Extinguished

Fateh was on a phone call with Dad. He did not talk to me. Grandma patted my back. Somewhere inside she hasn't forgiven me yet. Somewhere inside I haven't forgiven myself. I locked the windows, the air takes a dangerous form in the night.

No matter how much I try, they come back, these feels. The sensation of past horrors, the sound of melancholy. The voices of my parents banging my door, my damp cheeks restricting the rude breeze but before I would sink again I floated on the surface as I heard a peal of thunder. I looked beside. Grandma and Fateh were asleep. I looked at the clock. It strikes 2 am. Dar-al-maqamah sleeps early. It has been too late. The sound of a loud bang jerked me on my feet. I tried not to panic. I heard faint cries....slowly those cries turned into screams. I was frightened as I sprang on the door know and opened it. I saw Al-Wais rushing upstairs from the library and in the way he gestures Mrs. Salma who stood at the corner to put me back to my bed which she did. She pushed back the door and locked me from outside. Nobody in the room had open eyes yet. I marched in the room worried but no shadow was to be seen.

Who could it be? This place is getting mysterious by days. The next day at breakfast I eagerly waited. They all sat in the usual fashion and ate silently. Mrs. Kasheefa never serves, in fact, I've never seen Mrs. Salma or Mrs. Kasheefa inside the house until last night and today they are setting our breakfast.

I softly asked her about the incident, she just blankly refused to me saying nothing of any sort happened and that I had a nightmare. I know myself it did happen. Them I looked at them all. They have no worry nor reason on the face. They avoid me like usual. Was it a dream?

Al-Hassan looks pale.

"I would like some more" Souffian ate the rest of the eggs as I stared that Hassan shifted his remainder to his.

That day like all other days faded into the grey walls and paintings of the house. Dar-Al-Maqamah is strange.

I sat with Wildan on the garden bench. "How do they speak in the city? Is it any different dialect from ours?" He asked.

"They do not speak like you. They are very different. There are slangs and bad words thrown as a greeting"

I said remembering that this century does not like the century I see here.

"And what do they say to insult someone in your city?" Shizad asked.

There were a lot of bad words that came into my mind but I did not want to corrupt their speech so I found subtle one "low life, weirdo"

"You're a low life weirdo ni'sa," he said to me with a frown.

I did not speak. A helper requested Wildan and Shizad to present themselves in the living room where a man and a woman had come to see them.

It would great to see other humans here I thought to myself.

A man, his wife, and two daughters were seen leaving the Manor. Shizad grunts "Ni'sa" and growls like a lion at their leave. Others sharpen their eyes. What is it with their resentment with women?

Day by Day I lament my dismal. In the garden where the fresh bloom had arrived with sweet smell spreading like a rising addictive offering an unwavering high. I trudged along The bloom.

"I love these flowers Wildan, what are they called?" I asked him.

"Foxgloves. They are brother Al-Wais's favorite"

"I adore them!" I confessed.

"I love daisies. Simplicity is beauty"

He said.

We strolled in the garden till evening. Wildan comes up with questions so random like a little child who finds the quest in every branch of life. His sense to feel things deeply moves me. His company soothes me.

"How old must you be Miss, if you at all you do not find me asking you?" He hesitantly asked.

"Nearly twenty-seven" I replied.

Age....years.....disappearing youth. I've been so worried about them in past. My span from nineteen to a year before mid-twenties was formally obsessive thoughts about aging. I did not take aging well. The prospect of life revolved about marrying and being good enough... Now I see age as some random number that has sprung on shut once for a year, it does not bother me nor it pleases me. My soul instead my body had aged terribly.....that no serum or lie can hide.

"I am seventeen" he drops.

"And Al-Wais ?'' I asked.

" he's thirty and one or two" he responded.

I was surprised, he doesn't look in his thirties or maybe he does.

"Al-Souffian is twenty and eight, Al-Hassan twenty and seven" he added.

The other day I went to the library to fetch a book to invest my afternoons in. There was no one. At this hour they all sit in The library together but today it was vacant. The library looks faceless without them. Now I looked for interest I found myself at the corner where every day their circle gathers. I smiled, the Elahim Brothers.

Behind the table I never noticed was large cupboards locked, stacked with journals, diaries, and notes. Each with A metal nameplate. Each of The brothers had one to their names. But there were seven cupboards the largest of Mr. Elahim. Another of the same size or slightly larger of a nameplate that been covered with a nailed cotton cloth. I tried to stretch my fingers inside the small gap to peek in. But a shuddered with the thought of being caught. What if they had cameras in here. No, I shouldn't.

I picked a book and left. They write that I do know but so much. The cupboards had no pace for a breath.

I trudged from the library to the lobby in search for Fateh, a little for the brother because I hadn't seen them since morning.

I saw Al-Hassan sitting under the dome of the garden. I approached him. When I reached the steps of the dome he within a shot hid a paper he had in his hands and his countenance changed into a guilty visage.

"Hello," I said.

He sighed. "Oh, it is you. You shot my heart. What do you want now?"

He said relaxing a paper and a red envelope in his hands.

"Fateh?" I asked more focused on the envelope.

"Went on a spree with Wildan, might return soon" he replied.

Red envelope with a rose stamp like the one the red package had.

I found Fateh I had no business with him. Just wanted to see him but he is more happy with them and that sprouts the green monster in me.

If I would speak the language of stereotype they Don't look religious. At all. Always in their cricket sweaters, V Vests and checkered sweaters they look from the 1920s. They're beige loose trousers and loose white shirts. Their pastel and light colored suits which they usually lunch in. They look like dapper English men. Except with Arab noses. I wonder if they're of Arabic descent. Wildan is the only one with more English features. Al-Hassan more like a heavenly mix. They speak Arabic fluently. English even well.

Where do such elite aristocrats come from?

Wildan sat down with me while I entangled each thought of them from the mind.

"What?" He asked. An Old English Accent.

"How many languages can you speak?" I asked.

"English, Arabic, Latin, Greek, Spanish, and German....and Hebrew" he astonished me. And puts the same question to me now.

"I can only Speak English and read Arabic" I responded shamefully.

"But you are twenty-six!" He gasps.

I looked down embarrassed.

"You can start now, " he said like learning languages are so easy.

I looked at him "who taught you?"

"Brother Al-Wais" he replied proudly.

"Partly learned under my father's influence partly under-" he halted.

"Good to see you, Miss. Good night" he stood up and left.

I did not notice the other men had joined us and gathered in the same room. I asked aloud, I shouldn't have

"What happened to your mother Wildan?"

They all froze. The kind of silence when the lone cricket stops making his wholesome noise to feel the void in the night. A silence that happens when even not a single cell breathes. Like their blood had stopped in their veins. Like their hearts have been still. Silence like the air was dead. Silence.

"He is Al-Wildan" Souffian purposely postponed my question after what seemed like the most uncomfortable age.

"But--? " I stopped myself.

"Dismissed" Al-Wais spoke haughtily stabbing his sight into my soul.

I was petrified with his glare. His bloodshot red eyes and heavy breathing. They all walked stubbornly like the hated the ground instead of me. Souffian pushed the wall lamp on the left so that I would be reminded I should stay in the dark. I belonged to the dark and that the broken light who extinguished would be parallel to my hope. Extinguished.

[Will be updated soon in a week]