sleepless city. At first, when she had moved here, these constant, undying noises annoyed Lia, but over time she grew to like them. With this bustle, she was never alone with her thoughts; she never sunk deep into her past as the lively city always connected her to the present reality.

The red hair framed her small face, her fingers as thin as the cigarette stuck between them. She circled her lips around its white edges, leaving marks of crimson-colored lipstick before letting the smoke shroud her face. Her open laptop shone in white behind her, and her glasses were tossed casually on the couch.

Still gazing at the glistening city, Lia couldn't help but let the memories pinch her mind.

She remembered exactly when she began falling in love with a computer - in high school, when she lost her only friend and everything with her. Rory, a blonde girl with black eyes, seemed so kind and beautiful that Lia couldn't help but thank god for making her move into the same city as her. At first, their friendship included eating ice cream and going to the movies, breaking Lia's cycle of spending weekends alone at home. And soon, when Lia thought that she and Rory had shared everything with each other, had opened their hearts and become closer than any friends could ever get, she thought that maybe Rory too felt more than just friendly love toward her. It was a late spring afternoon, and they were coming from a movie theater when Lia leaned in to kiss her. Rory kissed back, and that night Lia couldn't sleep, smiling, thinking about the strawberry taste on Rory's lips.

But the next day, when everyone stared at and mocked Lia, she realized what had happened. Rory smirked at her just like everyone else and changed her seat in the classroom, joining the group of bullies. The assaulting words came like swords toward Lia, and she spent days crying in her room. Then, left without any friends, she began spending weekends at home again, but now in front of a computer her parents had newly bought. With the excuse to do research for school homework, she spent hours without peeling her eyes off the screen and realized that this strange machine brought her the kind of comfort no one else could. There, she could see, hear or read anything she wanted. Though she was stuck in her small room, her world was much bigger than the whole country itself.

Still, it took years of guilt and shame for Lia to finally come across blogs and videos about embracing sexuality and loving one's self. Only then, in college, did she realize that she was one of the millions of people fighting the same battle.

Something clicked behind Lia, and she snapped out of her train of thought. The cigarette had burned to the tip of her fingers, and she quickly crashed it into the ashtray.

Looking back, Lia saw Chaz and Cam walking through the door, leaving their jackets on the hanger and slipping out of their shoes. Tired faces and sleepy eyes revealed the long, hard week they had endured.

Lia glanced at her watch, showing half past nine. Their weekly meeting was about to start.

"Hey," said Lia and hit the light switch. The bulb flickered on the ceiling before brightening the room with fluorescent yellow.

"Hi, hi." Chaz and Cam smiled wearily.

Chaz walked into the kitchen while Cam flopped on the couch. She took Lia's glasses and peered through them before stretching her sleeve and rubbing them clean.

Smiling, Lia closed the laptop and picked up the packs of cigarettes.

"You want one?" she asked Cam, but the woman shook her head and handed Lia the glasses. "Thank you."

"How was your day?" Cam asked and took off her officer hat, putting it aside. Her blonde hair fell to her shoulders before she put them up with a clip. Then, unbuttoning the uniform, she sank deeper into the sofa and dropped her head back.

"Usual, yours?" Lia responded and flopped into an armchair. Her phone lit up with Munir's message.

I'll be there in two minutes. Don't start without me.

How can we start without our leader? ;))))

Lia messaged back with a smile before looking at Chaz walking in, munching on a tomato sandwich. "James is getting on my nerves," Cam sighed and rolled her eyes. "Sometimes I really wanna tell him the truth."

"You should do it when you are ready," Chaz responded with her cheeks full. "And not because of James, who can't take 'no' as an answer."
The door clicked again, and Munir hurried inside, putting her bag aside and walking into the living room.

"Sorry I'm late," she apologized. "There were too many customers in the wine bar. They needed my help."
"Only you work so much," Cam smiled. "No other bar owner serves their customers." Munir shrugged with a grin and sat across from Lia. Chaz had taken out a wine bottle, pouring a glass for everyone.

"So, what do we know so far?" Cam asked and took a sip. The drink stained her lips with burgundy red.

"The name of the attacker, his family members' names, his age, and ethnicity," said Lia.

"It doesn't make any sense," Cam sighed. "We have this information but still don't have a motive."

"Maybe she was his girlfriend," Chaz bent her lips. "Or even a sister?"

"He doesn't have a sister," Lia said. "Only a brother he stopped posting about on his account a while ago. Omar."

Chaz's hand gripping the wine glass froze in the air, her eyes narrowing.
"His brother's name is Omar?"
Lia nodded. "Yes. Why?"
Chaz fell quiet, bending her head to the side as if remembering something before she gasped; her eyes widened.

"That's what the attacker called the patient!"
The women leaned in, confused.
"You know, someone attacked her in the hospital, as I told you," Chaz explained. "I couldn't remember, but now I do! The assailant called her Omar!"

The women shared a look of realization.

"Ah," Munir nodded. "So, the victim was his brother, Omar. She's transgender."

"She was attacked by her brother, who can't come to terms with her change,"

Cam added. Silence ensued as everyone leaned back in their seats.

"So, we have the name and the address," Munir broke the silence. "I think we can have a talk with them now."

Chapter 8

The night had settled in the grooves and hollows of the town when I put down the mop and looked out the window. The moon hovered in the dark sky, silvery haze encircling it like walls of stardust. The deep bluish black canvas gazed down at the earth, lulling the eyes of tired people, sending sleep cycling into every window. The streetlights scattered like fireflies, and the noises of the busy day halted. The town sank in the sleepy night that put a warm blanket over the

houses of tired, weary people, lulling them to sleep before they had to get up in the morning and start their dull, everyday ritual all over again.

The shaded car windows turned Munir's and Lia's silhouettes as they stared at the short building, their eyes pinned on the last floor, and the window brightened with fluorescent yellow. Munir tapped on the wheel impatiently, her fingertips making a gentle sound like rain prattling. Her hair tied up in a bun, she wore a tight shirt and jeans as if she had prepared to move effortlessly and not be held back by uncomfortable clothes. Her dark eyes pierced the window and the outlines moving behind them.

"If they don't leave, we'll have to knock on their door," Lia broke the silence.
"They will leave," Munir replied and glanced at her.
Lia had folded her arms, her eyes fixed on the same spot as Munir's. Her pursed lips and knitted brows revealed the determination embedded in her eyes. Her bare face, without a hint of makeup, seemed even paler than usual, but her red lips were in contrast with her white skin, as if someone had painted her face and only colored her lips.

Munir glanced at the back seat, her eyes sipping up the shapes of two gallons and the light purple liquid rippling in them. She took a deep breath, gripping the wheel.

"We can't mess this up," she murmured.

"We won't," Lia smiled and brushed her hand over her arm to comfort her.
Suddenly the light halted behind the window, and the women grabbed the door handles. "Let's go," said Munir, and they both got out, quickly crossing the empty, silent street. They blended with the darkness as they lingered outside the building entrance, in the corner. Munir inhaled deeply as she heard the footsteps getting closer. She almost felt the stinging scent of their smoke stench, and disgust rippled her skin. The closer their heavy treading got, the more anger sizzled in her, and the more her body shook with rage.

The moment the door opened and the two men stepped out, Munir and Lia jumped on them, pushing their heavy bodies into the dark alley next to the building.

"What's happening?!" they yelled as the women stepped back, trapping them in the dead end.

The men peered around, the streetlight hitting their faces and lighting them with dim yellow. Their expressions twisted with bewilderment as they saw the women standing in front of them.

"What are you doing?" One of them yelled. "What do you want?"

He slid his hand across his bald head, soggy lids folding over his black eyes. He shared a perplexed look with the second man, seemingly younger than him. Munir's eyes lanced through the bald man, recognizing him as the victim's brother from the photos Lia had shown her.

"Don't you realize why we are here?" Munir smirked and raised her hand, holding the gallon. The men's pupils dilated when they landed on the acid shaking in the bottles. They stepped back, horror twisting their faces.
"You burned Anastasia Reza," Lia said aloud. "You recognize her name? Anastasia." "He is Omari!" Ebrema shouted, his eyes sparking with rage.
"You have to get used to her new name, her new life," Munir said. "You are not responsible for her."

"Never!" Ebrima yelled and seized his arm from his friend, who had tried to calm him down.

Munir and Lia shared a look, both realizing that Ebrima was never going to change his mind - his brain was clogged, and however hard someone tried, they could never clean it off the dirt and trash it was filled with.

"We're going to tell you straight, as you don't seem to get it," Munir deepened her voice. "We're here to take revenge for your sister."

Embrema swallowed. His friend had stepped back, his face turning ashen.

"What revenge?! Are you out of your mind?" Ebrima's voice turned strident, but the signs of horror edged it.

"What? You think you don't deserve it?" Lia grinned, her face - always kind and sweet - now contorting with irony.

"Our justice system is laughable," Munir stepped closer to the man, feeling the sickening scent of his sweat damping his shirt. "There are no consequences for anyone, which is why more people act like animals nowadays. They, you..." she pointed at him, almost touching his nose. "You display beast-like characteristics rather than human decency. Don't you wonder what happened to those people who committed heinous crimes? Of course, the average person would love to think that they're sitting in jail right now rotting because of the heroic police who investigated this incident and brought those criminals to justice. Even if they did, is that good enough?

All I know is if someone threw acid on me, for them to sit in jail would not be good enough," Munir put her face close to his, seeing his sweat beads covering his forehead, pupils shrinking with fear. "I would want to see their skin melting away from their body as they scream and agony like I did. Eye for an eye."

She stepped back, suppressing the sickening feeling trying to explode out of her.

"It's okay that you disagree," Lia's tone turned sarcastic. "We are not asking for your permission. There's a reason that we lurk in the shadows. To some, we are just as much at fault as others. But there's a reason that we do what we do. A reason which is bigger than anything else - helping women escape the toxic, deathly environment where their own family members don't hesitate to kill them."

Ebrima fell quiet, but suddenly his friend opened his trembling mouth.

"I...I recognize you from the internet," he mumbled, gawking at Munir and Lia. "What is the name of your group? I've been trying to think maybe I'm wrong; after all, it is just a legend, but I remember even years ago, people talking about revenge and vengeance on incidents that have taken place in the city. I thought it was all fake."

"It is not fake," Munir declared, her words hanging in the silent night. "We are Lex Tal Legion. Lex Tal is short for Lex Talionis."

"It means the law of retaliation," Lia continued. "Punishment that fits the crime. An eye for an eye."

Munir gazed into their eyes.

"Remember our name," she said through her clenched teeth. "Because you'll never forget our faces."

Munir leaped through the air and hit Ebrima in the chest with great force. Startled and confused, the man had no time to grasp reality or balance his steps. He fell backward and sprawled on the ground. He lay for a second, looking at Munir as if trying to recognize her, before he turned to grab something from his pocket, probably a knife. But Munir pinned his hands down as she stood on him, then punched him in the face. The blood soon trickled and smeared on her fist. And even though the man was much bulkier than her, she had more time than him to plan out her moves. Another punch, and he stopped moving around, his breathing shortened, and his body turned limp. Finally, she forced him up to his feet and held him by clutching hands behind him.

Looking to her right, she saw Lia holding Ebrima’s friend by his collar. She punched him in the face and grabbed his shoulders. His face turned sideways, and a crimson liquid oozed through his mouth, dribbling down his neck.

"Nice moves," Munir smiled at Lia. "The fighting lessons are useful, huh?" "Learned them last week," Lia said proudly.
They let the men go, who collapsed on the ground, peering up at them through their brimmed eyes.
"How did you feel when you burned your sister and left her to die?" Munir said under her breath and opened the gallon.

Before the men could utter a word, Munir and Lia poured acid over their heads. The purple liquid flowed down their faces like poison rivers, and in a second, ear-splitting screams pierced the night. The man grabbed their faces, their skin sizzling like bacon frying in a pan.

Dropping the bottles, Munir and Lia ran out of the aisle, quickly jumping in their car. The euphoria bursting out of them, they breathed out sharply before Munir started the car, speeding away. The sense of accomplishment overshadowed the pride, and soon relief settled into her - the calm of knowing Anastasia would be safe from now on.

Chapter 9

The late afternoon brought reddish-orange light pouring over the city. The glimpses of the horizon between the high-rises let the shine reach the streets, the windows reflecting the setting sun and scattering the apricot glow into small sparkles. The round disc of the sun was slowly sinking behind the jammed streets and silhouettes of people strolling on the sidewalks. Usual din sounded more cheerful into the fiery glow of the calm afternoon.

The hospital seemed somehow serene that day. The noise had hushed as the patients had settled into their rooms or gone out for a short walk with their loved ones in the yard. The white walls lacked the usual clamor and now sinking in silence, the place didn't seem as melancholy.

Chaz had taken off her scrubs and grabbed her bag, ready to go home after her shift. But instead of walking toward the entrance, she headed toward one of the hospital rooms.

She glanced through the glass on the door, seeing the outline of Anastasia sitting on the bed.

Chaz knocked and immediately heard the gentle voice.
"Come in."
She answered so quickly as if happy that someone wanted to visit her. Chaz knew how lonely it could get being all alone in the white room surrounded by nothing but medicine, machines, and white walls.

She opened the door and peeked through the gap.

"How are you feeling, Anastasia?" she asked with a smile.
The woman watched her shrouded by the honey-gold light pouring through the window.

Her face had begun healing but was still wrapped in bandages. Her hair looked redder than the setting sun, color finally returning to her ivory skin.

A smile rose to Anastasia's lips, her eyes narrowing with gratitude.

"I'm good, thank you," she responded, her eyes glancing at Chaz's clothes. "You aren't working?"

"I was about to leave," Chaz responded. "But I wanted to talk to you. If you want, of course."

Anastasia gazed at her silently before she nodded.

"Of course."

She seemed to crave human interaction. So, Chaz walked inside and closed the door behind her.

Anastasia seemed calmer, serenity embedded in her eyes. Leaning on her pillow, she had loosely placed her long arms to her sides, the blanket covering her legs while the gown draped from her gaunt shoulders. Chaz could see her blue veins under her thin skin, the shapes of her bones on her hands, and pulse beating behind her temples.

"You look good," Chaz smiled.

Staring at her, she couldn't help but think how beautiful Anastasia was and wish for her face to stay the same. Her prominent lips, as if sculpted out of stone, deep-set eyes, and smooth skin should not have been ruined. Chaz felt like it would be a crime like destroying a piece of art.

Anastasia took a deep breath and locked eyes with Chaz as she sat beside her.

Chaz took off her bag and put it in her lap, inhaling. She already felt the tears rising in her eyes, her heart racing, and her cheeks burning up.

"I'm a transgender too," she finally let out the words that had been trying to escape from her pursed lips. And now, as she let them flow, she felt the sense of utter relief replacing the tension in her body. She almost felt her muscles relaxing, ache fading from her neck.

Anastasia nodded, tears brimming her eyes too. Soon one fell down her cheek before she wiped it with her sleeve.

"I have had my own struggles. I have hurt so much mentally, but I don't know the physical pain you went through," Chaz continued, her voice breaking. She swallowed to let her words sink in, Anastasia. "I'm so sorry you had to go through the worst-case scenario."

Anastasia let the tears flow down her scarred face and hang from her chin. Her pale face was now red. She sniffled and watched her tears drop on the light blue blanket, slowly soaking it.

"I used to be so close to my brother. We were best friends. I thought no one understood me better than him. That's why he was the first person I told I wanted to transition," Anastasia spoke, her brittle voice thick with pain. "Of course, he didn't approve. And after the operation, he became very hostile. As if he forgot our friendship, he forgot we grew up together. He forgot about our love. I couldn't recognize him anymore."

Anastasia licked her lips, her eyes turning puffy. The immense sadness pouring out of her spread onto Chaz too and cursed through her veins.

"I had to leave and move to another town. He followed me there too and... And he scarred me," Anastasia sobbed, her sorrow too big to fit into her skinny body. "But I couldn't bring myself to snitch on him to the police. He was my brother. I still hoped he'd return to his old, loving self. I hoped he'd accept me. But... He never did."

Anastasia cried out and hid her face in her hands.

"He did this to me, and I still couldn't tell the police," Anastasia's voice muffled through her hands.

Chaz gently put her hand on her trembling shoulder, and it was enough for Anastasia to fall into her arms. Chaz wrapped her arms around Anastasia's quivering body, hugging her tightly. Anastasia let herself cry in the warmth of Chaz's embrace.

Chaz's phone vibrated, and she glanced at it, reading the message.
The mission is over. Chaz gently rubbed Anastasia's back. Her cries had hushed but tired from the emotions; she still lay quiet in Chaz's arms.

"No one will be coming after you anymore," Chaz murmured to her. "No one will hurt you again."

Anastasia nodded silently, and they looked out the window. Sitting together in the calm stillness, the women let the afternoon warmth soothe their tired souls.

The End

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Chapter 1

The fluorescent blue light flickered on the ceiling, illuminating the plastic packages lined up on the shelves, the glistening, ivory-colored floor tiles, glass fridges full of soda and water bottles, black boxes of vegetables and fruit, and empty rolling carts waiting for customers next to the entrance.

The glass doors stood still, opening for no one. It was as if the city had suddenly emptied of people. Nobody was left behind the decaying walls and moth-eaten rust. The white walls seemed freshly painted, and products lay neatly next to each other, arranged by names and products. Yet no customers sauntered through the aisles, no frugal shoppers lazily browsed the labels, only to always pick the cheapest option. The muffled sound of the small TV hanging on the wall crackled through the silence.

Eugene sat behind the counter, his eyes carelessly roaming from page to page of the old newspaper unfolded in his hands. His thrifted gray outfit fit in the supermarket atmosphere and modest surroundings. The artificial light brightened his serious face, and grizzled hair curled up above his head. His beard looked almost dyed black in contrast with his hair, but the only indicator none of them were fake was that they were both curly like coiled telephone cords. Just one glimpse was enough to realize that Eugene was the shop owner. The shop and Eugene, they fit each other so perfectly, like two halves of an apple. It seemed as though there could be no one else who would look so natural sitting there, behind this particular counter, reading this particular newspaper with those particularly creased brows.

After some time spent in this somber contemplation, Eugene glanced at his watch, showing past midnight.

"Time to go home," he sighed and stood up.

As he grabbed the keys and remote to turn the TV off, his eyes froze on the square, murky screen.

"The cases of femicide have begun to rise in the city," a young reporter was talking. "Seven women were killed by their husbands just this month, and twenty more have been injured. The grisly crimes run the gamut of murder by stabbing, injuries by choking, physical violence, and threats by guns. The most common offense, however, is acid burns; offenders harm victims by throwing acid over their heads, burning the face and scorching the upper body. While doctors can help most of the victims, some of the injuries have been fatal. Many offenders have been brought to justice, but some remain at large. Police are still searching for the fugitives."

Eugene's features furrowed and his wrinkles deepened from worry.

The newscaster continued: "Cases of femicide are particularly heightened in the suburbs and parts of the city mostly populated by immigrants. Law enforcement agencies encourage women to report abuse or crime right away, before the consequences are harsher."

