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À vos plumes

Short story: to the ones we’ve lost, loved before..

nour ben mefteh

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Names based on records found on the internet, story based on imagination..

 

As the water poured on him, he stared at his feet, unable to look up, unable to face his reflection.

Twenty years.

After few minutes, he left the shower tube heading back to his room. Yet nothing about him changed. It is covering him still, the smell he’ll never sniff again is still on him, nothing is washed up. It’s stuck there like a second skin; pealing it off hurts, washing it out hurts, but keeping it hurts even more.

Twenty years, and he still plays that night over and over in his head. It was never twenty years ago. It was twenty years ago every passing day.

He didn’t even feel himself fall asleep with his wet towel on, as he started thinking about it all, again.

She looked at the sky above; it was summer time, but winter has been here for so long now, and grey was all you could see, no matter how hard you try.

She hurried back home. Soon it will get dark and she can’t be out when it does, not after what happened to her neighbor last week.

 » Took you long enough young lady, where have you been all day?  » said her mother as soon as she stepped into the house.

She smiled at her sight, as she heard the giggles from the living room as loud as the silence that filled every place for two years now.

 » Lennaaaa! » screamed her little brother, stopping her from losing herself in the never ending cycle of worrying, running his way through the kitchen and hugging her legs as if his life depended on it…

After dinner, she headed to her room, lit a candle, and to its dim light, she started writing the letter she have been aiming to write the whole day.

Waking up to the sound of screams, firing guns and marching soldiers, Helena felt it was going to be a long night as she hurried out of her room, leaving everything behind.

Smoke, everywhere, sofficating every living being it found on its way. She was no exception.

She coughed. Yet all she was thinking about at that moment was getting to the opposite room.

A matter of life and death.

Preferably life, probably death.

Joeseph.

Unable to spot him in the room, she panicked and started  screaming helplessly  looking for her brother through the dense smoky room.

« Joe! are you here? »

And then she heard sobs, and she has never been happier to hear him cry.

He was alive.

Hiding under the wooden bed, Joeseph held his small legs tightly to his chest, and cried silently.

« Joe let’s get out, come on! »

« I am scared. » he whispered the words, as if saying them, admitting them, was what scared him, not all of this mess.

She looked into his eyes, those little brown eyes she adored…

Far too young to die.

So with her brother curling in her hands, she made her way out of the now crushed room to the window at the end of the corridor. She saw two bodies pressed against each other, under the ashes across the living room.

A tear escaped her eyes, but it was no time to cry. Her arms tightened around Joeseph; it was time to survive.

Jumping out of the burning house, the sight made her panic : people running everywhere, every way, screaming, crying, some are just staring, probably shocked and others are lying on the ground, probably dead.

She filled her lungs with air that smelled like flames and sweat, then she started running, too.

They knew this was going to happen, but not this soon, not like this, not tonight. She didn’t even finish her letter. Most of the time, we’d like to believe there is one more chance tomorrow, most of the time, tomorrow never comes.

She ran, not caring about her surroundings, not caring about any person around her. She moved almost out of instinct; her body moved, her eyes were on the way ahead of her, her mind completely elsewhere.

She knew where she had to go. They had played this scenario over and over again, and it was just time to act it out, to play, and win their lives.

She closed her eyes for an instant, remembering the sight her mother under the ashes, her father holding her in his arms, and even if it was impossible, she prayed they would make it, she prayed even if she knew so well that God can’t answer.

God, the reason why she lost everything that mattered to her. Believing should’ve never been a crime, a reason to kill. Yet for centuries now, it was. It is. And here they are, all of them, paying the price for a God they will never even see.

And while Helena was lost in her thoughts about God, the devil himself was approaching her from behind.

He started talking to her and pointing at a truck parked in front of the now burning synagogue.

He had blond hair, blue menacing eyes, and as he spoke to her with a foreign language vulgarly, she stared blankly at all the kids that were now in the truck, already wearing the striped uniform.

