The Confession

By Zoha Jabbar

Adam stared out the window. Through the grimy glass and the heavy iron bars, he saw the sky. How glorious the sky was, Adam missed it. He missed lifting his face up to the sunlight. He had not seen the outside world for a month. He was not allowed to leave his maximum security cell, with its claustrophobic walls, naked light bulb and the pungent stench of urine.

He heard Mr. Dawood clear his throat behind him, and Adam knew that the lawyer was impatient to begin, but he didn't care. He was still drinking in the sight of the rust-coloured sky.

"Adam, you only have an hour, if you don't talk to me now, you'll have to wait till next week." Dawood spoke softly, his tone was that of a man trying to be stern, but failing miserably.

"All I do is wait, Mr. Lawyer. A week more can't make it any worse than it already is." Adam responded calmly. So calmly, in fact, that Dawood broke into a nervous sweat.

"Adam, please. We're running out of time," he croaked.

Adam whirled around, his eyes flashing the way a knife does, in the sunlight.

"You wanna talk? Alright, let's talk, but you won't like what I've got to say, lawyer-man.," with this said, he grew visibly calmer.

"It was her birthday. We had gone to the theatre, her favourite musical was playing, see. We had been returning when it happened. She said to me, 'it was so nice of you to take me out, Adam,' and I couldn't say anything. Not one word, because all I do was stare at her. She was breathtakingly beautiful. Aphrodite herself. And the way the moonlight fell on her, my God! So, I stopped at the side of the road, near that abandoned restaurant, and asked if she wanted to go inside. 'It's locked, Adi. how will we get in?' she asked me. See, she consented to go in, and everyone knows what happens when a man takes a woman to an abandoned building. Consented. It wasn't rape. I'm an honest man.

"So anyway, we went in, and after we were done, I placed my hands around her fragile white neck, and crushed it. She couldn't scream, I was gripping her windpipe, see. And I watched her struggle, and waited for that peace to grip her face and body. That's all I wanted, peace for her. It helps me see that I'll find peace someday. I watched her.

"And I had continued watching, until she had gone limp in my arms. I left then, and turned myself in. I'm an honest man."

Adam finished his story, and earnestly looked into Dawood's wide eyes.

"Adam... I can't lie on the stand in court." Dawood said slowly.

"I know, lawyer, I know. And that's why I said you won't like it. I'm gonna plead 'guilty', see? And then I'm gonna ask for the death penalty. So you, Mr. Bigshot Lawyer Man, won't be able to keep your pristine reputation. But me? I'll get my peace."

Adam's eyes were perfectly calm as he said this, his passive face contrasting sharply with the lawyer's profusely sweating form. Adam smiled, a smile so beautifully composed, so charming that it raised the hair on Dawood's neck and arms.

"Yes, peace. And judging by your eyes, my friend, you could do with some peace too. I could help, after all, I helped her, didn't I?" Adam returned to the window and looked at the sky. How glorious the sky was.

The Shock

By Amber Raza

            She stood there, stock still, completely oblivious to the hullabaloo around her. She could not think, or perhaps, she just did not want to. It was better this way, she thought. Enjoy the oblivion while it lasted. She ignored the putrid smell of the hospital as she struggled to remain calm. Her insides were screaming out, she wanted to rip her hair out, to break things, to hurt someone!

With all the pandemonium going on inside her, it was surprising how she managed to retain it all, and not even let a hint of it reach the surface. She knew she had to get out of there before she actually lost it. As she made her way towards the exit, her walk was calm and controlled, betraying no trace of what she was actually feeling. The smell of the ‘fresh’ air of the polluted city hit her, and she lost no time in taking huge gulps of it.

The series of events that had sped by in the last few hours, which she had been trying so hard to control, crept up to the back of her head. The memory of the accident was so vividly etched into the back of her mind that it felt like someone was playing a movie reel in front of her. She saw herself, as she had been that morning, with her hair tied back in a tight bun, and pins carefully securing all loose strands in place. Her outfit matched with her shoes, and her shoes of course matched with her bag, just as she liked them to.

She remembered getting behind the wheel of her car, with her husband hurriedly getting in next to her, mug of coffee and newspaper in hand. She remembered smiling to herself and thinking how she would never be found ever doing anything in a hurry, since for her, perfect timing was a virtue. She saw herself laughing at a joke her husband had said, and how she had been momentarily distracted from the road when she had turned her face to look at him…

Just a moment. That’s all it takes. An entire country can be wiped out in just a moment. It only takes a moment to break a signal, and not notice the truck’s horns blaring. It only takes a moment to swerve out of the way and crash head on with another car. And it only takes a moment to black out, and wake up to see your loved one be carried out on a stretcher, with a white sheet draped over him, and a steady pool of red forming where his head was supposed to be.