"The world has gone crazy," Eugene shook his head with disappointment and turned the TV off. The reporter's voice dissipated into the dimly-lit quietude.

The streetlights melted their wan glow over the wide streets of Queens like melting candles when Eugene locked his shop doors. The small stores lined up by the sidewalks on the first floor of two story, squat block buildings had turned dark, the lights going off behind the painted glass doors with colorful name plates in different languages hanging above.

The streetlights still glistened in red and green even though only a few cars rolled by lazily, like tired animals returning to their lairs. The moment Eugene rolled down the iron door and put a lock on it, a shrill scream assaulted his ears. The sound was so piercing, so strident, it was as if the wind had shattered all the windows at once.

Startled, Eugene looked back, his heart pounding, eyes gawking through the gloom. The dark sky hung close to the ground, the air turning stuffy and suffocating. The cries repeated, now louder, crescendoing to a blood-curdling wail. These screeches sounded so desperate, only a person on the verge of falling into a pit of hell could produce them.

The screams pierced the silence like bullets hurtling through the air before trailing off, the echoes throbbing in Eugene's ears. Even though his pulse raised, blood rushed to his face, and fear rippled his skin, Eugene still turned, impulsively running toward the sound. Horror mounted in him with every step, but he couldn't stop running, his body out of his control.

In a few seconds, he found himself in a narrow alley, close to his shop. Three silhouettes melted out of the dark, and Eugene froze, narrowing his eyes. One lay on the ground while two stood. Their broad shapes and stance revealed they were men.

"Hey!!!" Eugene screamed.

Something slipped from one of the man's hands and fell to the ground with a loud, flat, tinny thud. A metal bucket rolled toward the corner. In a split second, the black outlines hopped over the fence, their running footsteps fading away.

Huffing, Eugene rushed to the person who had sat up, quivering.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"I... What..." the stranger sobbed, her brittle, shocked voice revealing she was a woman.

As he knelt, the distant, dim yellow streetlight hit the woman, and Eugene felt the blood freezing in his veins: half of her face was utterly, grotesquely ruined. Pink flesh mixed with sizzling skin, dark spots of red and purple throbbed and mingled with the blisters and dead black skin, turning into an unrecognizable mass of ground up meat. The fluorescent light, illuminating her face, danced on her like fickle yellow flames, as if she was still being burned alive, unable to escape the kindling fire.

"Oh my god!" Eugene couldn't hold back the panic spilling out of him.

The woman's trembling hands slightly touched her face while her eyes darted around, disoriented. Out of her mind, she had lost her senses, unable to realize where she was and what had happened. But the moment her fingertips touched her scorched face, she screamed, the shrieking voice erupting from her mouth like lava out of the volcano. Shivers ran down her body like electricity, and she began jerking on the ground like a fish dying in a dried up puddle.

"I'm calling the ambulance; you'll be okay," Eugene tried to calm her down, but she couldn't hear him as she continued crying, her tears blending with her blood and melting skin.

Pulling out his phone, Eugene called 911 with shaky hands, barely forming words to tell them the address.

"They are on their way. They will help you," he muttered as he hung up.

Watching the woman cry, he felt helpless. His eyes peered toward the bucket, the harsh vinegar-like scent burning his nose. From the bucket there sublimated a noxious, pungent, harshly irritating odor that made one thing perfectly clear: this woman had been burnt with acid.

"Oh god, who did this to you," Eugene blurted as he held back tears. "Who would do such a thing?" He was trying to put on a strong face in front of the traumatized and injured young woman. The victim couldn't answer however. She was slowly losing consciousness from shock and pain. Only mumbled inaudible words and wrenching groans escaped her lips.

Presently, as the night deepened, ambulance sirens became audible from a distance, loud and ear-splitting, yet nowhere as shrill and horrifying as the woman's screams.

"You'll be okay; the ambulance is here," Eugene took her hands to comfort her, but as her eyes locked on him, he realized she had lost her sense of time and place, and possessed just the raw and blistered immediacy of excruciating pain.

The sirens drew closer. The red and blue lights banded the dark buildings, and soon the noise and commotion overshadowed the muffled sobs of agony.

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Chapter 2

The hospital bustled in the usual clamor, the business of injuries and ailments on a dark night no different from that of a bright day. The nurses rushed from one spot to another, accompanying elderly patients or hurrying the badly hurt to the emergency room on stretchers.

The sounds of cries, coughs, chatter, snoring and doors slamming crescendoed to a blustering din in the vast blue and white building where only the kind smiles of the young nurses drowned out the depressing ambiance of plastic chairs, the smell of medicine, sobbing, and rolling wheelchairs.

Night seeped through the window as Chaz stood at the reception, filling out a form for one of the newest patients. Her long, dark chocolate-brown hair was tied in a bun on the back of her head, her long eyelashes lowered as she delicately carved out words with the pen. Slender yet strong arms revealed the fitness of her tall body, concealed by the oversized white scrubs.

The exhaustion cast down her eyes, the fatigue of the long day settling into her bones. Only an hour was left before she could rush off to the comfort of her bed. She couldn't wait. Even though this was a volunteer job, Chaz often found herself just as tired as the doctors.

Suddenly, the front doors opened, and nurses ran inside, rolling the stretcher with a woman lying on it. A ventilator covered her face, but Chaz still caught a glance of red and dark purple skin covering part of her head. An elderly man who hurried after them stopped at the ER and leaned against the wall as though his wobbly knees were unable to hold him any longer.

Seeing his shoulders trembling and head ducking, Chaz put down the pen and hurried to the old man.

"Let me help you, please," she gently touched his arm.

The man looked at her with crazed eyes, at first scared, but soon relief became embedded in them. He obeyed, following Chaz to the line of chairs in the lobby.

As he took the seat, Chaz quickly poured him a glass of water.

"Thank you," the man mumbled and gulped the water.

Then his eyes flitted toward the ER door, dread twisted his ashen features again.

"Will she be okay?" he mumbled. "She was burnt with acid."

Chaz's eyes followed the man's gaze, and the memory of the woman's shriveled face flashed in her mind.

"She will be okay," Chaz smiled, trying to encourage the man, but she wasn't sure of her words as acid burns were difficult to heal.

The man seemed to calm down, stopped shivering and color returned to his face. Chaz pointed at the papers sitting next to him.

"Whenever you can, please fill out this form, mister," she said.

He nodded.

She wanted to cheer him up but heard her name.

"We need your help, Chaz," the nurse who hurried out of the emergency room waved at her. "She needs bandages. Room 205." Nodding, Chaz stood up, seeing the man already filling out the form. Preparing the white bandages, Chaz quietly opened the door and peeked inside. The artificial lights brightened the small hospital room, austere and empty of furniture with only white curtains and a bed in the corner.

Closing the door behind her, Chaz walked toward the patient sleeping in the bed, the blanket covering her lower body and the rest of her wrapped in a bluish patient gown. The slight dripping sound of the IV lanced the stillness.

As Chaz's eyes landed on the woman, she winced, feeling like ants were gnawing at her skin with their sharp mandibles. She couldn't help but feel the pain the patient had felt: a large part of her face was nothing but a mash of blisters, burnt skin, and drying blood. “Poor thing," Chaz whispered.

The patient's long red hair had spread on the pillow, her white neck and the unharmed half of her face revealing her beauty: the acid hadn't injured her full lips, pointy nose, and elongated right eye. Though her left cheek and eye were buried under the scorched skin.

Chaz gently wrapped the bandage around her injury, checked her pulse and blood pressure, and walked out. The dread creeping from the back of her head whispered in her ear that something was not right, that this couldn't have been an accident.

The nurse who had brought the burnt patient stood outside, pouring instant coffee while rubbing his bloodshot eyes.

"Where's the old man?" Chaz asked. "The one with the woman in 205."

"We convinced him to go home and rest," he replied and sipped the tasteless coffee.

"Do you know what happened to that woman? Did someone burn her with acid?"

"I have no idea," he shrugged. "She was like that when we got there."

He turned, sauntering toward the hall, dragging his tired feet.

Even though the exhaustion weighed down Chaz's shoulders, too, her curiosity was stronger than her fatigue. She sneaked toward the cabinet behind the reception. She peered around, ensuring no one was around, and quickly slipped the old man's document from the top of the pile. Her eyes hastily skimmed the paper.

"Eugene Akter, 67 years old," Chaz muttered, her eyes sipping up every word. "Grocery store in Queens."

Putting the paper back into the folder, she hurried to the corner of the hallway, taking her phone out of her pocket. The clamor had died down, and the hospital was now falling into a dormancy of hush, the calm between storms.

Chaz hurriedly typed a number.

"Hey, Cam," she let out after a few beeps. "I have some news. Grab a pen and paper."

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Chapter 3

The clouds had scattered from the sky, leaving it blue and calm, like an ocean after a squall. The sun blazed out from the pure blue, unbearably hot. The scorching light quickly dried the damp ground. The trees quivered in the slight breeze, as if startled. But the breeze didn't bring the scent of newly blooming flowers or the tranquil buzz of bees. Instead, the air reeked of cigarettes, car pollution, and the unerasable stink of dirty laundry.

People had filled Eugene's grocery store: elders strolling down the aisle, teenage girls with colorful hair picking out soda bottles and giggling, a mother trying to calm her squawking kids, office workers buying cigarettes and instant coffee. The accumulated din mixed with the noise of busy streets and car honks outside.

Standing in the corner, Cam peered toward the shop owner, remembering his detailed description from Chaz's story. The man standing behind the counter, observing the customers, matched the description. No one else could be 67-year-old Eugene with gray hair, a bushy beard, and kind eyes.

Wearing a long black jacket that almost resembled a cloak, Cam blended with the dark background of the faintly lit corner, her honey-blonde hair hidden under the cap. She peered around a shelf and grabbed a pack of noodles, a reason to approach Eugene, when suddenly she saw him turning tense. Her eyes followed his glare, landing on the two men standing with newly bought beer bottles. With hanging bellies and unshaven faces, they looked like lazy husbands living off their wives' hard work.

"Did you hear what happened last night?" one of them asked his friend. "Someone attacked a woman not far from here."

"Yeah, I heard," the second man said aloud and gobbled his beer.

"What did she do to deserve it?"

"She must've talked to someone she shouldn't," the man wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Or forgot her place at home."

Suddenly, with a reddened face and eyes glowing with anger, Eugene slammed his fist on the counter.

"How dare you speak like that about a person?!" he yelled, attracting everyone's attention. Silence fell, and every head turned.

"I saw her face melting away from her skull like a popsicle in a fire. Do you know how much pain she was in?"

The men fell quiet, but a sinister smile still danced on their faces.

"Why aren't you asking how a man can do this to someone?" Eugene continued, rage thundering in his voice. "Why aren't you trying to put yourself in that poor woman's shoes? She never deserved such torment, whatever she had done. This is just a result of an insecure and weak man. I think we all know a few of those, don't we?" He locked his eyes on the men.

The customer guffawed, his eyes revealing no compassion.

"Put myself in her shoes? Now, why the hell would I do something so silly?"

"So you would throw acid on the face of someone in your family or anyone for that matter, to prove a point?" Eugene bumped the counter with both fists. Sparks of anger spilled from his eyes. "Because clearly, you're so stupid you don't even know how to express yourself verbally, so all you would have left to do is abuse them, deform them, traumatize them for your own self-worth!”

"I don't think that's any way to speak to a customer," the man interrupted.

"I don't care if you come back again!" Eugene shouted. "I am the one who had to call the police so that this poor woman could make it to the hospital without dying."

He grabbed the cash the men had just paid him for beer and threw it into their faces. The silver coins rattled on the cold floor tiles.

"I would rather have no customers than have customers like you!" Eugene growled, about to bare his teeth like a feral animal.

The men peered around, noticing how everyone stared quietly, unwilling to defend them. Finally, they turned, bewildered and humiliated, leaving with hurried footsteps. As soon as doors closed behind their back, the chatter resumed, the customers now immersed in judging what had just happened.

Cam gazed at Eugene huffing and holding his chest with his hands as though trying to tame his galloping heart. Her eyes, hovering below the thick brows and dense lashes, narrowed with satisfaction. Holding her instant noodles, she approached Eugene.

"Did you see the men who burned that poor woman?" Cam asked as she leaned on the counter.

Still red like a pomegranate, Eugene jerked on the spot, his eyes dilating.

Cam hid her face under the cap, the shadows darkening her eyes, but Eugene still

crouched closer, realization lighting up his face.

"It's you, isn't it?” He paused, gazing at her veiled features. “The Legion... I've heard about you guys."

"What can you tell me about those men?" Cam's demanding tone pushed Eugene to hold back from asking more questions, and instead to start rummaging through his memories.

"I saw them in my shop earlier," he said with reflective eyes. "Two young men, dark skin, dark hair. I think one of them had a tattoo on his neck."

"You think?" Cam's voice deepened like a stone sinking to the bottom of a lake.

Eugene swallowed.

"He had a tattoo," he replied. "They bought cigarettes."

"Anything else? Something distinctive."

"No," Eugene pursed his lips before his eyes gaped. "Oh, right! They talked in Pakistani."

Cam nodded, her sharp mind memorizing every word. She felt the anger bobbing up to the surface of her psyche: the unmitigated wrath she felt toward these men. She had known hundreds of men like them. Cowards unworthy of her sympathy. She didn't need to see their faces or study their behavior to know what needed to be done.

"Okay, thank you," she said and slid cash toward Eugene. "Please, keep quiet about our conversation."

Now more confused than angry, Eugene couldn't peel his eyes off her face. Cam stepped back, lowering her head to mask her face.

"If you remember more, please, contact me," she murmured.

Looking down on the counter, Eugene noticed a small white card under the cash with a phone number engraved in the center.

"What is your name? What is the name of your group?" Eugene couldn't suppress his curiosity. "I've been trying to think maybe I'm wrong, after all, it is just a legend,” he stammered.

“But I do remember, years ago, people talking about a rogue group taking vengeance on the most irredeemable criminals in our city. But it was all fake, right? Stuff of legends. At least, I thought so..."

"We have many names," Cam's voice dropped to a whisper. From the corner of her eye, she noticed the customers walking toward the cash register.

"It's something like Talon or Rex," Eugene kept on.

Without uttering more, Cam turned, hurrying to the door. Eugene's loud, hopeful voice followed her quick steps.

"Oh, it's Lex Tal Legion, right?! That's it!"

Without glimpsing back, Cam slid through the door gap and vanished from sight.

Chapter 4

The darkness was damp and suffocating, crawling around Munir as she stood in her tunic shirt and pants, her pitch-black hair freshly cut to the ears. Standing in the gloom, she felt the stuffy air filling her lungs, choking her. Gasping, Munir sensed dread crawling from the back of her head. She wasn't alone.

Soon she heard hissing sounds, as if snakes had slid down from trees, coiling toward her. Horrified, Munir cowered, scared of the night crawlers squirming out of the darkness. But instead of snakes, hands appeared and melted out of the gloom from every direction. Circled by these hands, Munir swallowed, realizing that she preferred being bitten by snakes to being touched with these fingertips.

She wanted to shrink, to turn into an ant so she couldn't be touched, but the hands got closer and closer, reaching out to her. The grotesque hands: big and dirty, covered with layers of gray hair, wrinkles and age spots, brownish patches and warts, curled out of the darkness to grasp at Munir like monster tentacles, trying to wrap around her and take over every inch of her body.

Sweat beaded her face, and tears welled up in her eyes. Soon, smiles appeared around her, too, the sharp smirks glowing like silver scythes.

"You look so pretty, Munir," their distant yet close voices reached her, with honeyed tones and softened words. “Boy clothes fit you so well.”

“Perahan tunban looks so good on you. You are a pretty boy.”

"Why don't you take this shirt off? You'll look prettier."

"I have a gift for you. If you take your pants off, I'll give it to you."

Munir felt the hands crawling up and down her, feeling her body through the fabric, grabbing and punching while the smirks grew wider, amplified by satisfied scoffs and pleased chuckles.

She shivered, trying to brush off these hands, but they kept clinging to her, the gentle voices urging her to get undressed, the fingers twisting in her hair, palms caressing her cheeks.

The darkness got deeper, the air more suffocating, and Munir felt the hands now unbuttoning her shirt, fumbling with the strips and laces, crawling to her neck and working their way to her chest, still flat and undeveloped. Munir's childish body cowered with fear, well-aware of what was about to come. Suddenly she heard someone calling out her name and she soon woke up.

***

The night was deep in New York, seeping through the open window. Munir found herself in her bed, damp from sweat, hair sticking to her wet forehead. With her heart racing and pulse hitting the roof, Munir looked around, still disoriented.

"It's okay, it's just a dream," she heard a gentle voice and a soft hand caressing her arm. Her eyes flitted around the dark room and landed on the woman sitting beside her, smiling.

"Lia," Munir sighed and covered her face. "I'm so tired of these nightmares."

"Still the same?"

"Same one."

She sat up, staring at Lia, still comforting her. Munir had hated to be touched, but

somehow Lia's hand was always warm and soft, skimming on her skin like velvet, calming her. The streetlights lined the room, and Lia's fiery red hair seemed even more vivid, contrasting with her pale skin. Her blue eyes had lowered as she shared Munir's pain.

Munir pushed back her black hair and wiped her forehead, her hickory-brown eyes still watery.

"I'll never escape this curse of Bacha Posh," she murmured and swallowed the tears.

She would never forget growing up as a boy, forced to dress and act like one to conform to her families needs as there were no boys in the home. At times, she was forced to entertain and please adult men who had a thing for virgin youth. Masked as more freedom to attend school and work, turning her into a boy had brought her nothing but pain. Munir never had a childhood – and though she had escaped the pits of hell, she had lost the best years of her life.

"You will," Lia's voice echoed in the dark. "That’s not you anymore. You are far away from your past now, from that cruel reality. And you have grown into a strong and powerful woman. You protect yourself."

Munir looked up, nodding, a sense of relief washing over her. Lia was right: the nightmares were only her dreams. Her reality was different from her past. She would never go back there.

"Thanks for waking me up," Munir tried to smile, but her lips were still quivering.

"Again."

"No problem," Lia's red curls slipped from her shoulder like stems of some exotic flower.

"You know I don't sleep."

Munir stood up, and standing with her back to Lia, pulled her damp shirt over her head. The wardrobe creaked quietly as she searched through it.

"When are you going to check on your insomnia," she said worryingly as she slipped into an oversized black shirt that reached down to her knees.

"I don't want to fix it, though," Lia smiled as they walked out of the room. "If I wasn’t an insomniac, who would spend nights finding the information we need?"

The cold blue light of the computer screen brightened the living room as the women walked toward the kitchen. Munir glanced at the laptop open on the table and multiple tabs overlapping on it.

"Any progress?" she asked as she followed Lia, watching her hair bouncing behind her shoulders. Soft carpet swallowed the sound of their footsteps. Munir watched Lia's delicate stance, her hands gently swaying at her sides.

