by Mai Mostafa & Ahmed Nader Gretly
“Life is not a given”, she whispered to herself as she sobbed like so many nights before. Her thigh, a bony canvass, with the words “I’m not good enough” carved in crimson ink. Sinking deep in the abyss of her own lost soul, which was at times aching to be found. With long lines of darkness streaming down her anemic face, that was once angelic, but now her cheekbones strung like massive hills, and black holes hanging under her eyes. Her charcoal hair strung down her face, shielding her eyes that once saw beauty with a curious gaze.
She once was lady popularity, but now she played the character of “Little Miss nobody” in this grotesque play, with her being the puppet and the puppet master, on an infinite stage of wood with her hopes, dreams and all the faces, all the eyes of the people she once thought were her own now sat there glaring at her criticizing her every movement. She, the puppet master, focused her hand gestures on the strings wrapped around the puppet’s neck, just to release the trap door beneath her feet.
“Snap!” Her neck went.
Nothing but screaming silence hung in the air. She thought by killing Little Miss nobody the universe would unravel into its rightful order. But the sickening feeling grabbed her heart, like a mother would grab her infant child protecting him from the evils of the world.
She saw herself, hanging motionless by the neck, helpless with tears of sorrow running down her face.
She knew she could feel, yet never wanted to. She knew she could hurt, yet never cared for her aching soul. She was lost, yet never admitted it, for only she could save the puppet, but the pain felt too good for her to stop.
Her loud cries seemed silent to everyone else. The universe watched as she collapsed. She was blind, until she closed her eyes. She was mad, until she lost her mind. Her shattered dreams grabbed her by the hand and picked her up. At last, she knew what she wanted. She wanted to change the world, or at least not let the world change her. Her eyes were hungry for more, but her heart was an elderly who was too tired to go on.
Her eyes, not really seeing, but touching, reading the whole universe like a brail. With her pen running smoothly on papers of white, like so many blades ran on her pale skin. Her dry eyes felt heavier than the world’s burden on her shoulder. She sat there, on a bag of dreams by the rail road, bumming a cigarette, waiting like an addict would wait for an angry fix. For if a train stomped all over her, lord knows she wouldn’t care to move. She was ready to fight, because fighting was no longer a choice.