She could not breathe. She needed to vent out the anger and grief that was slowly bubbling up inside her. She knew that she needed to do it soon, or else she felt like her head would explode. She knew that if she saw herself now, she would not be able to recognize herself. Her curls had come loose from their pins, and were cascading down her shoulders. Her face was grubby and smudged with dirt, and her clothes were ripped in places. But what surprised her the most, was how she had come out of the entire accident without a single scratch. In fact, there was no cut on her entire body.

Another thing that she recalled was how she had not managed to find her husband anywhere in the hospital. Well, that was not that surprising since she knew that he was probably zipped up comfortably in a body bag in the morgue.

She realized that the shock of seeing the body being rolled out on the stretcher had caused her to blindly follow the ambulance to the hospital, where she had wandered around aimlessly, unsure of where to go and who to ask for help.

She decided she needed to assess the situation at hand. She patted down her hair, brushed off some dirt from her clothes, and stood up straight. She opened the door to the hospital and entered it, looking around for someone she could talk to.

Just as she was about to ask the lady behind the reception desk where she could find her husband, she saw something that made her heart leap to her throat. There he stood, as beautiful as he ever was, talking solemnly to a doctor, who seemed to be trying to reassure him about something.

As she made her way ‘hurriedly’ (for the first time in her life) towards him, calling out to him, she managed to hear the last few words that came out of the doctor’s mouth.

“We tried everything we could to save her. But unfortunately, the injuries were too extensive. I’m so sorry about your loss.” Just as the doctor walked away, she caught a glimpse of the woman in the bed of the room he was blocking. Her shoes and bag were lying next to her, and of course, they all matched perfectly.

                                                                                                    

I Write

By Asad Zaidi

I am writing today for the sake of writing, for the sole purpose of opening black wounds onto this sheet of paper with my pen. A cursed existence, some might say. But I would argue otherwise. There is nothing like the euphoria that comes from seeing the thousands of words, the unfathomable vortex of secrets taking palpable form right in front of you. However, I guess a part of me would have to agree with the aforementioned ‘some’, for without a pen and paper I am nothing. I –

I sense someone outside. I can feel their oppressive auras. I doubt this bodes well. Should I hide?

Too late. One of them just knocked down the front door.

There are men in front of me, dressed in long, white coats with their eyes cowering behind sunglasses. One of them holds a gun in his hand. I wonder if flight is still an option. I would make a pathetic attempt to shield my face with my hands but that would mean stopping writing.

There is a dart sticking out of my shoulder. I should probably feel relieved that it is not a bullet. I feel so tired now. The stream of words is slowing. Coherence. Losing…

***

I am writing for the sake of writing again. But today, I do not write just to maim sheet after sheet of paper. They have told me to write, that it is but a test, and nothing serious. I do not need to see the way the man next to me is staring at my hand as it glides across this page, his eyes hungry to read the words appearing in its wake, to sense his malice.

I am not sure when I regained consciousness or where I am or how long it has been since I was taken. Somehow my mind cannot gather information about this room, only that it is made of shiny metal and is rather unwelcoming. And there is a man sitting next to me staring at my hand.

The man nudges me and throws a document in my lap. Given a moment’s reprieve, I put down my pen to read it. There, I have read it. It was a certain classified document outlining some details about various government facilities that ‘do not exist’. My mind has instinctively reached out into the world in an attempt to gather information. I see what they want with me.

No! These men are obviously malicious. I do not want to be the one to unleash chaos into the world. Perhaps if I diverted my thoughts… My name is Terrance Shaw. I am seventeen. I have been in a wheelchair all my life. I am mute. I also happen to be a bibliopath, a telepath cursed to see all that happens and write all he sees. I –

The man just backhanded me. I can feel blood welling on the inside of my cheeks. For someone with so much power, I am so weak. But I will not help them.

***

I can not remember ever a time when I missed my pen and paper so dearly. They deprived me of it. How long, I can not say, only that I knew I was going to die soon without them. Have you ever felt every human being in the world screaming on the inside of your skull? I guess not. The voices tormented me, yelling at me to let them out.

I have decided to help them, not because I want to, but because I have no choice. I value my sanity and my writing tools. I am shocked to have reached such a decision, but I am only human, just as greedy and selfish as the others. Perhaps one day the voices of those I unleashed terror upon will accuse me inside my head until I am forced to take my own life. But until then I will make most of this unexpected situation and write for the sake of writing.