"Not yet," Lia shook her head. "The faces weren't caught on any surveillance cameras."

Dim yellow lights brightened the small kitchen, the white cabinets and round table in the center. Lia put on a water boiler, and the white mist soon floated above it. Munir sat at the table, folding her legs on the chair, her eyes pinning on the white tulips in the glass vase. She felt calmer now, but the images of the horrifying nightmare still gnawed at her consciousness.

"Are you going to see that girl again? Sofia, right?" she asked and looked up at Lia, putting out two mugs. "The one you had dinner with last week."

The water boiler began screaming before Lia turned the gas off and poured the sizzling water into the cups, then threw mint tea leaves and a spoon of sugar in each.

"Mmm, I don't think so." Lia pursed her lips to one side and sat across Munir.

Murmuring a thank you, Munir clasped her hands around the mug and let the hot mist fondle her nose.

"Why?"

Lia smiled, taking a sip.

"She assumed that there's no way Cam and I don't occasionally hook up," Lia whirled the spoon in the mug, tiny bubbles bobbing up on the surface. "Because we are both lesbians and live together, she said, we must be hooking up once in a while."

"Oh," Munir giggled.

"Yeah," Lia raised her brows with sarcasm. "I didn't really like that. And she kept pressing on it. Got really annoying in the end."

"I see..." Munir pouted and took a sip. The hot liquid flowed down her throat, washing away the last bits of the sour taste the nightmare had left in her.

"Too bad. She was cute."

Lia shrugged, her eyes lingering on the window.

"It will soon be sunrise," she said, gazing out at the quiet city, empty streets, and shady windows. "You should go back to sleep."

Sighing, Munir nodded and stood up with the mug in her hand. The cloud of steam shaded her face like fog in a mountain forest. Her kind smile was sculpted out of the white mist.

"Thank you, I feel better now," she said.

"No problem," Lia beamed.

She watched Munir's silhouette disappear into her bedroom.

The street lights dimmed with the twilight pouring the first strings of light over the horizon. Lia returned to her laptop and put on her glasses, which soon left red dots on her nose. Knotting her brows, she put her face close to the screen, letting the artificial blue light sting her eyes.

Lia began watching the video once again, shot from the camera across the street from Eugene's store. The images of two silhouettes running through the dark reflected in her eyes like mirrors, she paused again, zooming in on the men, but they were darkened like shapes cut out from black papers. Finally, frustrated, she hit the button and resumed the video, staring patiently before her eyes widened.

"Car!" she murmured excitedly, as she saw the men hopping in a gray car and peeling off. She paused and zoomed in on the plate number. In a second, a smile rose to her colorless lips, her sleepless eyes brightening.

She grabbed the phone, quickly typing a text.

Escape car plate number: SCL-5684.

In a second, the screen lit up with a message from Cam.

Thanks. I'll check the details in the morning.

Sighing with relief, Lia dropped the phone and sunk deep into the couch, her eyes slowly closing. Now she could sleep for a few hours, without the gnawing feeling of failure nibbling at her heart.

Thank you for your support!

Check back next week for part 2 of Issue 1: Burning Vengeance

As darkness falls on the city of New York, criminals come out to play. Too long we have waited for justice to prevail once the games are through. Is it enough for a murderer to rest behind bars? Is it enough for a thief to only pay a fine? Is it enough for domestic violence victims to continue to have nowhere to go except back home to their abusers?

The Lex Tal Legion doesn’t think so.

A group of vigilantes who have walked through the fire and looked past the scars on their own bodies, minds and souls. Who utilize resources at their fingertips and rely on their intelligence to get back at the people who make hell the 6th borough.

Step into the life of this bad ass crew as they show us all what true justice looks like.

Issues 1 of Legends of the Waif will go live on 9/7/22 - Thank you for your support.

Beat made & edited by: Kendo Darius

Animation created by: Prahz

Beat made & edited by: Kendo Darius

Animation created by: Prahz

Dalila dropped her hands, her pale face burning up in a split second, her lips trembling, pupils dilating as she stared at Asim.

The emotions pouring out of him, Asim rushed to Dalila, wrapping his hands around her, tears of relief dripping down his cheeks.

Dalila, still frozen, didn't move an inch as though surprised to see Asim so emotional. As though she didn't expect him to show love as he used to after what he had just seen.

But Asim didn't care about the surroundings, past or future. All he could feel was the present, that moment when he held Dalila - safe and unharmed.

"Thank god!" He exclaimed and pulled back, taking her face with his hands. "Thank god you're okay!"

The girl watched him with disoriented eyes before they became rimmed with tears. Her sobs pierced the silence as she buried her face in her hands.

"Come this way," Asim felt the woman's hand on his back, and a second later, he found himself alone with Dalila in a small room. He could only glimpse at the table, bookcases, and green couch.

"What happened? Why are you here?" Asim let out, watching the girl flopping on the couch, avoiding his gaze. "We've been looking everywhere for you!"

"Who?" Dalila peeped up with bloodshot eyes, and Asim noticed a bitter smile across her lips. "I guess only you've been looking. Not my parents."

"What are you talking about?" Asim's voice softened as he sat beside her. Tears kept endlessly wetting Dalila's flushed cheeks, dribbling down her chin.

She was quiet before she wiped her face and looked up. "Did you see the kids here?" she asked. "Did you notice something different?" Asim, gazing into her eyes, remembered the glimpses of two boys murmuring closely, two girls holding hands, one boy sitting in the another's lap. "I... I don't know what you mean," he murmured, trying not to hurt Dalila even more.

"I saw you kissing that blonde girl." "And?!" Dalila scoffed. "Why aren't you shocked? Aren't you disgusted?" "I am surprised. I thought you had a boyfriend, but..." Asim responded honestly. "I'm not shocked. I'm not disgusted. I'm just happy to see you. That's all I am. Happy." New tears rolled down Dalila's face as she sighed. "I thought you'd hate me!" she cried out. Asim took her face, making her look up.

"Never," he said. "There's nothing that can make me hate you." Hugging him, Dalila dug her nose in his neck, wetting his shoulder with her tears. "Tell me, how did you end up here?" Asim asked after a few minutes. Calming a bit, Dalila rubbed her puffy eyes. "Fatima, the woman... She shelters gay people, who've been kicked out by their families," she replied. "She says she has a lot of money and doesn't know what to do with it. But I think she's not telling us the truth. I've seen a picture of her kid. Maybe something happened between them and she feels guilty. Maybe her daughter was a lesbian. I don't know."

Dalila gulped water from a bottle.

"Anyway. My dad read my messages to Grace. The blonde girl. My girlfriend," her eyes turned hazy. "He said I was sick and would never accept me if I didn't change. He didn't believe I was in love with Grace. So, he said I had to leave home. He was the one who arranged for me to leave. And I came here..." A smile spread on her face. "I've never been happier, Uncle, truly."

Asim remembered Omari's apathetic eyes, reluctance, and anger seeping out of his voice. "I'm sorry I worried you," Dalila continued. "But I just couldn't stay there." Asim grabbed her hands, holding them tightly. "Won't you come home?" he begged. "Please, let's go home. I'll talk to Omari. Everything will be fine." "No," Dalila shook her head, adamant. "I'm happy here. I'm free. I'm myself. I can finally express my true self and be with someone who I truly love. I can't come back. I can't give up this happiness."

Watching her brimmed eyes, Asim realized that Dalila had already fallen in love with this place, with the freedom it afforded her..

"I will talk to Omari," he smiled. "Until then, please be safe and please be in touch with me. I can't take the thought of losing you again."

Nodding, Dalila hugged him, and Asim let her warmth pour into him, winding his arms around the girl. He could feel her worn body, exhausted from the long, stressful journey. But she was where she felt accepted, where she felt at home. And her happiness was enough for his own.

***

The familiar dark hallway seemed damp and cold after the white walls of Rabat's buildings.

Asim knocked on the door, the usual sound breaking the silence. As it opened, he inhaled, brows furrowing.

"Are you alone?" Omari, watching quietly, nodded and opened the door widely. Walking inside, Asim closed it behind him and stopped in the hall. As though aware of

his thoughts, Omari clicked his tongue and turned, going into the kitchen and draining a glass of water into the sink.

"How could you make her leave?" Asim asked, trying to tame his tone of voice. "Your own daughter."

"It's the best decision I could’ve made in those circumstances," Omari replied, half-lidded. "She's not worthy of being part of my family anymore. She's a shame."

Asim gritted his teeth, remembering how outcast he was, just like Dalila. Forever isolated.

"Don't talk about her like that!" Anger burst out of Asim. "Why can't she love? Why is that a crime?"

"She can't love a girl!" Omari slammed the glass on the table. "She can be whoever she wants in Morocco. But not here. Not in my house."

Coldness, flowing out of Omari's eyes, spread into Asim like a winter breeze, and he almost shivered.

"Does Lapis know?" he asked.

"No," Omari shook his head. "And it's better if she never does. No one knows except me. And now you. But Lapis will never know. The least we can do is spare her the shame. Understand me, Asim.”

He narrowed his eyes at Asim, then turned his back and stared out the window. Silence ensued, broken only by the street noise.

Asim watched his back, waiting for him to turn around and utter a word that would show his love, or his guilt. Anything. Just a word. But Omari stood unmoving, the sunshine coming through the window turning him into a black silhouette. A thought, that perhaps black was the color of his soul as well, crossed Asim's mind.

"So, even if she comes back, you won't accept her?" Asim's voice vibrated through the empty room.

"Never."

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Chapter 10

Clouds drifted across the sky, in the same rhythm of the cars rolling by on the busy streets. The clamor, turned into a grating hum, raised as the traffic lights flickered from red to green to yellow, then back to red. The streets of Cairo were defined by the endless flickering and

dancing of color and noise. The desert wind, scattering sand and debris, messed up people's hair and clothes. Everything was always coated in dust.

Asim, his hands on the wheel, looked through the car window, his face turning bright, as if illuminated by an inner sun. He gave a little wave, watching Dalila and Grace walk out of the airport with a small, rolling suitcase. He appraised Dalila's broad but nervous smile, her flushed cheeks. He noted Grace's shining hair, and honey-brown, sweet eyes. Kind and uncertain. Fierce with love for his niece.

"Hey, Uncle!" Dalila exclaimed as they got in the car after putting the luggage in the trunk. "Thanks for the lift."

"Of course," Asim smiled and turned to shake Grace's hand. "I'm Asim Ali. We didn't have a chance to meet."

"Grace Rossi," she replied with a distinct accent and modest smile. "I'm from Italy."

"Have you left because of your parents too?" Asim asked and started the engine, glancing at Dalila in the passenger's seat.

"I haven't been in contact with them for years now," Grace replied, and catching her melancholy gaze through the rare-view mirror, Asim realized he had touched upon a tender subject. He chastised himself for being so blunt with the young girl.

Driving through the traffic, Asim looked at Dalila, her eyes sparkling from anxiety, her knee jumping up and down as she tapped on the window.

"Everything will be okay," Asim assured her, trying to spread his calm onto the girls too. "I'm proud of you for coming back and having such courage. I think it's a good decision. Lapis should find out from you."

Nodding, Dalila swallowed and rubbed her face.

"I'm still scared," she muttered. "Scared of facing my dad. Seeing that look in his eyes again... that disappointment...” She trailed off. “I had never seen such hatred in him before," she blinked hard not to let the tears escape. "He is disgusted by me."

"He doesn't hate you. You are his daughter," Asim tried to encourage her. "He is just from a different era, a different mindset. He doesn't understand," he sighed. "But what he did to you Dalila... it's unforgivable. And I won't blame you if you never want to see him again."

"If I don’t see genuine guilt in him today," Dalila fixed her purple headscarf. "If he doesn't apologize, if he still calls me a shame...” She sighed. “Then that will be it. He will get his wish and never see me again."

She rolled down the window and took a deep breath of the dusty city air. "I'm right here," Asim took her hand. "Whatever happens, I'll be right beside you." Nodding, Dalila squeezed his hand, having no alternative but to collect all her courage

and steel herself for the upcoming confrontation. After a few moments they arrived at the house. Throwing open the car door, the two girls

ran up the entrance stairs, Dalila gripping Grace's hand like a life preserver. As Asim knocked on the door, he could feel Dalila quivering from anxiety. Then, as the

door opened, a mad squealing burst out. "Dalila! Dalila!! You are back!" The little boy jumped up on her, followed by his siblings.

The joyous kids kept pulling down Dalila as she tried to hold everyone, kissing their cheeks. "Oh, I missed you all so much!" she sobbed out. Then, a voice like a garbage compactor crushed the moment. "That's enough."

Everyone looked up. Omari stood in the center of the room, his hands glued to his sides, eyes turning hard and opaque.

"Kids, go to your rooms," he ordered, but Dalila held them back.

"No, everybody stay," she said, without taking her eyes off of Omari. "You have the right to know the truth too."

Suddenly the door opened behind their back, and a scream pierced the atmosphere.

"Dalila! You are here!" Lapis dropped the grocery bags, hugging the girl and then checking her face, hair, hands, legs as though making sure she wasn't just an imagination.

"Where were you?! Oh, my beautiful baby girl!! I’ve been worried sick! Where...” Lapis shook her head, as if clearing all the stress and sadness from her mind. “Dalila. Where have you been??"

Only then did Lapis notice Grace standing behind Dalila, and confusion replaced happiness on her face.

"Who is she?" Lapis asked urgently.

Silence fell. Dalila inhaled. The kids had lined up on the couch, gawking curiously as Omari stood motionlessly, his face a dark mask.

"This is Grace. She's my...girlfriend." Dalila let out with a steady voice and put her chin up, opening her shoulders. Her boldness surprised Asim, standing next to her. "We are in love."

"What?" Lapis laughed, but her smile vanished in a second. "You are joking, right?"

"I am not," Dalila said and took Grace's hand. "We met through the internet a year ago and have been in touch since then. That's why I had to leave..." She looked at Omari. "Or, was made to leave."

Lapis' eyes followed Dalila's gaze, turning more and more perplexed.

"What do you mean?" She asked, her voice thick with fear of what her daughter would say.

Asim watched Dalila, barely swallowing the ball of tears stuck in her throat.

Omari's eyelashes began fluttering as if trying to stop Dalila but having no strength for it. His lips turned in a smileless, straight line.

"Dad found my messages and made me leave," Dalila said stonily. "He arranged so that I could go to Morocco and live there. He told me to never contact any of you again."

Lapis stared blankly as if unable to grasp Dalila's words. Then a hot anger flared in her eyes, and she rushed to Omari, grabbing his shirt, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"How could you?? How could you do that?!" Lapis cried out. "To our daughter! And to me! And you... you just watched us suffer! You did not say a word, you coward!"

Silent, Omari peeled Lapis off of him and glared at Dalila.

"I was doing you a favor!" he let out. "We don't need a daughter like her. She will bring shame to our family. Nothing more."

Lapis stared back at him with teary eyes, now watching Dalila and Grace, as though Omari's words had begun settling into her mind.

Seeing the change in her mother, Dalila couldn't help but let the tears roll down her face.

"I don't need you anymore," she said to Omari. "I won't let you change me. And even if you give up on being my parents, I will still continue being my true self. I'm in love with Grace. She is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And nothing can change that." She looked at Asim, her eyes turning grateful. "At least I have someone who accepts me just the way I am. And because of that, I am lucky."

Giving her siblings kisses on their foreheads, Dalila opened the door. "Let's go?" Asim asked, and she nodded. Dalila froze in the doorway, and looking back at her parents, she waited, trying to elicit a

trace of realization from them or a momentary sign of love. Receiving nothing but tense silence, Dalila dropped her head and walked out.

Asim took his eyes off of Lapis and Omari, who both stood unmoving, watching Dalila leave. He did not understand how they could just let their own daughter go like that. But whatever went through their minds didn't matter anymore. Even if the whole world turned its back on Dalila, Asim would never leave her side.

***

Sprawled on the couch, Asim watched the TV. The images of old black and white movies flickered on the screen, the artificial voices lulling him as he dozed off.

Suddenly, a continuous knocking on the door woke Asim up. Startled, he jumped up from the couch.

The knocking kept on, steady and demanding. Sighing, Asim dragged his body up, plodding toward the door.

"I'm coming," he muttered, rubbing his sleepy eyes, stretching his heavy arms.

Quick, light footsteps crossed the room and flashed by him. Soon, the sound of giggling and murmuring reached him.

"Here. Here!" Dalila hurried to the door, with Grace following.

The girls, broad smiles stretched on their faces, their shining hair fluttering behind their backs. Twinkles danced in their eyes like sunbeams.

"Go back to watching TV, Asim," Grace turned, her eyes glittering. "More like snoring in front of the TV," Dalila chuckled, her cheeks dimpling. "Hey!" Asim laughed with fake rebuke, but the girls opened the door before he could

scold them. More squealing and laughter flowed into the house as the kids rushed in, surrounding Dalila and her girlfriend, everyone hugging everyone.

"Oh, this is heavy." Walking in, Lapis put down the grocery bags and pinched Asim's cheek. "Help me, will you?"

Rubbing his stinging cheek, Asim nodded.

"Sorry," he laughed and took the fruits and vegetables out of the bags. "It's too much, Lapis. They barely eat anything! Half of the fridge goes bad every week."

Shaking her head, Lapis smiled at Dalila, who had approached and caressed her face with loving eyes.

"Making your uncle angry, huh?" she smiled.

Dalila raised her brows with a mischievous look before giggling and sitting at the table as Lapis cut up the fruit, Grace helping her.

"It's okay, honey," Lapis beamed at Grace. "You must be tired after the classes." "I like helping you," Grace replied, and Lapis gasped from surprise. "You've gotten much better in Arabic!" "She's naturally gifted," Dalila said, twisting Grace's long hair strand around her finger. Answering the door, Asim hugged Femi, letting Dalila's older sister in before she greeted everyone and, staring at the fruit on the table, burst out laughing. "I brought apples and oranges too!" she exclaimed and opened the bag. "It's okay!" the little boy let out. "We will eat it!"

Everyone laughed, ruffling the boy's hair. "Let's sit," Asim suggested, and brought chairs to the table. "So, how do you like living with Asim?" Lapis asked, chewing an apple. "He's one grumpy old man, right?" "No, no," Grace smiled as Asim gave Lapis a slight nudge. "He's really nice and kind.

And not old at all." "Oh, she's being sweet," Dalila arched her brows and peeped at Asim, bottling up her titters. "He snores so much; it's louder than the trucks outside!" Laughter washed over the family. Everyone guffawed: kids, teenagers, and adults. Bellies and shoulders shook with glee. The family continued chattering with bright smiles, joking about their everyday lives, and discussing the upcoming summer vacation.

Watching them all, Asim felt different, as though he had turned into somebody else. For the first time in his life, he was truly happy. His soul and mind had calmed and found a peaceful place inside himself. With Dalila in his life, Asim knew that this feeling of serenity and harmony would never fade. He couldn't wait to watch Dalila grow older and happier alongside the love of her life.

