Hey. Hi. Hello. Salaam. Bonjour. Salut. Ciao. Ahoj. Bog. Marhaba. Ola.
Hope Monday is treating everyone well so far!
Quick shout out to Sister A for her correct guess. And to all of you who commented and got involved, shukran so much, really appreciate you’ll taking the time to participate and join the discussion! ❤
It’s going to take quite a few posts to reveal the entire story of the Meez’s past. Let me know if you’ll want to switch back to the present and hear from the other characters or would you’ll prefer reading this part completely??
Hope you’ll enjoy the post!
Troubled Illusioner. ❤
A peek into the past – Rameez:
My heart pounds against my rib cage, as I hold the phone against my ear.
Once again it rings for a long time before someone answers.
“Speak!” the cold voice comes through.
This time I’m a little more prepared.
“I want to speak to my dad,” I say.
My voice comes out small and shaky, even though I try to sound unafraid.
“Aah, Rameez.. so it is you!” says the voice.
I can imagine a humourless smile twisting slightly on a hard face.
“Where is my dad?!” I demand, an inkling of anger making me feel slightly braver.
“Your dad, my boy, is exactly where he should be.”
“Let me speak to him!” I say, almost pleadingly.
“Well, I’m afraid he’s not in quite the condition to speak to anyone.”
My blood runs cold.
“What did you to him?! Where is he?! What do you want from him?!”
The swirl of questions punishing my mind pour out of my mouth one after another.
“You want to speak to your father, huh?” says the man, cutting me off abruptly. “Wait behind the old warehouse by the hospital tomorrow morning at 5 am. Come alone and unarmed. Try anything funny and I will kill your father. Am I clear?”
Anger and fear fighting for dominance inside my body, I do something I’ve never done before.
I swear him.
Then I swear him again.
And then, I cut the call.
I lay on mummy’s bed, staring helplessly up at the ceiling.
My mind is racing; it hadn’t stopped since the phone call.
Despite a heavy tiredness having overtaken my body, sleep refuses to come.
In the corner of the bedroom, mummy sits on a musalla, praying.
“In every condition, pray.”
I hear my Grade 6 moulana’s voice inside my head and involuntarily say a prayer in my mind.
But only negative thoughts fill my mind and a desperate sigh escapes my lips.
The minutes tick by, causing the anxiety and apprehension I feel to increase.
I had narrated to mummy everything the man had said on the phone, and despite her worry for my safety, the circumstances didn’t give us much choice.
‘Just phone the police..’ a small voice inside me keeps on saying.
I don’t know what it is, but something is stopping me from doing that.
Maybe it’s the coldness of the man’s voice that makes my hair stand.
Maybe it’s the thought of knowing how dangerous these unknown people are.
Maybe it’s the threat, playing over and over in my mind.
“Come alone and unarmed. Try anything funny and I will kill your father.”
“I will kill your father.”
“I will kill your father.”
The chilly predawn air whips through my hair. I tug my jacket closer around my lean body, pushing my hands deeper into my pockets.
I stand against the faded, cracking paint, tense and alert.
My ears strain to hear the slightest sound, my eyes scanning my surroundings continuously.
Despite my vigilance, I don’t see the man coming.
One second I’m alone, the next, he stands a few feet away.
I startle, unable to contain my surprise.
The distance between us closes, and before I even have time to register what the man looks like, a strong chemical smelling cloth is thrown over my face.
I struggle to hold my breath and wrench the cloth off, but within seconds I black out.
The last thing my mind registers is someone picking me up followed by a barely audible mumble.
The room is dimly lit by a small globe of faint yellow light.
I try to sit up but my bones feel heavier than lead.
A foul stench hits me, and slowly my mind clears.
The last couple hours come rushing back, hitting me like a huge tidal wave.
Panic floods into my blood stream.
Crying out, I force myself into a sitting position.
But the effort it takes, the energy it sucks out of me, is too much.
I collapse on all fours, my head sagging between my shoulders.
My senses seem to be heightened, and the overpowering smell of sewage, blood, and urine nauseates me. I throw up, the insides of my stomach churning.
Weakness slowly tugs me into its embrace. Wiping my mouth with my T-shirt neckline, I lay down slowly, succumbing, drawing solace from the warmth of my tears, rolling silently down my cheeks.
A sharp pain shoots through my shoulder.
“Get up!!” commands a gruff voice, again.
I open my eyes slowly, confused, disorientated.
A man I’ve never seen before towers over me.
The first thing I notice is his sharp, piercing gaze.
His green eyes glow with a cold menace that makes every hair on my body stand.
“Get the f*** up!” he all but yells, kicking my shoulder again.
Slowly I sit up, my body feeling a thousand pounds heavier.
My eyes adjust to the semidarkness, and the next thing I notice about the man, is the numerous scars slashed across his face.
His face resembles a canvas..
A canvas that reflects an artist who lived a torturous life. An artist whose hand holds a knife as steadily as a writer holds a pen. An artist whose emotions reflect on no place more explicitly than it does on a canvas. His face resembles a canvas of pain, a pain felt by an artist so unbearably, so unmistakably, that merely looking at him causes my heart to drop to my toes.
His face resembles a war zone..
A war zone that reflects merciless soldiers. A war zone as torturous as the last breath of a suffocating man. A war zone where blood flows in rivers and limbs lay in heaps. His face resembles a war zone of a battle he’d won. A battle he’ll carry with him till death pulls at his soul. A battle called life.
“Get up! Stand! On your feet!”
I try but I can’t.
Weakness still enshrouds me in its strong embrace.
I get to my knees, only to fall back down onto the cold hard floor.
“I.. I can’t,” I whisper, my voice hoarse, terrified.
“F***’s sake Fang, you doused him too much!”
“Naw, his system too f***ing weak boss,” drawls a voice from the other end.
“Like the dad,” says another voice.
The two share a laugh, but the man standing in front of me is seemingly unamused.
Dad?! Oh my god, Dad!!
The realization hits me full force.
These guys have dad!
I’m supposed to save him..
But now they’ve got me too!