It’s funny. Sometimes, your whole existence as a human being is alienated by a piece of clothing.

He stopped talking, as if  waiting for her to go there while she was just unable to do anything.

Now what.

Hatred begets hatred. (La haine engendre la haine.)

Her eyes never leaving his, she pulled out the knife she hid, always, under her clothes, and before he can even understand what was happening, she stabbed him in the stomach.

Blood, all over her hands, but the sight of red meant there was a chance to make it.

Then she ran fast, taking a side way . She ran as fast as her shaking legs could handle, until she was where she was supposed to be. She saw that some of her little group members, were already there, and she was thankful that they were alive.

 » Lena, thank god, hurry inside we are closing the doors in ten minutes », said Isaac, putting his arm on her shoulder as if he knew, consoling her.

 » Is Berta here? »

Isaac didn’t utter a word, he just nodded as if he knew what she was thinking, and he did.

 » Only ten minutes left Helena, I am sorry. »

And with that, he left her standing there with her now sleeping brother in hands that just took a life away.

If only he could wake up when all of this is done. Would God grant her that wish?

Ten.

She put him down, in the corner of the street, and after placing her own scarf around him, she stood up, and started helping people get inside.

Nine.

She can make it, I swear. She thought, as if to calm herself.

Eight. 

But then, it happened too fast, another blue-eyed man smirked her way, holding a shotgun in hand, facing what she cared about the most.

Joeseph.

Seven. Six. Four. 

She jumped, too fast that she wasn’t even thinking.

And all of her life flashed in a moment, at that moment, but all her life was that one little face sleeping peacefully in front of her, for so long now, but not enough, she wasn’t saying goodbye, yet.
He was worth dying for, and she smiled feeling the bullet inside of her now, as her body got heavy, as her breath got heavier.. for a second, for the last second, she thought she must smile, because, she won’t give them the satisfaction of killing her crying, of making her brother take the burden, because her last heartbeat told her he will live, for her sake, he will.

Three.

She whispered her last breath, hoping he was awake to hear it

Two.

 » I love you” , falling on top of him, as if she could hide him from death.

…..

מען.
(one).

« I love you ».

It was as soft as the wind, but he could hear it, and it was enough to wake him up. He knew the voice, even if it felt eerily far away. He felt her body on top of him, and panicked as her chest wasn’t beating against his fingers as it always did.

No.

He looked instantly at her now lifeless eyes, but before he spilled the tears out, he saw the genuine smile on  her pale lips, and he knew it was for him. So he stayed there feeling her warmth, for the last time, fading away, and he knew, that this was the end even if he lived. A hand grabbed his, dragging him inside a building she talked about a lot when he slept secretly with her to keep the nightmares away, while someone cried over her holed body.

The doors closed.

Ten minutes up.

He cried along with people inside.

For the rest of their lives, it was 1941 every day, but it was ten minutes every single minute for him.

And it was a warm smile that makes it okay to cry, because it was so long ago, but every day feels like a new goodbye.

……

He woke up, wore his clothes and drove himself to work.
As if.

 

 

 

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Chapter 3 : Odysseus, The Fever of war.

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The heavy wooden door slowly opened to a vast candlelit hall. My gaze slowly adjusted to the dancing lights as they shimmered and burned on the tall onyx walls. The lack of a throne and the absence of courtsmen were the only things that shifted the thought of it being a room of royalty, yet everything else pointed to such. The hall seemed to go on for miles and nothing indicated an end to it, and what seemed to be a hundred tapestries hung down on either side of me. Their presence was mighty, as the colours of every tapestry were highlighted by the flame of the massive sconces that adorned the walls. They radiated life and I half thought they could speak, until they did.

 

All tapestries were knit with a scene of a heroic story, and as the door closed behind me, the eyes on every character of each story shifted towards me. The silence of the hall broke as they all started to whisper in unison. I must return to Ithaca, shrieked a man on every tapestry that seemed to be a part of all of them. The scene made me jolt with shock, but eventually my ears were accustomed to the murmur of the pictures and I made myself walk to see what secrets they hold.