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Asim swallowed, his throat getting drier as he stood in the street, his hair fluttering as the hot breeze hit him from behind. The sand and dust, creating small whirlwinds, stung his eyes. The temperature kept rising, the heat getting more and more unbearable.

He looked at the pile of papers in his hands with Dalila's photo printed on them, text written in bold, black letters above it:

Missing. Please contact this number if you have seen this girl.

Asim's phone number shone in red below the text.

Looking up, Asim's eyes ran over the trunk of a streetlight, already covered in different posters and papers. Dalila's photos were now glued over all of them. Sighing, Asim stuck on another flier and stepped forward, now approaching a wall of an old building and fixing the papers there.

He had been walking the entire city, pasting Daila's photo everywhere, filling the pillars, fences, walls, and announcement boards.

Turning, he rushed into the store on the street, edging away from the customers, hurrying to the cashier.

"Have you seen her?" he asked, shoving the photo into the man's hand. The man glanced at it confusedly before shaking his head. "Can I leave this on your door?"

The cashier, or perhaps the owner of the small store, couldn't reject Asim's pleading voice and nodded. Thanking him, Asim glued two papers on the inside and outside of the door before rushing outside.

Walking down the street, he handed out the photos, continuously asking passersby about Dalila. But everyone just shook their heads. Some became annoyed, as if he was a common street peddler. Some watched him with pity, and some stopped, observing the photo with a genuine will to help. But no one knew anything. No one could recognize her.

Exhausted, Asim leaned against a wall, taking deep breaths, bottling up the anger, frustration, sadness, and hopelessness. Pursing his lips, he held in the cry that tried to burst out of him, then wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

His phone vibrated. Lucien's message flashed on the screen.

Can't find anything yet. I'll keep searching.

Looking up, Asim saw a small cafe across the street. Realizing he had to eat something to keep going, he plodded toward it.

As he walked inside, the customers filling the small space glimpsed at him before returning to their food and conversation.

"The table at the window is available," a young waitress smiled at Asim, leading him to the spot.

Flopping on the chair, Asim put the papers aside.

"Bring me cold water," he ordered with an unamused voice. "And the food... just bring whatever your special is today."

The girl nodded and, about to turn, got interrupted by Asim.

"Have you seen her?" he asked, showing her Dalila's picture. The waitress examined it for a few seconds before bending her lips.

"No, sorry." "Can I hang one here?" She glanced back as if searching for her boss's approval. "Yes, you can hang one up near the counter." Mumbling a thank you, Asim dragged himself up and approached the board next to the counter where the employees kept gathering to divide the orders. Sticking the photo on the wall, Asim turned, going back to his seat. The girl brought his glass of water, and food was placed in front of him. Asim doggedly dug his fork in, but putting one bite in his mouth, realized he couldn't force it into his stomach.

Drinking the water, he leaned back, looking out of the window, noticing the papers he had stuck on the walls across the street.

Something within him suddenly felt uneasy. And it wasn't the heat, fatigue, frustration, or sleepiness, but something else. Asim felt someone's gaze burning through the side of his face. Someone was watching him.

Turning his head, his eyes ran into a young boy, not older than Dalila, staring at him. Wearing the white server uniform, he looked just like any other Moroccan teenager.

But the more Asim watched him, the more he felt that the boy wanted to tell him something.

Putting the glass down, Asim stood up and approached the boy. His young eyes began wavering as Asim looked down at him.

"You know something about my niece?" Asim asked, pointing at the photo.

The boy peeked toward the others and stepped back, hiding in the dark corner. Asim followed, watching his wide eyes.

"I wasn't sure if it's her," the boy finally uttered. "But I think it is. I think..." "Where have you seen her?" Asim demanded, impatient. "Do you know her or what?" "I know where she is, or at least, the girl I'm thinking of," the waiter whispered, his

cheeks slightly flushing. "There is a house on the shore. Three-floored, with brown doors and white walls."

"That's literally every house here," Exasperated, Asim couldn't tame his frustration anymore. "Write down the address."

The boy ripped a paper out of his tiny notebook and hastily wrote it down, handing the address to Asim.

"How do you know she's there?" Asim asked. The boy avoided his gaze, looking down, his curls falling to his face. "I go there sometimes," he muttered. "When I can't stay at home." "What do you mean?" Asim swallowed, but the boy slipped through the gap between Asim and the wall. "You'll see her there," the boy said, with a knowing sadness. These were the last words he uttered before hurrying out and mingling with the others. Inhaling sharply, Asim looked down at the scrap of paper, his lifeline. He carefully folded it and placed it in his pocket. If the boy was right, and Asim would find Dalila there, he would be grateful to him for the rest of his life.

Chapter 8

The sun slowly sank into the ocean, its burnt orange light spreading over the calm surface, creating a flashing path from the horizon to the coast. The ocean glistened as the bright orange disco ball slid down, already halfway disappeared into the horizon. The sky began turning dark blue, but the red beams like flames twinkled on it as if the sky mirrored the ocean. Soon the sun would hide, and the horizon would dissolve as the sky and sea emerge into one. But until then, the last radiant light flowed onto Rabat, floating as in a dream.

Asim, however, standing at the edge of the stairs, couldn't see or feel the surroundings. His mind was immersed in his internal war.

Glancing at the piece of paper in his hand, he looked up at the three-floored house, its white walls glinting in the deep light. Standing before it, Asim could hear muffled chatter and laughter reaching through the door. But looking up, he couldn't see anyone behind the drawn curtains. As if it was a hideaway, a sort of speakeasy. Taking a few light steps forward, Asim knocked on the door and, impatient, began fidgeting on his feet. Why were people hiding behind the curtains? Why didn't the boy in the cafe tell him what this place was? What was so secretive about it?

Worries began simmering in Asim's heart. Maybe it was a place for criminals. What if they hurt Dalila? Or what if this was a trap? He clenched his fists, stepping back.

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But the cheerful, high-pitched voices of giggling and blabbering proved him otherwise. The sounds of young people made him think that maybe this was a house for homeless kids.

Suddenly the door opened, and Asim's eyes moved from the windows to the woman standing at the doorway, her scrutinizing gaze gliding up and down on the man. Her long, colorful dress fluttered in the slight breeze, and the curly hair hardly covered her ears, shining gems dangling from them. Only a glance was enough to feel the woman's free spirit, expressing itself through her carefree, hippy-style appearance. And even though she radiated energy and youth, deep wrinkles had bunched up around her eyes, lining her cheeks. She gazed at Asim with her blue eyes, deeper than the ocean.

"I..." Asim hardly began as if saying his first words. "I'm Asim Ali. I've come from Cairo."

She listened quietly, waiting for him to continue. Suddenly, Asim caught sight of young boys flashing by behind her and, as they noticed Asim, hurried away as though afraid of him, running into dark corners. The laughter and chit-chat kept emanating from the house.

"I'm looking for my niece," Asim said, and showed the woman Dalila's picture. "Someone gave me this address and said that they'd seen her here."

The woman glimpsed at the photo and looked up, her eyes wavering from doubt.

"Please," Asim pleaded, his voice turning brittle. "I've been searching for her for a week. All I know for certain is that she's in Morocco. Please, tell me if you know where she is."

The woman gazed at him as though trying to read his thoughts or figure out if his emotions were genuine.

A sense of hopelessness washed over Asim. He dropped his hands, the tears he'd been holding in escaping and rolling down his cheeks.

"Please," he sobbed out. "I don't know how much strength I have left. And I can't leave without seeing that she is safe. I won't leave until I see her."

Looking down and rubbing his eyes dry, Asim felt the lady's hand on his shoulder. Glancing up, his eyes ran into her grave expression.

"Come in," she murmured and turned.

Mumbling words of gratitude, Asim stepped over the doorway and walked inside. As the door closed behind him, he gawked around, finding himself suddenly in the ambiance of dozens of different voices, all blending into one another, coming from every direction. He felt like microphones were attached to the ceiling, different songs flowing from them. But in a few seconds, when he grasped the reality, Asim realized that he just stepped foot into a house absolutely teeming with people.

Between the white walls and wooden furniture, young people mingled, mostly teenagers or in their early 20’s. Some stood at the kitchen counter, some ate cereal, some watched TV, and some dozed on the couch. Their chatter turned into a bundle of inaudible conversations. Boys and girls with dyed hair, piercings, colorful or monochrome clothes, dark or light skin, different features, and body types - all had gathered. It looked like a group of entirely unlikely companions, but at the same time, they had a lot in common: youth, life, and signs of scare and secrecy in their eyes.

Gooseflesh rippled up Asim's skin. He could see immense sadness in every kid's eyes, something only the people who have experienced the real world have. How could these teenagers have such depth in their eyes?

"You're looking for Dalila, right?" The woman's voice snapped Asim out of his trance, and before he could collect himself to answer, he saw Dalila coming out of the next room with her hand over a girl's shoulder, laughing. Asim froze, staring at her. He had never seen her so happy, so careless, so joyous. Light poured out of her sparkling eyes, a broad smile spread on her face.

Unable to see her uncle, Dalila beamed at the girl standing next to her, a little shorter than Dalila, blonde and tanned.

Asim felt his heart skipping a beat as Dalila leaned in, kissing the girl. Their lips momentarily touched before they smiled at each other. Asim couldn't remember seeing anyone with so much love in their eyes.

Asim swallowed, loosening his fists as Dalila noticed him, color draining from her face.

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Check back next week for part 4! Thank you for reading.

People kept passing by, walking up and down the street with quick steps, their heads lowered to avoid the burning sunshine. Some hurried with bags over their shoulders, some with folders stuck in their arms, some strolled carelessly, and some stood on the sidewalk, scrolling through their phones.

Still, no one had as much worry in their hearts as Asim.

Asim sat on a bench, his eyes fixed on the small grocery store across the street. There was nothing special about this store, it was just another old building in the city. But one thing distinguished it from every store: Dalila's kidnapper shopped there.

Asim's eyes moved up as someone flopped next to him, and a slight smile ran across his lips.

"Sara, thanks for coming," he let out with an exhausted voice and added. "Again."

Still wearing her peach-tinted hijab, Sara nodded, her gaze following Asim's eyes, landing on the store entrance. A few customers went in and out, but none of them was the one Asim searched for. Hopelessness began to seep into him.

"Sorry for making you come here every day," Asim apologized. "You must be tired after the classes."

"It's okay, I'm happy to help," Sara's eyes sparkled with honesty and compassion. "But aren't you tired? You've been sitting here for hours every day. And it's been five days, maybe we should–"

"We aren't giving up," Asim's voice overshadowed the girl's. He rubbed his unshaven chin, feeling the sleeplessness casting down his eyelids.

"Of course," Sara agreed obediently, her voice edged with respect.

Asim sighed, his body starting to shut down after spending nights without a wink, getting no food or a minute without worry. Suddenly, Sara gasped, pointing at the store with a trembling finger.

"It's him," she murmured. "It's him."
"What?!" Asim jumped up, staring at the man getting out of a run-down, white van. He coughed and brushed back his oily, curly hair before walking into the store. Asim examined his inflated belly hanging from his belt, hairy arms, and worn-out shoes with disgust. He winced.

"You can go now, Sara; I can talk to him myself," Asim muttered under his breath.
"Are you sure?" she asked.
"Yes, thank you for everything."
Asim didn't even glance at Sara, slowly walking away as he stared at the man's reflection through the window.

In a single fluid motion, and as if a sudden unstoppable force propelled him from the back, Asim rushed forward, crossing the street and stopping at the door. He felt adrenaline lashing violently in his veins. One customer left the store. Then the second, then a third... and fourth was the man. Walking out of the store, the man peeked into his grocery bag, stepping toward his van before Asim grabbed his arm, making him turn.

"Who are you?" he asked, startled. Under the sunshine, up close, his low beard and dark face – as if smudged with mud – looked even more sickening to Asim. Rage mounted in him, about to pour out.

"Let's talk in the shade," the whispers snaked out of Asim's mouth.

"Why would I–" the man began, but Asim gripped his arm tightly, digging his nails into his skin.

"Would you rather I shout that you're a kidnapper?" Asim smirked and jolted his chin. "Or maybe you prefer going straight to the police station? It's right down the street."

The color drained from the man's face, and he swallowed before slightly nodding.

Asim stepped to the back of the store, facing nothing but a metal fence. The rounded building partly covered them from the street.

The shadow spread over the men like Asim's darkened, unhinged soul.

"Where did you take my niece?" Asim felt the intimidation crawling out of him – so strong, it even frightened him. "Dalila! Where the hell did you take her!?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," the man stepped back, sticking against the wall. He lowered his head to avoid Asim's killing gaze that drilled right through him, like bullets stabbing through prey.

"Dalila! An 18-year-old girl got into your van six days ago, before 9 am, in front of the college!" Asim raised his voice, last bits of patience seeping out of him. "You still don't remember?"

"I don't," the man mumbled, staring at his shoes.
"Look at me!" Asim yelled before looking around and lowering his voice.
He grabbed the man's chin, forcing him to lift his head, gripping his face with his full strength. The man's features twisted, his pupils shrinking from terror.
"You kidnapped her, or at least you have a hand in her disappearance," Asim's lips trembled, his face wrinkling from fury. "Are you sure you don't remember?"
The man shook his head, sweat rolling down his temples.

Looking at the man lying, Asim felt something snapping in his stomach as if knots of anger had opened. The strength rushed to his fists, and before the man could blink, he felt Asim's heavy punch in the chest.

His body crumpled like paper, slowly sliding down the wall and rolling up in an embryo pose. The man moaned from pain and covered his head with his hands, shrinking more and more into a ball like a hedgehog.

Looking down at the man turning weak and powerless like a human downsizing into a child, Asim felt anger fading and guilt raising its head in him. Words of apology rushed to his lips, but he held back the moment he remembered Dalila.

"Won't you speak now?" he asked quietly.

The man glanced up, his eyes narrowed from alarm as if preparing for another punch. But Asim had released his fists, loosening his body.

"All I know is that she's in Morocco," the man uttered.
Asim grabbed his arm, making him stand up.
"Morocco? Why?" he asked.
"I have no idea, really," the man pleaded. "Please. That's all I know."
Asim inhaled, staring steadily into the man’s frightened eyes. The man was being honest, there was no need to intimidate him further.
Letting go of him, Asim shook his head, clouded with questions. Why was Dalila in Morocco? Was she kidnapped? Or did she run away?
The answers didn't matter. All he knew was that he had to find her.

Chapter 5

The sound of Asim's footsteps dashing up the stairs broke the dark silence lodged into the old, dusty corridors.

Panting, he bumped his fist on the door and then pressed his forehead against it. He was breathing so sharply and heavily it sounded as if he needed to suck up all the air there was in that dank space.

The door opened, and Asim looked up, seeing his sister standing, her trembling hand hardly holding the door. Her eyes had become even darker than the bags beneath them. Her skin had shriveled like a withering flower, and her lips quivered as if unable to stop after crying so continuously.

Asim rushed in, winding his arms around Lapis, feeling her bony body hunching between his arms. She weakly hugged back, and when Asim let go of her, Lapis stumbled, almost falling.

"Careful!" Asim caught her arm, helping her sit on a chair. She had lost all her vibrant energy, and teetered like an old woman on the verge of death.

Asim glanced at Omari standing at the kitchen window, watching. His face didn't even twitch, nor did his hands move with the reflex of helping his wife. As if he had already gotten used to their new lifestyle that only consisted of thinking and talking about Dalila, crying, and calling police over and over again just to receive no answers.

Sitting next to his sister, Asim took her hand, trying to see her eyes through the dark hijab falling to her face.

"Where are the kids?" he asked.

"We took them to Omari's mother," she forced the words out of her parched lips. "We don't have the energy to take care of them right now."

Asim's eyes darted around the house. Once so noisy, lively, and full of children's chatter, now the place was sinking in misery and silence. No kids ran from room to room anymore, and the vacant bedrooms looked like empty boxes of matches. Sadness struck Asim.

"Was the police here?" he asked.

"Yes," now Omari replied, still standing a few feet away. "But they said they can't do much. They already questioned Dalila's friends and the neighbors, but they have no lead."

"My little girl," Lapis murmured before tears traced her cheeks again, red and irritated. "Where is my daughter?"

Omari sighed and turned, looking out of the window.

"Maybe we should give up," he said quietly. "It's obvious she left because she didn't want to live here anymore."

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Asim tried to see Omari's face, but he had turned his back at them. Hearing him talk as if he had already given in to hopelessness, Asim felt his throat tightening from anger again.

"What do you mean, give up?!" he asked loudly, standing up. "We don't ‘give up.’ We are her family."

"You are not," Omari turned, locking his eyes on Asim. Asim stared at his unwavering lashes and frozen pupils. And for the first time in a while, he felt isolated again.

"I found the man," Asim stepped toward Omari. "The man with a white van."
"You did?!" Lapis jumped up and dashed to him, suddenly revived. "You talked to him?!" "Yes, I did," Asim replied and took Lapis's shaking hands. Then, slowly and carefully:

"He said Dalila is in Morocco."
Lapis gasped and covered her mouth before a suppressed smile flickered on her face. "Oh my god, Asim!" she cried out, tears of elation misting her eyes. "In Morocco!" she

fell quiet and stepped back, her smile slowly melting away. "We need to go, but how? So many children..."

"I will go," Asim asserted. "I have already decided."
"You?" Lapis whispered, gawking at him.
"Yes, I will go and find her," Asim smiled. "I promise I will."
"How did you make the man talk?" Omari's stern, dry tone of voice made them turn.
He had walked closer to Asim, standing with arms akimbo, his curly hair standing on its end.
"How?" he repeated. "You probably beat him up. You did, didn't you?"
Asim gritted his teeth, his body tensing up, veins bulging under his heated skin. A gentle touch of Lapis soothed him before she stood between them.

"Stop it, Omari," she scolded her husband. "He's offering help. You know, none of us can leave because of work and kids. Moreover, Asim will be much more flexible and practical than us..."

"Yes, he will," Omari interrupted, scoffing ironically. "Because he has so much experience in this kind of thing."

"Omari," Lapis tried to stop him but without luck.

Omari stood before Asim, gazing into his flaring eyes, seeing how much his words angered and hurt Asim. But nothing stopped him, and Asim wondered if that was his aim from the start - to hurt him and make him change his mind.

"The outcast one," Omari continued, a subtle, fixed smile cracking his lips. "The one with a dangerous background. Did some time in jail, involved with the drug trade in Egypt. That's all you, Asim, isn't it?"

Asim felt rage hammering in his chest, but he held back. Then, inhaling, he looked away, trying to calm his strained nerves.

"Yes, that's all me," Asim replied flatly. "But I've changed. I'm different now. I thought you knew that."

As Omari fell quiet, Asim's eyes moved onto Lapis, who stared up at him, her cheeks still wet. Did she consider him an outcast too? Hasn't she forgiven him after all these years? Lapis was the only one he had, and the thought that she didn't trust him made his heart shatter into pieces.

Lapis turned to her husband.
"Please, Omari," she begged.
"I don't want him to go!" Omari shouted and turned. "How can I trust someone like him?

