Inner Voice - Short Story - Chapter 3

Inner Voice - Short Story

    When I was four, I suspected that nothing is real. I imagined that everyone was conspiring against me, acting out everything that happened in front of me, and that the moment I left the house, for example, they would reveal the cameras and microphones and contact the people I was about to meet outside to instruct them on how to behave with me. I doubted the existence of Heaven, Hell, or even God, and believed that everything people told me was part of a carefully arranged performance. To this day, I still do not know the reason behind such suspicions, but I remember that this was also the age when my stammer first appeared. It quickly weakened and faded away, because I was not old enough yet to worry about it or obsess over it in my thoughts, that is what makes it grow stronger. Perhaps it disappeared because Baba took me with him on one of his trips to Alexandria back then, and we visited the Mosque of Abu al-Abbas al-Mursi and prayed there, *(Abu al-Abbas al-Mursi was a famous Muslim Sufi saint and scholar buried in Alexandria. He is best known for the Mosque of Abu al-Abbas al-Mursi, one of the city’s most famous mosques), and he bought me a small bottle of black seed oil. That was his way of treating the matter. Now, however, he simply ignores things, just as he ignores Seif’s behavior toward me. In Egyptian culture, the eldest brother is excused for most of what he does, especially toward his younger brothers, and sisters even those older than him at times, simply because he is the eldest and he is a male. If I behaved the same way toward Mahmoud or Islam, Baba would allow it too. And if we had sisters, he would have ignored the boys’ behavior toward them as well.

    Once, I raised a knife at Seif after he mocked me to a point that nearly drove me insane. He mocked my appearance, my speech, my writings, or my attempts at writing. And whenever I screamed at him, he would laugh and imitate my facial expressions in ridicule. I could never understand how a human being could laugh at another person while he screamed and cried. Yet Baba always blamed me whenever I shouted at Seif or tried to hit him, so I transformed from victim into offender simply because I could not endure what he did. When I finally gave up, I learned to ignore him, only to discover that Baba praised my silence and demanded that Mahmoud and Islam behave the same way, saying: “Make your personalities respectable like Alaa’s… your older brother says something to you, just let it pass… act like you didn’t hear him. What are you gonna do when you join the army and officers start barking orders at you or cursing your father and mother? Or if you end up living with some annoying brat who keeps messing with you, are you gonna scream at him too? No, you have to stay cold and let people talk. Make fun of yourself before anyone else does. Since you were kids, I’ve been teasing you and giving each of you mocking nicknames… so you’d grow a personality and stop caring about what people say.”

Inside me there are two

and I am the third

And the third is always silent

He gave up, stopped speaking

He neither feels nor suffers

 *(Lyrics from an Egyptian song named (A Drop of White) by Cairokee band)

    Seif left the house, so Baba decided to leave Mahmoud some money before going out. Then he leaned his head into my dark room and asked:

- Lolita, do you need anything before I go?

Without waiting for my answer, he continued:

- Don’t worry, tomorrow I’ll bring you the money… Glory be to God, you took the buried room and still managed to bring light into it. I need you to be patient with your brother.

He stepped inside and came closer to me as he went on:

- What are we supposed to do with your older brother? He says something, just ignore it. Be the better one. You think everyone is respectful like you… but Mahmoud’s gonna take the money and waste it outside, alright? I don’t want you worrying. Tomorrow I’ll figure out the money somehow. How much was it again?

- One hundred and fifty.

- Alright, don’t worry about it. You know how much I trust you.

    I felt sorry for him, and guilt flooded through me. He left the room, but only seconds later I got up and followed him before he could leave. He was standing by the door, talking to Mama, Islam, and Mahmoud, who were sitting in the living room:

- If someone knocks, look first...

He cut himself off the moment he saw me and gave me his full attention, which made the words catch between my jaws for a few moments.

- ...When… will you come?

- Tomorrow I’ll bring you the money.

- There’s… another session… I can catch it… I’ll go at another time.

- Alright then, God willing. (Then he addressed everyone.) I was saying what? If somebody knocks, don’t open the door. When one of us does, he will ring the bell and then knock. Otherwise, don’t open for anyone. Don’t let someone come saying, “We’re cleaning the stairs, give us five pounds, Let your mother come with us.” We don’t want to mix with anybody. Just like we kept to ourselves back in the village, we’ll keep to ourselves here too.

- Alright, goodbye.

Mama said it with a trace of sarcasm. I tried to ease the situation by showing intense interest in what Baba was saying, and replied:

- Okay.

- Don’t worry about anything. Tomorrow I’ll come back as early as I can… I know you’re disciplined and respectable.

I smiled at him with happiness and gratitude despite the anxiety and guilt twisting inside me. I closed the door behind him and stood there for a few moments, thinking about what I had just done. Tomorrow, I would register my name. I would attend the top students' session. I would meet Ali and Habiba!