Escape of a Corpse
Its threads sneaked through the gaps in the curtains, flirting with the bare hairs on his chest. He felt their pricks, tossed on the edge of the bed, his eyelids heavy as if they didn’t know if he had been sleeping for a day or two in the depths of slumber. He tried to gather his scattered thoughts.
The events of that night continued to encircle him—the sound of the motorcycle colliding with a lamppost, shattering into pieces on the side of the road, chasing him. He thought what had happened was just a nightmare, yet its events persisted, haunting him. He was losing parts of his body scattered by the impact, but his ten fingers remained intact. He thanked God for this blessing. The remnants of bruised blue marks adorned his left thigh.
He looked towards the alarm clock, realizing he was running late for work. He was puzzled by the absence of the alarm clock’s sound. He shook off his blanket, stood before the mirror. Scratches covered his face like an unclear surrealist painting. His arm ached as he turned toward the bathroom. The shower water flowed over his body, refreshing him. He scrubbed his head and body to wash away the blood stains. Locks of his hair fell, merging with the water and shampoo foam on his body. He could hear only the water’s murmurs—silence, nothing else. He cursed that silence.
He returned to his room. His clothes were scattered on the floor, stained with blood. A golden necklace hung on his shirt, and his books were strewn next to the remains of coffee cups on the table. One of them had lipstick marks, and his hand reached for a half-eaten apple, biting it, silencing the cry of his stomach.
He played a Fairouz song on his mobile, but no sound emanated from it. Had Fairouz’s voice been silenced, or had the device stopped working? He attempted to raise the volume, fear conquering his heart. He put on clean clothes from his wardrobe in haste and left his house.
In the middle of the street, children played, people came and went, street vendors moved their lips and hands without sound, and cars without honks. The coffee shop radio produced no noise. Only life passed in silence, a silent movie starring itself, and the silence killed everything around. He rubbed his ears but heard nothing but the silence, so quiet…
In front of his workplace, he bought a copy of Al-Ayyam newspaper from the Freedom kiosk. He skimmed through the headlines, pausing at one in the accidents section:
“The search for the motorcycle driver’s body continues.” He read from the lines:
“A young man in his twenties was riding a motorcycle at a frantic speed, collided with a lamppost. The accident led to his death and the girl accompanying him. The disappearance of the young man’s body remains a puzzling mystery for the criminal investigators. The girl’s body has been transported to the public morgue…”
The newspaper slipped from his hands. Its edges fell apart, his body’s flesh peeled off, and the street was engulfed by the stench of a decaying corpse.