Someone's who's capable of doing what he's done."
Lapis took his hands, sobbing.
"He is a good man, Omari," she pleaded. "Please. He has to go. He will help. He will bring our girl back."
Omari shook his head, huffing.
"We won't ever find her if Asim doesn't go," Lapis cried. "You're ready to give up on her?

Please, don't do this to me. Don't do this to our family."
Omari stared at her eyes for a minute before his steady expression broke, and he sighed. "Okay," he muttered. "If you think he can help, he can go."
Lapis turned at Asim with a brightened face. But Asim's face didn't change; it was shaded, grave. Why didn’t Omari want him to go? While his refusal would still not change his mind, Asim wondered if Omari even wanted to find Dalila. Maybe he's shaken from worry, he mused.

Quickly kissing Lapis on the cheeks, Asim rushed to the door and opened it.

"I'll keep you posted," he said and looked back, the anger and doubts bubbling inside him.

He glanced at Lapis and nodded, then regarded Omari one last time, taking a look at his reluctant, stony expression. He felt miles and miles away from these people. Outcast, just like Omari had said. But this time he wasn’t the one keeping secrets.

Chapter 6

The sun blazed down the city, floating in the clear sky like a golden fish hovering in a calm ocean. The thin cloud of dust fluttered in the air, seeping through the crevices and gaps, traveling through the narrow alleys, filling the holes in the old walls.

Asim rolled his suitcase out of the airport, and standing at the curb, gazed out at a familiar sight. He was here in Rabat, the capital of Morocco, once again.

Feeling the shirt clinging to his damp skin, sweat crawling down his forehead, and palms getting clammy, Asim licked his parched lips and caught a taxi.

Heading to the hotel, he looked out the murky car window. His eyes lingered on the identical white buildings scattered like sugar cubes on the hill, windows reflecting the shining blue of the Atlantic Ocean. Ships and boats slid across the smooth surface of the water, leaving lines of white bubbles. The old, brown, brick walls of buildings still stood unmoving after so many years like untouchable idols. People had opened the windows, putting their colorful blankets over them, letting the sunshine soak the soft fabrics. The chatter had turned into a barely audible hum that hung over the city.

The taxi soon passed by the center of Rabat and drove into the Kasbah of the Udayas. Asim felt like the sky and ocean had emerged into one, as if the horizon had disappeared and the whole world turned into a blue canvas, pure like a gemstone found in deep waters.

Even though he knew this place well, Asim felt amazement flooding through him once again as his eyes landed on the lined-up blue buildings, creating narrow aisles, bringing an atmosphere of a fairy tale. Their azure walls, resembling the heavens, had slightly creased and cracked but still held the undying beauty. Green ivy adorned the untainted vivid color, turning the sight into an impressionist painting.

Getting out of the car, Asim took his small suitcase and began walking up the stairs in the alley between the white and blue houses. This beauty momentarily overshadowed his worries, but they soon spiked again as Asim remembered why he was here. Soon, the thoughts about Dalila fogged his mind, and everything else – the blue sky, ocean, and buildings – became blurry.

Knocking on the wooden door, Asim saw an old lady appearing with a sweet smile from behind it.

"Good morning, " he greeted politely. "I am renting the room upstairs."
"Oh, yes, yes," the lady opened the door. "Please, come inside."
After receiving the key, Asim walked upstairs, holding his suitcase. As he stepped into the room and closed the door behind, he exhaled as if he'd been holding his breath for the entire trip.

Flopping on the bed, he glanced around the room. It was small but neat, with crisp white walls, a clean bed, and broad windows. As he glanced out onto the street, listening to the soft anonymous hum of the city, Asim realized how lonely he was.

Exhaustion hit him like a punch to the gut, and began pulling down his eyelids. Fatigue soaked up his energy as Asim stared blearily out of the window, absently staring at the rooftops glistening in the sunshine.

But he had no time to feel tired or lonely. He hadn't come here to get swallowed by his own emotions. He had come here to find Dalila, and nothing could break his determination to search for her day and night. He would inspect every dusky corner of Morocco if he had to, until he'd see her face again. And then – no matter what had happened to her or what she had done – he'd hold her tight in his arms and never let go.

Pulling his phone out of his pocket, Asim quickly dialed a number and put it to his ear. After three beeps, he heard the long-forgotten yet very known voice he hadn't heard for years.

"I need to see you today," said Asim into the phone, receiving dead silence in return. But in a few seconds, the deep voice broke it.

"Meet me at Altos in an hour."

The conversation ended, and the quiet stretched from the other end of the line. Turning his phone off, Asin pocketed it, grabbed his wallet, and hurried out.

–––

Altos looked the same as it did years ago, only the barman seemed new. The black walls, dim lights, quiet music, and acrid scent of old booze – none of it had changed. As Asim stepped inside, he felt like he had stepped into his old home.

His eyes glided over the few customers, sitting in corners, sipping from glasses. As Asim surveyed the scene, one particularly rugged bear of a man caught his glance and locked eyes.

The man rose immediately, welcoming Asim with a broad grin. His muscled body, tanned skin, and shaved head gave him an intimidating look, despite his being several inches shorter than Asim. But his eyes sparkled like black diamonds.

"I hoped I'd never see your face again," Asim muttered in a low tone before a smile broke his solemn expression. "Lucien, you old man," Asim chuckled.

"You don't look too young either, Asim!"

Laughing, the men hugged each other, tapping their hands on one another's backs. Sitting at the table, Lucien raised his hand to call the barman, but Asim shook his head.

"I don't drink anymore," he said, making the man smile.

"You've changed," Lucien sized Asim up like a kid observing a gift. "How long has it been? Ten years?"

"12 years," Asim scoffed and shook his head. "Too long to go without seeing a friend."

"Too long," Lucien agreed, sweat beads sparkling on his bald head. "What brings you back to Rabat?”

Sighing, Asim locked his eyes on Lucien as though trying to share his thoughts through telepathy.

"My niece has gone missing," he said, heavily. A long sigh. "All I know is that she's in Morocco. This is her. Dalila."

Asim showed Lucien Dalila's picture on his phone. A happy girl smiling brightly at the camera. Lucien looked at it, then back at Asim with a severe expression.

"We were one big group of loner, outcast men," Asim continued, remembering the past. "You all helped me survive in the Egyptian underground. We all helped each other. And I know you were angry at me when I left to start fresh," Asim breathed. "But I need your help once again. I really need it."

Lucien gazed at him silently; his eyes fixed on Asim's face as though trying to drill through it. Asim felt a million different thoughts rush through his friend's mind.

Finally, Lucien dropped his head and looked up at Asim from below his bushy brows.

"Okay," he let out carefully, before a subtle smile curled his lips. "How can I say no to you, you stubborn old goat!"

"Thank you, Lucien!" Asim exclaimed, tears of gratitude filling his eyes.

"I'll do everything I can," Lucien said and pointed at Asim's phone. "Meanwhile, you should print out that photo and start asking around. Anywhere. Everywhere."

Asim nodded, and looking at Dalila's picture on his phone, prayed fervently for the time he'd see her smile again.

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The sun blazed down on the identical, brown buildings, dying the surroundings in bright yellow. The clear sky hung above Cairo and the bright shine, pouring down on the busy streets, tinted the city with gold. The air boiled as if preparing to set itself on fire, and the sand, covering the roads, created clouds, shrouding the people.

Edging away from the crowd, Asim crossed the street and jumped up on the sidewalk. His eyes flitted around the gravel-covered ground and the traffic lights flickering in red. The cars, almost crashing into each other, beeped and honked, filling the atmosphere with overwhelming noise.

Used to this sight, Asim's eyes moved on the short, old buildings and their faded, moth-eaten walls, nearly on the verge of collapse. Colorful clothes rippled in the air, hanging from the balconies. Children kept running past him, jolting and cuffing the walkers, their careless laughter and chatter mingling with the street clamor.

Feeling the sweat beads forming on his forehead, Asim wiped it with the back of his hand and sped up, finally seeing the familiar building. Exhaling from relief, he ran inside and then up the stairs, leading to the third floor. Knocking on the iron door, Asim leaned against the wall, catching a breath. Stuffy air had piled up in the dimly lit halls.

Footsteps reached him before the door opened, and a man wearing a black suit appeared, a folder packed with papers stuck under his arm.

"Omari, you’re already leaving?" Asim gasped as the man walked out while letting him inside. "Oh, you never have time."

"What can I do? That's the fate of a professor," Omari raised his bushy brows before waving and scurrying down the stairs. "Bye!"

"Good luck!" Asim's words followed him before he closed the door and felt someone clinging on his legs. "Oh, who might it be? It's someone very strong!" Asim exclaimed with fake surprise before bending over and peeling the kid off his legs, lifting him in the air.

The boy giggled, shining his milky teeth. "Uncle!" Asim grinned and ruffled the boy’s hair.

Presently, a soft voice reached him before Asim saw a young girl in her early twenties rushing to him, her curls bouncing above her shoulders.

"Femi! Salām 'alaykum!" Asim kissed her cheeks, "Where's your mother?"
"In the kitchen," Femi replied before slipping into her shoes and rushing out.
"Everyone's so busy in this family!" Asim smiled at the boy and let him down.
The smell of toasted falafel, shampoo, and perfume mixed up in the small apartment. The

sound of the shower reached through the closed bathroom door as Asim passed by it, going into the kitchen.

A woman stood at the gas stove, frying eggs while a tea-pot whistled on the side. Asim stopped at the doorway, watching her and listening to the various domestic sounds cascading through the house.

"It's never calm here with six children, right?" he asked aloud, drawing her attention.

"Brother!" the woman beamed at him and turned off the stove. "Why did you come so early?"

"Thought I could drive the kids to school," he replied, kissing her cheeks, feeling her exhaustion spreading onto him. "Let me help you, Lapis."

He began filling five plates with eggs while Lapis poured tea in the mugs.
"Kids, food!" Lapis shouted, and in a second, footsteps began hurrying toward them. Three boys and a girl crashed through the doorway like ants crawling into their hole.

Trying to outrun each other, the kids flopped at the table with loud blabber, filling their cheeks with food.

"Kids, what do you say to your uncle?!" Lapis scolded.
"Salām 'Alaykum!" they squealed without lifting their heads, filling their mouths.
A burst of laughter broke out of Asim, amused by the kid's laxity.
"Where's Dalila?" he asked, glancing toward the closed door of her bedroom. "Getting ready," the little girl forced the words through her stuffed mouth.
Nodding, the man sat at the table, looking out of the window. Sunlight illuminated the caramel-colored tips of pyramids in the distance, behind the high-rises, enveloped by the heat and glow. White clouds drifted by like ragged scraps of cotton, too thin and wispy to do much against the powerful Egyptian sun.

The light footsteps brought a smile to Asim's lips before his head turned, eyes fixing on the girl entering the kitchen. Just a glimpse of her chocolate-brown eyes shaded with long lashes was enough for warmth to pour into Asim's heart.

"Dalila!" he greeted. "How are you?"

A subtle smile dimpled the girl's cheeks before she sat at the table. Looking at her lowered brows and hair framing her pale face, Asim realized that the girl wasn't her cheerful, lighthearted self.

"I'm fine," she muttered and sipped the tea.

Asim and Lapis shared a look, the mother's concerned eyes saying the same he was thinking.

"Everything okay?" Asim asked, his heart shattering in pieces as he watched Dalila's pursed lips and lifeless eyes.

"Yes, I'm just tired," the girl forced a momentary smile that soon faded like snow on a warm spring day.

Asim was about to ask more when the kids jumped up, leaving the dirty plates behind, and ran into the hallway.

"We'll be late for school!" they let out, grabbing their bags.

Not even touching her breakfast, Dalila stood up, long and lustrous hair, as dark and opaque as her eyes, spilling down her back.

As she left to put on her shoes, Asim turned to his sister, who had begun washing the plates.

"What's wrong with her?" he asked. "Did something happen?"

"I have no idea," Lapis replied, her voice edged with worry. "She's barely talking these days, and locks herself up in her bedroom when she’s not pushing food around her plate at the table," her tone began wavering. "I try to ask, but she says nothing."

Asim's eyes returned to the girl. Dalila stood at the door, motionless, her eyes blankly staring into space. Her body was there, but her mind kept flying far away.

Asim felt uneasiness creeping up on him as he wondered what happened to the vibrant, light-hearted and smiling Dalila that she used to be.

Chapter 2

Four kids squealed in the back seat of the car, their loud, lively voices flooding the atmosphere.

Asim looked through the rear-view mirror with a smile, his hands gripping the wheel before his eyes moved back to the line of cars squeezed in front of them. The traffic lights showed green, but not even a gap had been left between the vehicles, and all they could do was inch their way through the jam.

Asim peeked at Dalila, sitting next to him, the seat belt tight around her torso. She kept staring out of the window, her eyes pinned on one spot, her breath getting sharper as if dark thoughts floated in her mind.

"You have a big test coming?" Asim asked, his voice cutting through the deafening noise. Dalila looked at him, her eyes disoriented.
"What?" She mumbled, then grasped the reality as if Asim had pulled her back to the present. "Oh. Um, no, we already had exams."
"Then what is it?" Asim asked, then pushed the pedal, as the street had emptied a little.

"You seem worried."
The children continued joking and teasing, ignoring their surroundings.
"No, it's nothing," Dalila said aloud to force the words through her siblings' laughter.

Used to it, she just glanced at them without comment.
"Really?" Asim asked, careful not to cross the line and pressure the girl. "Maybe

something happened with your friends?"
The cars began moving faster, and the crowded streets got lighter. Asim sped the engine up, glimpsing at the glowing digital clock beneath the wheel.
"No, everything's fine with friends too," Dalila replied, forced contentment oozing from her voice. "I'm a student. I'm tired of homework and projects. That's all."

Asim nodded, keeping quiet. His eyes lingered on Dalila's hands, neatly placed into her lap, the deep purple shirt folding over her jeans. Usually, she would turn on the radio and move her body with the rhythm of the music, making the tired morning joyful. But now, she sat unmoving, like an ivy-covered statue.

The white, three-floored building appeared at the end of the street. Children walked inside, carrying heavy backpacks.

"Kids, off you go!" Asim looked back at them with a broad smile.
The children fixed their bags and opened the door.
"Bye, uncle!" The gaggle of kids waved and jumped out of the car.
Asim watched them running into the schoolyard, joining a group of friends before awoman approached them, leading the kids into the building. The sharp sound of bell ringing reached through the closed windows, and Asim started the engine.

Now, left alone, Asim and Dalila sunk into a silence so heavy, the moment felt concretized in space. Asim inhaled, feeling his pulse rising. He wanted to talk but couldn't find the right words. It had always been easy with Dalila.

Ah, memories of the Dalila he used to know. The open-hearted girl with whom Asim always shared everything going on around and inside him. He loved listening to her, watching her get immersed in the conversation. But now, uttering even one word seemed too hard.

Dalila steadfastly avoided his gaze while the car darted down the road, and the more the distance shortened to her college, the more doubts emerged in Asim's busy mind.

Dalila's eyes landed on the tall, narrow building with young adults gathered at the entrance stairs, chatting or reading from thick books.

The car stopped, and Dalila grabbed the seatbelt to get out before Asim interrupted. "Wait a minute!" he pleaded, and Dalila fell back in the chair. "Please, look at me." Dalila slowly put her head up, her eyes locking on Asim. They darkened, like the sun setting in a dense forest. Sadness poured into Asim, feeling the girl's soul hiding behind this mask of apathy.

"You know you can always tell me anything. You...do know that, right?" Asim's voice vibrated through the car. "Absolutely anything. I'll always listen."

Staring at him silently, Dalila said nothing. Her lips split but soon closed, and she smiled weakly.

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"Of course, Uncle, I know," she said and opened the door, turning her back at him as if to hide tears. "Thanks."

Without looking back, she slammed the door and rushed to the college. Asim watched her passing by the students and disappearing through the doorway.

Sighing, he sat there for a few minutes as though waiting for Dalila to come back and say what she had suppressed.

Finally, giving up, Asim started the car and pulled out in the streets. ***

The sun had hidden behind the horizon, the last strings of light fighting with the gloom covering the sky, like black paint dripping down a white canvas. The murk settled into the city, shrouding the buildings, soothing the burnt roads with a cool breeze.

Asim stood at the window, watching the deep red glow of the setting sun floating above Cairo. The rooftops glistened in the sheen, soaking the last drops of sunlight.

He turned, putting the leftovers in the fridge, and washed the plate. Then, flopping on the couch, he closed his eyes, letting the calm evening lull his tired body and soul. After the long workday, he needed nothing more than good sleep.

But Dalila's melancholic face kept floating before him like a photo on a lake's surface.

Suddenly, his phone chimed, startling him. He quickly answered it, then sunk back on the couch.

"Good evening, Lapis," he greeted his sister.
"Is Dalila with you?" the woman's panicking voice reached from the other end of the line. "No, she's not here," Asim sat up, his heart skipping a beat. "I haven't seen her since this morning."
"She hasn't come home after the classes!" Horror surged through Lapis' tone. "She's always home at his time.”
"Have you called her? Her friends?!" Asim stood up.
"Of course, she's not answering, and her friends have no idea where she is.” Lapis fights back tears. “They say she didn't even attend the classes."
"But I saw her going into the building," Asim murmured, his eyes darting.

"Omari and I are going to the police right now," Lapis let out. Asim heard Omari's inaudible voice and the door opening. "In the station."

"I'll be there!" Asim exclaimed and hung up.

For a second, he didn't know what to do, as if his body had forgotten how to function. But he soon revived and, frantically tying his shoes, he dashed out of the apartment.

Chapter 3

The night buzzed with activity, bright yellow lights flickering and piercing the darkness. The street and car lights mixed up, shining together with a blended artificial glow.

The glass doors opened automatically as Asim rushed through them, running into the hallway of the police station. His eyes soon landed on Lapis and Omari, leaning on the counter, talking to the receptionist with helpless expressions. Three strangers sat on the plastic chairs in the corner, peeking toward the desperate parents.

As soon as Lapis saw her brother, she let go of the table edge, hurrying to him, her eyes enlarged with panic.

"They're saying police can't start looking for her yet," Lapis let out, her voice gruff from crying. "They say she has to be missing for at least 48 hours."

The dim lights and gray walls brought even more misery to the woman's shriveled, sleepless, pale face. Her bloodshot eyes kept jumping from spot to spot as if searching for answers, while her hands tugged onto Asim's jacket like a swept away flower petal grabbing at moss.

Asim felt the anger building up inside him, engulfing his soul, spreading into his veins. Edging away from his sister, he hastened toward the receptionist and slammed his fist on the counter, startling the young girl.

"48 hours?!" Asim yelled, the fire flaring up in his eyes. "A young girl is missing; how can we wait 48 hours?!"

"It's the policy, sir," the girl replied with a monotonous voice and unamused eyes, used to people screaming at her.

"Let me talk to the officers!" Asim didn't back off, feeling the fury growing in him, about to explode like a bomb.