 

The first tapestry on my right depicted a young man in his early twenties standing beneath a tall olive tree. His long auburn hair draped broad muscular shoulders that portrayed a life of labour and his beard framed a distinctive square jaw. His crimson tunic was tied to his waist with a golden belt and his black hooded cape brushed the hill he stood on as he looked down on a great field filled with cattle.On his back hung a mighty oaken bow with gilded tips and a quiver full of arrows. His eyes flamed with a sense of wits and cunning, and as locked his eyes with mine, he seemed to read into my soul. He smiled amicably as he started to speak.

“Greetings, friend. Do you require guidance?”

“Guidance is the only thing I require. But first, may I ask you who you are? I must admit your appearance is quite puzzling.” I answered, looking forward to his response.

“My apologies.” laughed the man, “I am not the shepherd you might think I am, if only that were true. I am Odysseus, Son of Laertes and Prince of Ithaca.”

“And why does someone of royalty need to tend to goats and sheep?” I asked as my intrigue grew.

“If you spoke to a prince of Mycenae in this manner, they would have your tongue in pieces before the end of your sentence.” replied Odysseus smiling, “But this is not Mycenae. My father taught me to know my land in order for me to rule it. Besides, I grew fond of these fields, the peace helps me think.”

“And what trouble do you have on your mind?” I asked.

“The war, my dear friend. A great war is coming and I am to be asked to hold a vow I took nigh on ten years ago. To be truthful, I am not keen on fighting. I am accustomed to the dull life of Ithaca and I do not wish to die only for bards to sing about me to kings I do not know. Heroic deeds are for the foolish and the mad.” sighed the prince as he answered.

 

But you are dead, I thought as I smiled sadly to the young hopeful soul of Odysseus. I decided not to broach the subject and I started walking down the hall to see the rest of the tapestries. The whispers grew louder as I slowly strolled and looked at the marvels of Odysseus’ life. One portrayed the prince wrestling with a boar that had his tusk thrusted deep into his leg. His first taste of battle, I thought bitterly. Another showed Odysseus with his great bow in his arms and an arrow piercing the eye of a wolf sixty yards away. Quite a man, I remarked and my eyes darted to a tapestry showing two men that looked like nothing but the highest of kings, puzzled at the look of Odysseus as he seemed to feign madness. What war can be so dreadful to make a prince act like a fool? I pondered, then I saw the one right next to it, with the picture of the prince ending his charade as he looked at his young children standing in front of a running carriage.

 

And so Odysseus took up arms and armour and sailed to war. My heart broke bit by bit as I saw the once Shepherd Prince of Ithaca grow wearier and warier as the years turned. His auburn hair started to whiten little by little as new scars marked his body on every new tapestry, each with its own story, and the whispers grew into screams with every step of my walk. I saw him wrestling heroes thrice his size and locked in arms with a dozen warriors. He appeared calm when other kings were in fits of rage and he looked stern when disciplining his men. As the war made other kings into heroes, it made Odysseus into a soldier.

 

I walked further down, witnessing the atrocities of a war that never seemed to end. Visions of dismembered bodies and rotten flesh made my skin crawl as I saw what the gods have inflicted upon the greek. I saw plagues turn kings into hollow corpses and bring the youth to their deathbeds before they saw the world. Dreams shattered and hopes crumbled and Odysseus stood vigil, and slowly his soul kept on fading. 

 

Then I stood staring at the mighty Trojan Horse, standing high on the ruins of Troy. the city burned and Odysseus’ eyes burned with it. The Best of the Greeks, he was named after the death of Achilles, and he wore the title like a badge of honour. The war went on for ten bitter years and what would become of the Shepherd Prince was a matter I was aching to discover.