"I can't do that, sir," the girl shook her head. "Please, wait 48 hours and contact us if she hasn't still shown up."

About to bump his fist again and let out a shout, Asim felt someone pulling him back. Turning, he saw Omari grasping him by his shoulders. The shock froze Asim, his shouts dying inside his throat - he had never seen Omari's eyes so full of sorrow and anguish. Wide-open and smeared with tears, his eyes quivered, looking straight at Asim.

"Please, calm down," Omari begged with a shaky voice - so weak as if coming from a small, powerless animal. "However much we demand, it won't change a thing. We have to wait."

As if these words sucked all the energy out of Asim, he dropped his shoulders and exhaled.

"Let's go home," Lapis sobbed out. "Kids are alone."

Dragging their feet out of the station, the three approached Asim's car before flopping in their seats. Asim started the engine, glancing at Lapis in the back seat. She had fixed her eyes on the window, just like Dalila that morning.

"Femi drove you here?" Asim asked as he began driving, hardly recognizing his own voice.

"Yes," she nodded. "Then she returned home to take care of the children."
Omari uttered no word until they reached home and opened the car door.
"I think we should ask her friends tomorrow," Asim's words stopped the parents. They looked back, their expressions altering from surprise. "The police aren't going to help. We need to start looking for Dalila."

After sharing a look as if speaking without words, Omari and Lapis nodded.
"The classes start at nine tomorrow," said Lapis.
Asim nodded before they closed the door, plodding into the building.
With worry weighing down on Asim's heart, he dried his eyes and joined the frantic beeping cars.

***

Muffled chatter encircled the college building, young people scattering around it like bees around a flower.

Asim stood on the sidewalk, beside Lapis and Omari. They all gazed at the students arriving early in the morning with wakeful eyes, books piled up in their arms or overflowing from their bags.

Suddenly, Asim landed his eyes on the familiar faces stepping out of a car. They were silent and looked sullen.

"They are Dalila's friends!" Asim exclaimed, pointing at them.

Lapis shot him a shocked glance before the two of them rushed over. The two girls and three boys stopped as if waiting for them to arrive. Their faces - always cheerful and bright - had loosened, their features saggy as if they'd aged during the night.

"Mr. and Ms. Salem!" One of the girls recognized Dalila's parents, her lips trembling from compassion. "Hasn't Dalila contacted you?"

Lapis shook her head, tears streaming down her sallow cheeks.

"She hasn't texted or called us either," one of the boys said, shaking his head in regret, his messy hair falling to his ears. "We saw her yesterday, but I think she left right after arriving."

With a light pink hijab around her head, the second girl kept fidgeting on her feet, picking the skin around her nails. She opened her lips and closed them before looking down, her lashes fluttering.

Asim had noticed her subtle movements. "Do you know something?" he asked, his wide eyes open and receptive.
The girl looked up, her confused eyes darting between Asim and Dalila's parents. "Ah, I..." she muttered. "I'm not really sure, but I think I saw something."

"What did you see?!" Lapis took her hands, her voice turning shrill.
Asim held his sister back, calming her with a gentle pat on the back. Scared, the girl stepped back, her eyes turning misty.

"Please, tell us everything," Asim said quietly. "Even if you're not sure. Anything could be important now."

Locking her eyes on Asim, the girl nodded, swallowing her tears.
"I didn't see Dalila's face, but I recognized her from behind," the girl uttered, tugging on

her fingers. "Just when the first class was about to begin, she got into a van." "A van?!" Omari spoke for the first time. "What van?"
"It was a white van, and a man was driving it," the girl responded.

"A man?" Asim looked at Lapis as she shook her head in perplexion. "What did he look like?"

"Late thirties, little chubby, black hair, beard," the girl said. "I don't remember more... he looked ordinary. I've seen him in the nearby grocery store a few times before."

Exhaling, Asim attempted to steady his badly strained nerves. They didn't know any man who could take Dalila. He was the only uncle she had.

"Dalila got in on her own?" he asked. "Or did he force her?"
"No, she got in willingly," the girl swallowed again as if feeling guilty for speaking. "Who could he be?" Lapis covered her mouth, digging her face in her hands.
Asim watched her sister and Omari hugging, soundlessly crying, and felt the rage gnawing at his heart. Sadness had vanished from him without a trace, replaced by an immovable obsession: he had to find this man.

He turned to the girl.
"If you see him or his van, will you be able to recognize him?" Asim asked. The girl nodded immediately.
"Good," he continued. "I will need your help."

***

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“Wait, what…what are you saying!?” Razi is out of breath, flustered and exasperated. 

“I am saying to you, my brother, that for me it was all just a vision, a dream induced by the poppy!” 

“So you really didn’t…but then again, yes, yes…how could you have known…?” 

“It’s the magic of the medicine,” Ibrahim soothes his friend. “It opens gateways of our consciousness we thought were close, just like Abbas and Zayn have been telling us.”  

“The magic of the medicine…” Razi mutters. Then he shoots Ibrahim a hard, desperate look. “But what of Khepri, brother! She has not said anything, she has not acted as though she knows. But what if…” Razi breaks down again. He simply cannot stomach the thought of making his beautiful wife, the woman who has done so much for him, cry or feel unworthy. He can not stand even the thought.

Razi stares at Ibrahim. “Thank you, Ibrahim. You have saved me. Your vision has shown me the error of my own ways. I am going to cut things off with Sara.” 

“This is good my friend. But still, how would Khepri know?” asks Ibrahim. “This was something that I saw, I didn’t even know it was real until you made it known, right here, right now.” 

“You are right,” said Razi with a dark mystery in his eyes. “I will make sure my wife never, ever knows what I have done with Sara. She will never know I went against the word of Allah. Never!” Razi is almost shaking with passion.

Ibrahim is unsettled by his friend’s intensity. He can only nod and squeeze his friend’s hands. He feels pity for his friend. But behind that, he feels intoxicated by his own newfound power. The medicine has made him a soothsayer, a seer, a medicine man. He smiles inwardly, hiding his glee from Razi. 

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Chapter 14

A handful of days have passed since his friend’s confession. Ibrahim decides to speak to Razi about obtaining more of that magical powder he had used to take his journey into the mind. Ibrahim is hungry for more inspiration, for more power. He walks to Razi’s house, and as usual, is greeted by Khepri, who leads him into the study. And was she shorter than usual with him today? Ibrahim cannot tell. 

Before Ibrahim enters, he overhears Razi talking to their mutual friend Ahmed about the night he had just had. How he felt so high, so out of his mind that it was like he was lost in a fairytale. How it felt as though the world he had entered was not his own. Ibrahim listens intently to Razi’s description of his high, and wonders if they are speaking of the same medicine as before, or perhaps something different, something even more potent and powerful. 

Ibrahim then realizes that Razi had made eye contact with him, and was waving his hands to usher him inside. 

“Come in, brother, come in. Ahmed, look who has joined us: the poet of Shoubra himself!”

Ibrahim sits and invites Razi to continue his story of the night before. Razi continues. “Do you know Ibrahim, Zayn showed up at my door yesterday and did a real number on us. He had us smoke the most incredible poppy tears. They made me feel like I was walking through the world of one of your stories. I felt so entranced and taken away that I am still high from it as we speak. It is unreal.”

Ibrahim is more than intrigued. “What was it,” he asks, eagerly. “Was it like, some kind of new kind of poppy? 

“I’m not sure. I trust Zayn you know and of course, he more than delivered. But if you like the way you feel on those other poppy tears, I can assure you, you will feel even better with this stuff. Apparently, it is grown at a special altitude in the Hindu Kush of Afghanistan, and that land must be favored by the Gods, because this is God's very own personal medicine.”

“I, just…” Ibrahim stammers. He is almost drooling at the thought of another flight with the poppy, and feels entranced by the thought of going even deeper with this divine strain of poppy. “Do you…perhaps, have some?” 

“What do you think, brother?” Razi laughs. “You think I’d tell you about the nectar of the Gods and not offer some to you? Come, let’s sit and journey together.” 

Razi walks to the table where he opens a box. He pulls from it a spoon and a small container. 

“What is this?” asks Ibrahim.

This is the divine nectar, my brother. This is much better than those other tears we had before.” 

“It looks very different. Is it not a powder?” Ibrahim asks in surprise, as he had expected to see something similar to the tears he had already taken. 

“Don’t worry Ibrahim,” said Razi. “It’s perfectly fine, you will love the way you feel with this. You will never want to return to normal life.” Razi winks at Ibrahim, in a way that makes Ibrahim squeamish. “Instead of that sting in our sinuses we felt when we snorted that other powder, thismedicine we are able to smoke.”

Ahmed is staring at Razi, perplexed. Ahmed knows that Razi is not as versed in these substances as Zayn, and thought that he might have wanted to wait until his more experienced friend arrived before embarking on this journey with these two naive lambs. Razi produces a strange and ornately decorated pipe from a dresser drawer, and instructs Ibrahim to smoke the new medicine. “Inhale as much as you can, friend. When you cannot inhale anymore, take a breath and then inhale more! You want to go very deep, do you not?”

Razi packs the tar-like substance in the mouth of the pipe’s long glass tube and holds it up to Ibrahim‘s mouth. Ibrahim takes the pipe, with a mix of reluctance and excitement in his eyes. 

“Are you ready for your flight, my friend?” asks Razi

Ibrahim nods his head. Razi lights the tar, and as he does so, Ibrahim inhales more forcefully than he had ever inhaled before in his life. As though he is taking in his first breath of life, without realizing how close it was to his last.

Chapter 15

“What are you doing?” whispers Ahmed, a look of deep concern in his eyes.

“Ibrahim is closing in on me,” replies a breathless Razi in low frantic tones, clearly in a state of panic. 

“He has found out about me and Sara, and I am not at all comfortable with him knowing. He even went as far as to write a story about it! I cannot let him ruin my life.” He whispers, low. “What if Khepri finds out?” 

It is different that you know, Ahmed. You are the one who introduced me to Sara. I have a lot of respect and trust for you, my dearest friend.”

“So what do you intend to do Ibrahim?” Asked Ahmed

“I intend to silence the Poet of Shouba Street,” says Razi, darkly.

They both look over to Ibrahim, he is sitting in his chair, motionless. He looks like a small child who is lost deep in his dreams. His eyes are not open or fully closed, but somewhere in between. 

“He will be so lost with this substance that he will be too scared to ever try these again and retire his ideas of going into his imagination this way. I saw what it did to Zayn, it was scary. That’s why he gave it to me, to get rid of it. He said he didn’t want anything else to do with it.”

“That’s why I am so concerned with this. I was there when Zayn asked you to get rid of it,” said Ahmed. “He said not to give it to anyone else. I am not sure this is a good idea, Razi.”

“It will work!” insisted Razi frantically. 

Razi kneels down toward Ibrahim and lights the pipe once more. He takes a breath of it in his mouth and immediately blows it into Ibrahim’s partially opened lips. 

Ahmed gasps, shocked at this sight. “Razi, let’s leave him. Let’s go for a walk,” said Ahmed, now fully frightened. 

Ibrahim is slumped even more into his stupor. He begins to breathe heavily, and his eyes start rolling back in his head. As they roll, they are met with darkness, a kind of darkness Ibrahim has never before experienced outside of the black walls of sleep. 

Ibrahim is floating just below the ceiling, gazing at himself slumped over in the chair. He looks so calm, so unconcerned. This however is a different Ibrahim from his last vision. This Ibrahim looks neither proud nor distinguished. Rather, he looks at peace. 

Ibrahim begins to realize that his floating self is becoming more real than the stoned Ibrahim slumped over below him. He can see Razi and Ahmed worrying over the slumped Ibrahim below. Ahmed looks concerned, frantic. Razi looks… different. Is it relief he sees on his friend’s face? Ah, Ahmed, Ibrahim thinks. You poor fool… 

The whole scene seems to be retreating, so, so far away... 

Chapter 16

“Razi, he is not coming back! This is taking a lot longer than last night! Why is it taking so long for him to come back!?” Ahmed has panic in his voice. 

Razi walks over to Ibrahim and begins to shake him violently. He didn’t think that the puff he blew into his mouth would have this long of an effect on Ibrahim. 

“Pour some water on his face!” exclaims Ahmed, frozen in horror.

“Get me some ice!” yells Razi. “Get Khepri!! Bring ice from the cooler!! Bring wet towels, hurry!!”

Ahmed hurries out of the study, shaking with fear and regret.

Razi gazes into his friend’s calm, still, quiet face. “Too quiet,” he chokes. “Much too quiet for the Poet of Shoubra.” Razi fights back tears.

Ahmed and Khepri storm in the study with ice and wet towels. They are pouring cold water over their friend. They are shaking him, shaking themselves, yelling, fighting, scolding, cursing.  

Ibrahim, meanwhile, is utterly tranquil, far above the fray. He is floating up towards the ceiling, farther and farther away from the chaotic scene below. Ah, Razi, he thinks. Do not worry so much over me, my good friend. My brother. Ahhh…if you only knew how peaceful I really am… Do not blame yourself Razi. 

Ibrahim tries to communicate with his friend: I asked you for this medicine, friend. I sought you out. I chose to sniff the tears from my pinky. I chose to snort the long line of powder. I chose to smoke the tar. I wanted to go deeper than ever before. I wanted the glory that comes with fame. And now…now…all those vanities, all those goals and dreams and disappointments, all that cursing at the Gods. Oh, Munira… Munira… my love… I am so sorry…. 

It is the last thought the Poet of Shoubra would ever think. The final flourish of a rare and gifted imagination. Like a flare, it sparks brightly and is gone, leaving only its smoke as evidence of a light that once shone. And then, not even that. Nothing left except the silent procession of the wind, and the memories of those left behind.  

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After a night of fitful sleep and frenetic dreams, Ibrahim rises from his bed earlier than usual. Munira has just woken up and is busy taking care of their youngest child, who has been having a fit from a bad dream. She is surprised to see Ibrahim awake so early, and even more surprised that he is already getting dressed to head out into the always bustling streets of Shoubra. 

Ibrahim is feeling distracted, hurried and bothered by a gnawing sense that something isn’t right. He has been sweating, tossing and turning all night, and now he has a headache, and a runny nose, and he keeps yawning. What is going on with me? He wonders. Perhaps I just need a strong coffee to pull myself together. And then, perhaps... no, just a coffee will do, I’m sure. 

Munira watches him and frowns as her husband quickly dresses and descends the stairs to the street below. Always a good Muslim wife, she lets him go without inquiry. But she knows something is wrong, and her eyes dart anxiously as the door closes behind Ibrahim. 

Ibrahim enters a nearby coffee shop on Shokry lane. Even at this early hour, it is already filled with people sitting at tables, either reading from a book or writing in one. The cozy ambience of the shop and the nutty scent of coffee beans enters his nostrils. He inhaled as steadily as he could, and it soothed him a little bit. 

Ibrahim ordered a strong Turkish style coffee from the young man running the shop. “Just your strongest finely ground beans and hot water,” Ibrahim requests. “No sugar.” 

The young man looks calm, competent, and relaxed, and Ibrahim finds himself getting irritated again. Why can I not feel as calm as this common shopkeeper? He thinks to himself, annoyed. What has this barista accomplished that I have not? What is going on with me? He decides to channel his anxiety into creative expression, something he had done before when faced with difficult moods that wouldn’t seem to pass. Ibrahim collects his hot steaming coffee, sits at a table beside the window, and takes out his journal and pen. He begins to write. 

Ibrahim wishes to write a poem about his dreamy experience with the poppy tears the day before. How he witnessed himself as if from above, and how it was a different Ibrahim he saw: a more confident, happy and accomplished Ibrahim. He wants to begin the path of becoming this happier, more self-satisfied man. He begins to write, halts and takes a drink of coffee. He waits for the hot liquid and its magical caffeine to do its work. He waits, tries to write again, and takes another sip. 

Damn, Ibrahim thinks to himself. I don’t seem to have any inspiration. In fact, he still feels bothered, irritable and achy. But Ibrahim is a determined man, and he stolidly remains at the coffee shop all morning, trying to write. By his third cup of Turkish coffee, the morning light is getting high in the sky, and another barista had come in and replaced the young man. Ibrahim looks at his journal. He has written a single verse all morning. It reads: The man who is not me but better, the man in my visions is...? 

He isn’t happy with even that one half sentence. He has been working all morning, drinking coffee and fidgeting, and this is all he has accomplished! What sort of a poet cannot write a single stanza in an entire morning? It was then that the thought came, unbidden. Maybe I just need to re-immerse myself in the world of the imagination, in the magic of the poppy tears... 

Once the thought of the poppy powder enters his mind, it becomes an obsession. Ibrahim can no longer focus on writing, can no longer enjoy his coffee, and can no longer even focus on his schedule for the rest of the day. He would have to clear all his meetings. Only one thing matters to him now that his mind has settled on it, like a hawk who has locked in on a mouse. He knows deep down that if he just had a little more medicine, all his problems would be solved. He would ascend to become the man he was destined to be. A greater Ibrahim. He leaves the shop with his last coffee still unfinished and heads directly to Razi’s house. 

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Chapter 9 

The Cairo Public Transportation Authority had introduced a bus network two years ago, and Ibrahim takes advantage of it now, to get to Razi’s as quickly as possible. He doesn’t think beyond that one goal: get to Razi’s. The shiny new bus fleet were Detroit-built GM “old look” transit buses, sleek and streamlined in the same vein as streetcars you’d imagine in San Francisco or Rio De Janeiro. They are painted blue on the bottom and white on the top. Ibrahim rides in the first row, fidgeting and anxious. 

After what seems like an eternity, but in actuality is only about 15 minutes, the big blue bus arrives at Ibrahim’s stop. He thanks the driver and hurries out, making a beeline for Razi’s house. When he arrives and knocks on the door, he is greeted by Razi’s wife Khepri. 

“Salam Alaikam,” Ibrahim. Are you looking for Razi? 

“Wa Alaykum as-salem, Khepri. Yes, I am here for Razi.” 

“Well you are in luck then. Razi just arrived back at the house with his friend Zayn. They are visiting in the study. Please, go in.” 

When Ibrahim enters the study, the air feels dank and dusty, and the curtains on the windows strain the golden Egyptian sunlight into a bruised dim beige. Still, Ibrahim is in high spirits, or at least hopeful he will soon be in high spirits. Razi and Zayn are lounging on plush chairs, nursing cups of hot black tea, sweetened thoughtfully by Khepri with sugar and mint. 

“Ibrahim, my friend! Zayn and I were just thinking about yesterday, how you drifted so far away from us, how you seemed to fly in your visions like an egret!” The men all shared a laugh. 

“Razi, my friend. Zayn. I must ask of you: have you any more of that magical medicine you could offer me? I can pay,” said Ibrahim, jangling a pouch of coins in his trousers. 

Razi looks uneasy; he has never seen Ibrahim behaving so desperately. It is unlike the dignified and eloquent man he has gotten to know over the years. Still, friends were friends, and proper etiquette and hospitality were paramount. 

Razi interjects before Zayn can respond. “Ah, of course, my friend. And I will not let you pay me while you are a guest in my house. Come, sit, let’s all embark on this journey together. Perhaps we’ll meet you up in the sky Ibrahim!” The men laughed. Ibrahim hesitated, shifted. He wants to ask something but is unsure how to phrase it. 

“Friends, he says. “I want to go farther into my imagination than ever this time. I want to dive so deep inside myself I will never have to struggle to write a poem ever again, never sit with writer’s block while composing a story. I want to go all the way inside.” 

“You’ll need more then,” says Zayn, pragmatically. “Quite a bit more, honestly.” Razi looks unsure, but nods. 

“Yes, y-yes,” Ibrahim stammers. “A bit more. Why don’t you make me one of those lines of powder you described before? We can do it right on this table, the three of us together.” 

“The three friends,” says Razi, quietly, looking unsettled. He takes a deep breath and collects himself. After all, Ibrahim is a grown man who can make his own decisions. “Zayn, go ahead and prepare our lines.” 

“Remember, friend, I want to go far,” Ibrahim reminds him. 

Zayn reaches in his pouch and proceeds to prepare three lines of poppy tears. One of the lines is longer than the other two, almost twice as long. “That’s yours,” he says, gesturing to Ibrahim. 

“Ah, but friends, your lines are much shorter than mine! Surely you don’t want to cheat yourselves like that.” 

“If you are to go deep within, we’ll need to be more alert to look after you,” says Zayn, always practical. “But we will still receive plenty of medicine, friend. Do not worry. Simply enjoy the experience, and you can tell us all about it afterwards.” 

Ibrahim is not going to argue. He is not going to make any more small talk either. He has a one track mind. “Ah, yes, you speak the truth Zayn. Are we all ready? We shall do them all at once.” 

The men nod to one another. “So, I simply inhale it all through my nose?” Ibrahim askes stupidly. The men nodded again. “Here, use this,” said Zayn, as he produced a small, hollow bamboo shoot and handed it to Ibrahim. He and Razi already have theirs. They look each other in the eyes one last time, then bend their nostrils to the table and inhale the drug. 

Ibrahim is a disciplined man when he wants to be. Once he decides to do something, he always finds a way to do it. And though he is a novice with the poppy tears, he finds a way to snort his entire long line of powder. Half way through he switches nostrils and stubbornly continues, though his sinuses burn and his head feels like it is caught in a haboob. At last, the job finished and the line completely taken up, he leans back into his chair and closes his eyes. 

The pain in his sinuses crescendos but quickly subsides. Where moments before there was discomfort, anxiety, restlessness and irritability, there now floods into Ibrahim’s senses a feeling of pleasure and total well-being so divine, he hardly believes he is still tethered to this earthly plane. He feels himself recline further into his chair. He vaguely senses his head loll to one side. He feels... simply amazing. Presently he begins to have another vision. 

Ibrahim finds himself floating inside a bustling cafe, above the tables, chairs, and customers. It is so life-like, he can see each of the customers so clearly. He gazes out the front window and is surprised to see Razi walking there on the street, holding hands and nuzzling his face into his wife Khepri’s….wait, no, this is not Khepri he is cuddling up to! 

Rather, Razi is walking with a beautiful young woman wearing a flattering sundress that shows off her generous curves. Ah, thinks Ibrahim from inside the vision, this woman is not from Cairo, she is not a traditional Muslim woman. Perhaps she is one of the free women from Alexandria or Damascus, and she must know Razi from her past somehow. Ah, look how happy Razi looks! Like a teenage boy on a date, he looks so alive and full of vigor. 

It is then that the vision takes a dark turn. He looks beyond the street to a small vegetable stall, where Khepri just so happens to be picking up some produce brought in daily from the nearby farms. Ibrahim winces from within his vision as he sees her look up to see Razi with his beautiful foreign mistress. Shock, then a look of total despair as tears begin running down her face… 

Razi! Ibrahim is calling to his friend as he gets closer to him. Razi! 

Ibrahim wants to salvage what is left of this situation and see if he can help guide his friend back in the right direction. 

Razi hears his name being called and he turns around. 

Ibrahim! He hears his name being called…

“Ibrahim. Brother. Ibrahim!” He is jolted back to reality, back to Razi’s study and the chair he had sunk into, by a firm hand on his wrist. 

“You had gone very deep indeed brother. We were beginning to worry. Are you okay?” asks Razi. 

“Yes,” replies Ibrahim. “I had the most wild dream. It was so real. You were there Razi and….” He stopped. “Well, it was a dream or, or something anyway.”

“What did you think?” Razi wants to know. “Did you find inspiration?” 

Ibrahim can only nod weakly, his mind still on fire from his vision which had seemed so much like real life.

“Razi, brother, do you have paper? And a pen? I did have a vision, and I must write it down! I must compose this story while it burns so hot within me!”

Razi promptly brought Ibrahim a pen and paper, and, like a good friend, a cup of tea. Ibrahim is still high from the poppy powder, and he feels no discomfort or exhaustion as he passionately composes his short story, based upon his drug-induced vision and the intense feelings he could sense from the main characters, both of whom he knew. He writes this story about a friend of his who is lost. Deep in love with a woman who is not his own. He recalls the details of his vision, and doggedly writes it all down before he can forget.

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Chapter 10

Ibrahim stays at Razi’s house until the early hours of the morning. Eventually he returns home and sleeps for some time, barely noticing his sleeping wife, visiting and revisiting the vision he had in dreams. He wakes up and immediately continues to compose this short story of his friend who is having an affair. He doesn’t name anyone in the story but he knows the unforgettable truth, this story is all too common in the streets of Shoubra. Too many men are found training their wives to be submissive and veiled, while they walk the streets with “free women” who come in from Europe or other neighboring areas unencumbered by the strict laws of these lands. 

Ibrahim has been writing for the whole day and into the night. He finds himself stuck to his desk, seldom even coming up for a breath of fresh air. Munira periodically comes in and brings him tea and food, being careful not to bother him while he is writing so frantically. 

Hours later, with the night moving closer to the dawn, he puts the pen down and gazes at his creation. He feels so proud. He knows what he has written is excellent. He gathers up his story and heads to Razi’s home. 

He arrives to find Razi and Abbas together in the study, staying up late playing poker and drinking tea, and even sharing a couple bottles of Sakara, a locally brewed Egyptian beer. They know it is frowned upon by many in their community to drink alcohol, but their naturally rebellious souls are already high on poppy powder. By the time Ibrahim emerges into the study, they are boisterous with intoxication and excitement. 

“The Poet of Shoubra!” exclaims Razi, as Ibrahim enters the study. “Come now, you have to read to us what you have written! We know you have been tucked away with pen and paper.” 

“You must, yes,” agreed Abbas 

Ibrahim is still buzzing from his own creative fire. He does not argue with them. Rather, he takes a seat, drinks a sip of mint tea and recites his story. As he reads, the two men sit stony silent, completely rapt with attention. 

Chapter 11

Razi is stunned and visibly shaken when Ibrahim finishes his story. 

"That was a magnificent piece my friend,” says Abbas, as Ibrahim folds the pages and lights a cigarette. “Your imagination is… transcendent, brother. Out of this world. The stories you write are greatly detailed, so real…”  

“Tell me Ibrahim, what gave you the inspiration for this story?” Razi wants to know. “Is this perhaps based on an experience you had, or, or is it inspired by someone that you know” 

“Me?” exclaims Inbrahim, “No, not me. I wouldn't say it’s exactly a friend either. I mean, not a real friend. It just sort of appeared to me in my vision when I took the poppy tears, and so I wanted to write about it. I know that this sort of thing takes place in these streets more often than not, so it was important for me to write about these hidden tales between the cracks of real life. Situations that readers can really feel, and maybe even see themselves in the story and characters.”

“I see.” Razi said with a wry, strange smile on his face “Well then, nicely done, my friend. Excellent work.”

As the night continues its inexorable trek towards the dawn, the men continue to laugh, smoke and drink, more than they probably should. There is a feeling of giddiness amongst them. Giddiness, and something else, something deeper and darker. Something ancient and mysterious, something impossible to define. 

Chapter 12

The next few days are utterly euphoric for Ibrahim. Everywhere he goes, he carries his story with him, and shares it with anyone who will listen. He even pays a young villager to make hand-written copies of the work, and hands them out to admirers. The story is wildly popular with the people of Shoubra, probably because it sheds light on an uncomfortable reality which is so often ignored. Ibrahim’s reputation as a rare, resplendent talent is gaining steam. 

Ibrahim walks the streets with a constant smile on his face. He feels ecstatic and fueled by all the positive feedback from his colleagues and friends. He feels genuinely proud of himself. He feels like he is finally, actually getting somewhere in the literary world. He is no longer just a one masterpiece type guy, a one trick pony.  He feels confident that he has turned a corner, that he will now be able to produce and create as much excellent art that he wants. No more paralyzing writer’s block. No more fruitless mornings feeling restless and frustrated in cafes. Ibrahim is thrilled with his newfound creative energy and potency. 

One clear and crisp Cairo evening, the four friends, Ibrahim, Razi, Abbas and Zayn are drinking tea and smoking hash. Razi has been acting funny all night, sort of shy and withdrawn. Ibrahim is concerned for his friend.

“Razi, tell me, what is it that worries you this night? You look concerned about something.” 

Razi looks at Ibrahim, and Ibrahim thinks he even detects a few tears in his friend's eyes. 

“Come,” said Razi, “come take a walk with me.” 

The men disappear into the night, while Abbas and Zayn lean back, kibitz and smoke.

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The story continues next week with part 4. Thank you for reading.

A sin writer,

from head to toe.

Your constant divider,

never friend or foe. 

Taught you to segregate, as though you didn’t know. 

Excuses filled your mind as you explained to me

the reasons for your divine, soft stretched reality. 

A wickedness in your eyes, constantly stabbing me, 

a never-ending surprise, you never wanted…

Read more

Ibrahim wakes the next morning in his bed, alone. His wife has been up for hours,  herding their children like cattle to get them ready for the day. When he awakens, he sits on the side of his bed before pushing himself up to get dressed and join his family. 

He is recalling the way he felt the night before. The excitement that pulsed through his veins, simply from the thought of unlocking the unknown potential he had within himself. Ah, this magic dust! He felt a little bit agitated this morning, a bit restless and distracted, but he told himself all he needed was a cup of tea to feel like himself again. 

“You know where I'll be…,” he hears Abbas say in his head, as he blankly gazes out the window in his room. 

Ibrahim eventually wills himself to get up and walk to the window. He looks again at the city in which he had lived and known all his life. He felt at that minute a pang of sadness, even embarrassment. For while he knew his city so well, would his city ever know him? Would he be able to get his works of poetry and short stories to the masses? Would he be remembered as The Poet of Shoubra, or would he never be remembered at all? 

The small taste he had had with fame, when his poem was published in the local newspaper, was still fresh in his soul, like a sprig of mint delicately flavoring his tea. But it was limited to the neighborhood where everyone already knew him to be a poet. It really added up to not much more recognition than before. He began at this moment to feel self-pity and anger, as though his life had been put on hold and wasted, but for what and for who? 

Ibrahim moved out into the living area, where his children are leaning out a window and screaming down at some neighborhood kids playing on the street corner. He goes to the bathroom to freshen up, then quickly returns to his room. 

His wife walks in and asks if he is okay. He replies yes, then asks what day it is. She reminds him that it was Saturday, that he had nowhere to be in such a hurry, as she watches him frantically putting on his clothes. 

“I have somewhere to be,” he says to her, frustrated. “I have to meet Razi,” he lied. She looks at him with sadness in her eyes. 

“I thought we would go to the market together, I have to buy some items for dinner. The children haven’t been out for some time, we can go together and you can meet Razi after?” Suggestion in her voice as she asks him. 

“Yes yes, very well. Are you ready?” He asks her, hurriedly. He feels annoyed, but doesn’t know at what or at whom. He is the man in this Middle Eastern country, with all the power in his house, who does he have to be upset at if something doesn’t go his way? 

She looks at him perplexed, as clearly, no one was ready. She says to him, “Give me fifteen minutes and we will all be ready to go.” 

Ibrahim nods and tells her that he will wait downstairs on the street corner while she gets herself and the kids ready. He walks past her as she stands in the doorway. He instructs his children to help each other get ready and he would see them downstairs soon. They look happy to see him, and he dangles the possibility they are going to get some treats from the bazaars, so they quickly and energetically get to their feet, run to their separate areas in the small apartment, and start getting themselves together. 

Ibrahim walks down the many flights of stairs to the bustling street corner below. He lights a cigarette and waits there for his family, puffing agitatedly. He paces up and down the street, where many of his neighbors say hello to him and some even stop to make small talk. His neighbor Mai asks how his wife and children are doing. He replies hurriedly. “They are all doing great, thank you Mai. I'll be sure to tell Munira you said hello.” 

Mai begins to speak again, but her words fade away as his attention is pulled to someone behind her. He notices that Razi had just walked into one of the tea shops across the way. 

“Please excuse me Mai. I need to see something,” he says to her frenetically, as he crosses the street, not bothering to look and see if it was safe or not. 

“Razi!!” he yelled from the street. 

Razi looked out the window and saw Ibrahim walking toward him. Smiling, he walked outside. 

“Ibrahim, how are you my friend? What are you doing standing over there on your own?” 

“I am waiting for my wife and kids to come downstairs, we are going to the market.” He then adds quickly, as he wants his own questions answered first: “What are you doing here Razi?” 

“I am meeting Abbas and one of his friends here in a little bit,” he said. “They are going to make an exchange and Abbas wanted me to accompany him.” 

Ibrahim’s eyes light up. “What kind of exchange?” he asked. 

“I am not too sure,” says Razi. “Why don’t you meet us later on at my house and we will catch up, I have to go now.” 

“Okay, I will go to your home later on,” Ibrahim said. As Razi walks away from him, Ibrahim hears the voice of his wife calling him from across the street. 

“We are over here Ibrahim! Come now, let's go.” 

Ibrahim looks back at her and waves his hand as a way to gesture that he is on his way. He turns back to Razi and sees the small bit of his jacket flowing against the door as he makes his way inside the shop. 

“What are they doing in there?” Ibrahim thought. Obsession in his mind. He wants to be there with them. He wants to be a part of the amazing things that come from Abbas. He feels frustrated that this life is, once again, pulling him away from the things that could make him great, for it is greatness that he seeks more than anything. 

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Chapter 6 

It is 8PM and the streets of Shoubra are as loud as ever. Ibrahim has gone to the markets with his family and gifted his children some sweet basbousa and om ali. Now he is done with all that, and feels as though the rumble from the Earth's core itself adds a rhythm to the buildings that hug Ibrahim as he walks. His heart is pounding in his chest faster than he knew it could, he is so anxious to make it to Razi’s house where he can see Abbas. He arrives at Razi’s home at last and is, as usual, welcomed inside by Razi’s wife Khepri. 

Razi emerges from a back room to greet Ibrahim. 

“Hello my friend, how are you?” Razi extends his arms for a warm embrace from Ibrahim. 

“I am well,” replies Ibrahim, as he follows Razi into his study, where he sees Abbas sitting next to a man he does not recognize. 

“Ah, Ibrahim, my friend, how are you?” says Abbas. “Please come and meet Zayn, my good friend I was telling you about who has recently traveled to Afghanistan” 

Zayn is a tall, plump young man with a thick dark beard. He looks a lot like the disheveled poets Ibrahim often sees huddled in the corner of the dim tea shops he used to attend in Zamalek, the writer’s hub of Cairo. As a matter of fact, he feels something familiar when he makes eye contact with Zayn, as though he may have seen him before, though he is uncertain. 

“Pleased to meet you,” says Ibrahim, as he extends his hand for a shake from Zayn, who takes it and meets his eyes cheerfully. 

“Nice to meet you Ibrahim, I have heard great things of you,” says Zayn. 

“Yes of course, we have been talking about you all day my friend,” adds Razi. “We were telling Zayn here how great of a writer you are, as he is a writer himself. In fact, he and Abbas have worked on some short stories together.” 

The men settle into conversation, as their words morph into laughter, blending smoothly into the loud city life blaring from the open window behind them. 

“Zayn was the one we went to meet in that shop near your home, Ibrahim. He was there to bring some more of the powder that we seek,” explains Razi. Ibrahim looks at Zayn inquisitively. Zayn, without moving, is still able to express his easy confidence. 

The men are together again, just as Ibrahim had foretold. This time, there is no hesitation. After the conversations exchanged and introductions to their new friend, Ibrahim takes the initiative and invokes the poppy tears. 

Chapter 7 

Zayn quickly grabs a bag from his coat pocket and begins to prepare the magic powder. He asks Ibrahim how he feels most comfortable taking this. Did he want to snort a little through his nose by placing some in his pinky nail? Did he prefer to snort a line that Zayn could prepare for him on the coffee table? Ibrahim looks apprehensive, then says he will do as Razi and Abbas do. 

The men all scoop a small amount with their pinky nails. Razi holds it up to his nostril, and makes eye contact with Ibrahim, who takes this connection as a sign that he and Razi will do this together, at the same time. Ibrahim holds the small amount up to his nose, he and Razi nod their heads, and nearly insert the poppy powder into their noses, as they inhale fiercely through their nostrils and take every small grain that they could. 

Ibrahim instantly feels a warm sensation in his face, a sting in his nose, and a sense that his mind is being taken over by an outside force. A friendly outside force. Ibrahim hears a faint voice say: “All right guys, take a seat and let the medicine take you where it feels you need to go.” 

Ibrahim sits down and surrenders. He has gone into what could only be described as a meditative state. He had understood that, as Razi had described to him, everyone’s experience with this drug is different. He hadn’t known what he would experience, he hadn’t known how he would feel, but now he feels more than willing to surrender to all of it nonetheless. Ibrahim gives into the dream. 

Ibrahim is walking down the streets of Zamalek. People are waving at him and asking how he is doing. He seems to be well-known and respected in this community. It is as though he is looking at himself from afar. As though the Ibrahim looking on is different from the Ibrahim walking on the streets. 

This Ibrahim looking in begins to somehow levitate above the streets, and looks down at Ibrahim walking from a bird’s eye view. He then begins to feel all that this other Ibrahim is feeling: the pride, the happiness, for all that he has accomplished. The sheer sensation of feeling comfortable in his own body, and not being forced down by the weight of the world on his shoulders. This last sensation is new for him, and he has never before felt anything so divine. 

He watches this other Ibrahim walk with a smile on his face, his shoulders back and his neck high. The man he sees walking on the streets has a different sway about him. It is the gait of a man that he does not yet know, but one he desperately wishes to be. 

Ibrahim begins to hear distant chatter. The voice of Zayn asking if he is okay. Ibrahim begins to understand where he is, back in the study of Razi’s home with the men huddled around him. Razi is bent over the table with a garbage bin in his hands hurling away the drug-induced nausea that had overcome him. Zayn laughs a little and looks over to Ibrahim. 