 

My feet began to pick up pace as I made my way down the hall. I must return to Ithaca, rang like bells in my head, half driving me to madness, and the fires started to dim as Odysseus set sail and embarked on his journey home. I could see a thousand dreams in his broad smile and the laughter of his men, but his eyes betrayed a sense of sadness that I could not understand. Unease pushed me closer to the tapestry and words I did not think to say slipped through my lips.

“Congratulations on a war well fought, Prince Odysseus.” I initiated. 

“I haven’t been a prince for ten years.” he replied, smiling, as his eyes locked with mine. “A decade listening to the barking of Menelaus and Agamemnon and you forget you are royalty. But now all is done and soon, if the gods are good, I once again will be the prince of goats and rocks.”

“May the winds be fair to you and your own.” I sincerely wished, as the thrill of his story made me forget my death and his.

“If they are not, my dear wife Penelope would fight Zeus himself for a fast voyage. God I miss her, and little Telemachus would be a grown man by now.” He daydreamed, and as I saw that the tapestries did not end, sadness pushed me from answering and I walked away from the tapestry. 

 

The whispers started to ebb as I watched his journey through seas that did not seem to end. The tapestries put forth a story that was a harsher hell for Odysseus than the underworld could ever be. His men kept on dying one by one as they fought with cannibals and Cyclopes. Hunger withered their strength and the storms of the Mediterranean Sea sealed their fate. They landed on a hundred islands and none of them Ithaca, as the winds disoriented them like they were toys for the gods. They found kindness in witches and slavery in Nymphs. Sleep was scarce, for Odysseus no longer trusted his own soldiers. A soldier who never left the war, I thought sourly. 

 

As I watched Odysseus turn grey with age and hardship, the black walls of the cave seemed to shake with the sound of pounding heartbeats. I felt like the hall almost came to an end, for the fires almost turned to cinders. Near the end, I was met with a tapestry that would have broken my heart to pieces if I had one. The fates made it so Odysseus was to see the Underworld before his own demise. I saw the Prince of Ithaca on the edge of this hideous realm, surrounded by the souls of all the soldiers that fought beside him. He saw Ajax, Achilles, Patroclus and every warrior lost in the battles of Troy, and all looked more alive than Odysseus. The pounding heart thundered mightily and I knew that the Best of the Greeks carried their memory on his shoulders every way he went.

 

The fires died out on my long march down the hall and I knew he reached the end. Feelings of both grief and thrill rose through me, for I desperately wanted to know if the poor soldier returned to his home. The last tapestry hanging down the walls of Odysseus’ shrine was the biggest, and with it the heartbeats sounded like drums of war. The prince that dreamed of being a shepherd was once again standing on the hills of Ithaca. His hair was bleached with the horrors he endured and his back was bent with decades of loss and sorrow. His battle scars were covered in armour and he could not keep still as he paced around with his rusty sword in hand. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I reluctantly approached the King of Ithaca.

I must return to Ithaca!” yelled Odysseus with the harshest of voices.

“But you made it, King Odysseus, you made it to your home.” I replied gravely.

“No, no, no, not this barren island. This is not my home. The hills, they do not feel the same. I cannot find peace beneath these trees and so this must not be Ithaca. Wherever I run, I hear them. A thousand hearts beating like hammers in my head and I cannot stop them. I cannot stay in these lands any longer. Athena has not called upon me in years and I long for her callings. I prayed and I prayed for peace, yet no god has blessed me, why didn’t they? I was the Best of the Greeks and I must return to Ithaca, Ithaca, Ithaca…” there was madness in his words as he spoke, and I knew Odysseus was no longer.

I jumped away from the tapestry, as my mind can no longer handle the cruel stream of thought that haunts Odysseus through every moment of his death. The war ended in Troy but it lived on in Odysseus, and who were unlucky enough to survive it. He was shaped by battle and broken by grief, and I closed my eyes and prayed long for this soldier to finally find his peace.

 

 

Written by : Hachem Saihi.

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