“How are you feeling brother?” 

Ibrahim responds. “I am… okay. Just taking a moment to collect myself. What time is it? How long has it been? 

Zayn replies, “It’s been an hour friend.” 

Ibrahim is shocked. “Wow, has it been that long? What happened to you Zayn?” 

“Me? I only took a little bit but mostly wanted to make you feel comfortable doing it. I got a little buzzed but nothing too extreme.” 

“That felt amazing,” confesses Ibrahim. “I didn't understand exactly what was happening, but it seemed like I was floating in the air and watching myself from above. I dreamed of a life I don’t yet have but one I so badly want.” 

As Ibrahim recalls his experience with the guys sitting around him, all listening without interruption, he realizes that he could have this life. That it is a life he dreams of not because of its impossibility but because of it truly being within arm's reach. There is very little in this world that one cannot accomplish for himself if one truly sets one’s mind to it. This sort of maxim had always been told to him, and now, finally, with the help of this magical medicine, he was beginning to see what it meant. 

As Ibrahim finally composes himself and begins to walk home, he starts to think of what his dreams and aspirations really are. He realizes that he is still a young man, yet he lives the life of an old dying grandfather. All he does with his free time is think about how he’s going to pay bills, how he’s going to take care of his seven children, what he’s going to do when he gets home, what television show will he watch, what story or poem will he write next, and how his soul-given art will likely never be published or read by anyone other than a handful of his close friends and admirers. Ibrahim wanted more for himself. He felt suddenly greedy for it, almost crazed.

When he was a very young boy he never thought to himself that he would grow to be a father and a husband at this age. Culturally it is taught that people should have children, that men and women should get married and grow old. But what about what he wants as an individual? What about the mountains he wants to climb that are outside of his city? These ideas cause him pain. What is he to do with these depressing thoughts? 

Ibrahim begins to think: culture never takes into consideration what the individual wants. Culture never thinks about what other people might want to do. Culture only serves to put barriers and judgmental eyes on the people of society, beseeching believers to look down and frown upon those who dare to be different, who dare to break the mold. Ibrahim understands this now, after taking that transcendent flight. He had been able to look down and see the man he could have been. Indeed, a man he may still yet become. 

Ibrahim walks into his home in the early hours of the morning, knowing that his wife will never ask him a single question about his whereabouts, or what he has been up to. Munira is a reliable and submissive wife, the common Middle Eastern Muslim wife: the woman that feeds you when you’re hungry, takes care of their children when they need taking care of, gives you tea when you’re thirsty, and always gives space because that’s what she has been taught to do. 

Ibrahim begins to hate the fact that this is what society has brought him as a wife. She too could be so much more than what she is. She could be an independent thinker. A scholar, an author, a poet herself, but instead she has to be stuck in this small apartment with her average, unspectacular husband. All because she was born with a vagina and ovaries inside a culture that makes her less than. It is the society they share that makes her believe she is unworthy. It benefits Ibrahim and all the other men in this society. But does it? 

Does anyone know what real love is? To accidentally stumble upon someone’s beauty and charisma and finesse, to meet them at a coffee shop or a tea house, and to have conversations until the sun leaves and the moon replaces it in the sky? Do they know what it’s like to really fall in love or will they forever fall in “like?” Fall in “what society expects?” 

Relationships inside this culture are often riddled with confusion and discomfort about the idea of marrying and having sex and children with a stranger. As a child grows up to love the father, so too is the Muslim woman forced to love her husband. Oftentimes it is not actually love, but something else. Who’s to say what it really is, when all they have is the example of their own father to look to. Their own parents' flawed relationship and their culture’s mistaken values to use for guidance. 

Ibrahim catches himself, realizing that he had never had these thoughts before. He had experienced a form of awakening. He had died and gone to heaven, and was now reborn anew. But what will he do now? Will he continue on the same path and leave the gods to be disappointed in him, or will he wake up and do something different? What now? What am I to do now? He had been told his whole life that in this world we have millions of resources at our fingertips, despite when and where you were born. But what do we do with these gifts from the gods? Where do we take them? How do we utilize them for our benefit, and for the benefit of our world? 

As Ibrahim lays awake in bed, he finds himself salivating for another taste of that awe-inspiring powder. He feels sure that he would find the answer to all of his questions if he just had one more dose. He couldn’t wait to get back to Razi’s, couldn’t wait to take that magical flight once more. 

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The story continues next week with part 3. Thank you for reading.

 Foreword

There are two things I know for certain about my grandfather Ibrahim. One, he was a well-known professor and poet at a prestigious University in Cairo, and two, he died of a heroin overdose. 

My father spoke of him as if speaking of a demigod, that is of course until I was old enough to understand the tones of one's voice, and how to read between the lines of our speech. He would tell my 8-year-old self the story of how my grandfather wrote a poem about Cairo, as a way to show a Nation's pride. This poem was published in the popular Cairo newspaper, Al Ahkbar, bringing gratification to the whole family. This notable publication brought my grandfather’s newfound popularity in the neighborhood he called home, Shoubra. He would walk the streets with his head held a little higher, his pockets a little fuller and his time at home with his children and wife more scarce than ever. 

This is a story about Ibrahim, a poet who would go to the end of the world for one chance at being someone worth reading about.

Chapter 1

The year is 1955. 

If the sun didn’t rise and set, one would never know the time in the streets of Shoubra. In this vibrant and colorful district, tucked into north central Cairo like a hidden jazz club, the cafes and bazaars never die. The hustle and bustle of the city sways and pulsates as though the very façades of the buildings have a rhythm of their own. At any time of day, you can hear these faint conversations in the background, muffled by the car horns that continue to blare, as their inpatient drivers yell and wave their hands out the window, as though they have somewhere super important to be. Ibrahim would wake up in the early morning hours to the slow shuffling feet of half sleeping children. He, his seven children, and his wife, Munira, all shared the same modest apartment. For Cairo in 1955, it was a nice space, adequate even for a newly prestigious poet and his family. Cairo was like New York; real estate was scarce, precious, and expensive. 

Munira, as usual, is awake before him, and begins to brew his morning Sadaf tea with dried mint leaves. Ibrahim holds the handless glass teacup by the rim and places a side of it to his lips as though kissing it. He always feels alive as it kisses him back, the warm caramel colored potion seeping into his mouth. It will take him 20 minutes to finish the scolding elixir before he gets dressed to leave Munira with their flock of small children for the day. 

Ibrahim walks down the 8 flights of stairs to the streets below with his briefcase in hand, heading to Al-Azhar University. He will first stop at the local teashop on the corner, where he will sit with his friends and colleagues sharing pita bread, beans and falafel while sipping on his second cup of tea. There, they will catch up on the tittle-tattle from the previous day and put great emphasis on the small irrelevant stories that took place in the few square blocks they roamed. Stories seemed to recycle through this group, with small-added flourishes to give a surprise effect when the familiar punchline came round. This day was a little different, as one of the members of this posse, Razi, announced that his cousin, Abbas, was in town from Libya and going to stay with him. That night they would get together at Razi’s home to give Abbas a proper Shoubra welcome. 

Chapter 2 

The gates to Al-Azhar University are an old rusty blue and have the Rub el Hizb centered perfectly on them. Ibrahim walks past the gates and heads directly for Al-Azhar mosque, which stands connected to the university. At the entrance, there is usually a man, Haz, who sits on a wooden and wicker chair smoking cigarettes and drinking tea near the prayer hall. Tea and cigarettes were as embedded into Muslim culture as much as the Dua itself. 

“Salaam aleikum, Professor,” Haz says to Ibrahim, who responds, “Wa alaykum as salam, Haz”, as he steps into the mosque. 

He makes his way to the corner to take off his shoes and to wash, before raising his hands to his ears reciting “Allahu Akbar,” then kneeling on the red carpet for his obligatory salat. After his daily prayer, he gathers his belongings and goes to his office that is located near Aqbaughawiya Medrersa, which serves as the library. He teaches classes on Sharia Law and Islamic literature, two subjects near and dear to him, as his father was a well-established litigator in his time. 

Ibrahim sits at his desk to grade papers before his lecture begins. The only break from his daily monotonous tasks are the get-togethers with his crew in the evenings. Most of the men in Shoubra spend their nights with their comrades, sitting at the local penny universities discussing recent events, reciting poetry, competing over who knows the Quran best and recalling the histories of many trivial affairs. This evening's welcome party is more exciting for him as he gets to meet a newcomer to the familial group, one who he can learn from but most importantly, impress. 

In today's class, the topic of discussion is centered on the seven Mu’allaqat and the influence these poems have had on pre-Islamic Arabia. Ibrahim, as a poet himself, lectures on subjects that have influenced his literary life. He enjoys hearing the thoughts and opinions of his pupils, as they often spark fresh ideas for his subsequent work. He begins the class by reciting one of the Mu’allaqat to his onlookers: the poem of Imru’ al-Qais, “Let us stop and weep.” He recites this poem, and tries to do its imagery justice for his audience. 

Ibrahim begins: 

Halt, two friends, and we will weep for the memory of one beloved

And an abode at Siqt al-Liwa between al-Dakhul, then Hawmal, Then Tudih, then Miqrat, whose trace was not effaced

By the two winds weaving over it from south and north. You see the droppings of white antelope

Scattered on its outer grounds and lowlands like peppercorns.

(Imru al-Qays, “The Mu’allaqah of Imru al-Qays,” lines 1-3, in Stetkevych, Mute Immortals, pp. 249–50)

After the poem that was so eloquently recited to his students, he gets a most gracious applause from them. This feeds him, and he feels proud of himself, as proud as though the words were his own. They jump into discussion in attempts to decipher the cryptic messages within each stanza. Their homework is to write a paper on the meaning of the Mu’allaqat and their interpretation of its poetry. 

During the discussions, many of the students fall prey to the exotic and mesmerizing words of Abu Tammam. Ibrahim knows that many of their works will be based on this poet’s writings, as many of their in-class discussions have been wrapped around the works in Hamasah, the anthology by Abu Tammam. 

Class is dismissed and each of the students go their own way while Ibrahim packs a few papers and books in his briefcase to head back to the mosque for Asr. After this prayer, Ibrahim prepares for his second class of the day, where he will enthusiastically discuss Sharia law, the Islamic law that refers to Allah’s immutable divine code. 

Chapter 3 

After class, Ibrahim makes his way home to shower. The Egyptian sun shines down with all of its unrelenting desert strength, making it unbearable to go about one’s day without washing off at least once. Usually when he goes home, most of the children are in school, and Munira is left to ensure that Ibrahim has food to eat and more tea to drink before he takes his nap. 

During his nap, Munira continues to wash around the house, hanging the clothes she just cleaned in the kitchen sink, and makes sure her remaining young children at home stay quiet and do not disrupt their sleeping father. Ibrahim finally wakes from his slumber, sits up in his bed and rubs his eyes. He turns himself and lets his feet fall to the chilled concrete ground of his bedroom. He walks to the rug that is not too far from his bedside and stands there looking outside his window to the dusty noisy streets of his Shoubra neighborhood. He then pulls on a robe and walks across to the bathroom where he washes his face, his hands and his feet to get ready for his afternoon prayer. Ibrahim returns to his room, and without saying anything to his wife and children, unfolds his prayer rug and begins his salat. 

Ibrahim walks from his bedroom dressed and refreshed for his afternoon. He salutes his wife, and his small children run to hug him as he returns the embrace and kisses them, one after another on the cheek. Munira brings out his tea, falafel and pita bread to nourish him for the unknown journey into the night he will surely take. Munira is often left in the dark about her husband's actions, as most wives in these lands are. She knows that he is going to get up from his chair soon, grab his cigarettes and house keys, put on his jacket and leave. She does not know where he goes or who he meets or when he will return. Her diligent lack of inquiry is one of the many characteristics that make her a devout and loyal Egyptian wife. 

Ibrahim leaves his family and steps into the darkening streets of Shoubra. He walks down the many flights of stairs to get to the sidewalk. He lights a cigarette and begins to weave between the suffocating buildings, while Munira stands near the window and watches him walk, further and further away from her, until all she sees is the cherry of his cigarette swaying back and forth, and then not even that. He will return when he chooses to return. Munira sighs, straightens herself, and then continues to tend to their children. 

Chapter 4 

Ibrahim knocks at Razi’s door, and after a moment or two he opens the door and welcomes Ibrahim in with enthusiasm. Razi leads the way to his back study, where the men are sitting and chattering amongst themselves. Their chatter is interrupted by Razi’s announcement of Ibrahim’s arrival. 

“Hello Ibrahim,” the men say in unison. Ibrahim says his hello’s back. 

Razi’s friend from Libya, Abbas, walks over to Ibrahim and shakes his hand. “Hello, I have heard a lot about you my friend. I feel as though I already know you.” 

“Welcome Abbass, it's wonderful to see that Razi is willing to share his family with us after all these years of only knowing Khepri and the kids.” Ibrahim says with a smile on his face. The men share laughs and begin to speak about Abbas’ journey to Egypt from Libya. 

“Things are going well with me in Libya. I teach a class there, on poetry. Similar to you Ibrahim.” Ibrahim looked at him with bright eyes and said, “Yes, very similar indeed.” 

“I just needed to get some air, to get away for a while,” said Abbas. “I want to focus on my work for a few months, and what better place to do it then here with my family and my new friends, especially ones that are scholars and academics like myself.” 

“We are happy that you are here,” said Ibrahim. “You are always welcome, even in my home. It is yours when you want it,” he said ecstatically. 

“Thank you, my friend,” said Abbas

“Anyway, I want to be in a familiar place when I work on my next projects, especially as I work and give my brain a boost with this,” said Abbas as he pulls out from his suit jacket pocket a small bag filled with a white and beige powder. 

Everybody asks, basically in unison, “What is that? What did you bring?” 

Abbas replies, “This here is poppy seed powder, or what we like to call, poppy tears. It comes from the opium plants and its medicine. This here is the most incredible medicine I have ever taken in my life and I bring it here, my friends. to share with you.”

They all look at him and Hamza asks, “Why would we take that? We aren’t sick.” Abbas retorts with, “Ahh my friends, but you are.” 

He goes on. “This type of medicine, what it does is, it allows me to open my mind, reach into my imagination and see everything that lurks there. Everything subtle of the mind that our day-to-day troubles stifle and silence. Do you ever think to yourself: how is it that you manage to think up ideas during the day?” 

He then looks directly at Ibrahim and says, “Maybe Ibrahim, it is of a poem or a short story that you have in mind, and all of a sudden that thought is interrupted by the reality that is your life. Your children, your wife, your work, your debts. Maybe how you ran out of your morning tea. Something so simple. Then you try to get back to where you were before, you try to complete the story or poem, but the inspiration just isn't there anymore. The imaginative impulse has gone. This is so frustrating. Have you ever experienced this?” 

Abbas finishes his short soliloquy and Ibrahim is looking at him in disbelief. It is as though he is speaking directly from his own mind. Ibrahim knows this happens more often than not. 

Abbas speaks up again. “Well, I am sure one of you knows how this feels, and this my friends,” as he hold up the bag with a mystery powder, “will give you the most incredible feelings of joy and happiness, This medicine allows you to recline in your imagination, to enjoy the thoughts and ideas that make your days wonderful, lively and vibrant, without these nagging mundane interruptions pulling at your mind.”

Now that he has the room enraptured, Abbas continues, weaving words like a dark magician. “I couldn’t tell you how many poems I have written after taking this miraculous medicine. How many short stories were made a success. After my friends and colleagues read my work, they are left in disbelief that all of these colorful words and innovative notions have come from my mind. To be honest with you, I often am blown away too.” 

“How do you take this?” interrupted Ibrahim, on the edge of his seat. 

Abbas replies, “I snort this through my nose. This is the closest entrance to the brain, to the factory where your imagination is created. There, the wheels themselves are turning. It is as though I become the person that I have forever been meant to be.” 

At these words, Ibrahim becomes ecstatic. “Wow,” says Ibrahim, “you have described this medicine as something from the Gods.” 

“This is from the Gods, my friend,” says Abbas. “Don’t you see? The Gods want us to be successful, they want us to understand that we have a duty to live up to our greatest potential. We have a duty to reach greatness every single day, and with their help we can! The Gods have provided this to us, the creators, the artists, so we can share our insights and beauty with the world and make it better. The Gods want us to enlighten the world!” 

Razi asks “Where did you get this my friend?” 

Abbas tells him about a friend of his who spent time in Afghanistan. “In Afghanistan, this is everywhere! They are so blessed with the poppy plant in their backyard. My friend was able to get some in his possession and was so kind as to share it with me. I have been hooked to this elixir of life ever since.” 

“I feel as though, in this powder, I have found the Philosopher's stone, because everything I think of and everything I touch turns to gold. If you feel brave and daring you can try it with me. If you are scared and don’t want to, I understand, but this,” he says, as he waves the bag of magic powder like a talisman. 

“Here is the finest form of medicine, and the sweetest introduction to your 

life that you will ever find.” 

Razi asks, eagerly. “How do we take it? What do we do?” 

Abbas answers: “You scoop a small amount into your pinky nail. Place it to one of your nostrils and inhale through that one nostril as forcefully as possible, so the medicine flies straight into your brain. Once it is there, it begins to work for you. It opens channels you never knew of. It opens windows you never thought were closed.”

From the corner, one of their friends, Ahmed, says, “Man, you are crazy, what do you mean you snort it?! Every time there is something in my nose I want to blow it out, not put it in!” 

All the men yell out in laughter. They drink their tea and eat almonds and dates. Abbas says, “I'll let you think about it, if you want to try it with me, you know where I'll be.” 

The men then spend the rest of the evening chatting breezily about their wishes of traveling and writing. They hatch plans for future goals and future dreams.

What Abass didn’t know was the effect he had had on Ibrahim, who sat in his chair thinking of the passion with which Abbas spoke of his magic dust from far away lands, the potential it had on his imagination and how badly he wanted to fly with his dreams and never wake from them. He would one day get that wish. 

“Tomorrow night,” intones Ibrahim, “We will get together again, just like this, however tomorrow we will not hesitate, we will take this sacred flight of which Abbas speaks. We will fly all together, like brothers, embarking on a journey into the unknown depths of the imagination.” 

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The story continues next week with part 2. Thank you for reading.

A young poet once told me to stay fancy-free,

to never give my love away, to keep it all for me.

For if my heart shall break

and be unable to mend,

I shall retrace the steps of my journey

and remember my poet friend.

For if I only took action in the steps he did request,

I wouldn’t have this broken heart beating from my chest

but, unable to capture his vision after that first kiss.

I have now experienced all sensations with the lack of bliss.

If I could go back in time and ask him again,

he would tell me once more, but only as my friend:

To never give my love away, to keep it all for me.

For if my heart shall break, I will never be free.

I will be trapped in a world in which I think is love.

But really, in the exterior, it’s none of the above.

Now that my poet friend lies deep down in the dark,

He will forever live inside of my broken heart

and occasionally, I will hear the sound of his shattered heart.

For it is the reason why he now lies in the dark.

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