“This world is a cold place, be it winters or summers, my son. If only I could fill it with a little love and little warmth for you,” she had once told me.
I would smile at her and say, “But I love winters, Mama. And I can always wear a jacket for warmth.”
Throughout my childhood, I recalled how she laughed at my innocent comment. But now that I remember vividly, I cannot deny that a tear had rolled down her blushing cheek and she had smiled even when her heart was weeping.
I can’t help but cry as they relentlessly push against the door, causing panic to surge through me. Later, when I regain composure, I’ll look back and surely laugh at my helplessness. But for now, I’m immobilized, unable to muster the strength to flee.
Each thud against the door seems to amplify the impending threat of danger. Their words, “Open up, don’t play smart. You are under arrest,” echo through the door, sending shivers down my spine.
My gang loves my passionless stance, calling me the best bandit, but they forgot to tell me that in situations like these, I will die alone. Fear, a sensation never before felt this strongly, surges through my veins, and my breath is shallow and rapid.
“Not so soon,” I mutter, forcing my legs to move. I grab the gun, its cold metal biting into my skin and leap towards the window. My pulse drowns out the chaos outside as I fumble for my mobile, scrolling through contacts with trembling fingers. The adrenaline makes my breath quicken, and my hands shake uncontrollably.
“The number you have dialed is not answering.” The automated voice seems like a cruel joke, mocking my desperation. I try another number, then another. Each unanswered call feels like a punch in the gut, deepening my sense of isolation.
All my life, I was told that I was loved, and even though I sensed their deceit, it never bothered me. I always thought I could handle it, that I could play the game as well as they did. But it does trouble me today, as I now see the betrayal behind their elaborate promises. The friends I once trusted, and the loyalty I held onto, all vanish in this moment of need. My heart thumps as I dial yet another number, wishing deeply for someone to respond.
The window beckons like a last chance at freedom. I calculate the drop, knowing I must jump before it’s too late. Yet, my feet feel rooted to the ground, weighed down by my mistakes and regrets. I swallow hard, fighting back tears that blur my vision. I’ve always been skilled at running away, but now fear holds me tight, reminding me of the deep solitude I find myself in.
“You know why I feel sorry for you?” Gunda Dada had asked me on the day it rained and the day I lost her.
“Because my mother is dead,” I replied.
“No, it is because I plan to make you a prosperous man, but I am going to take from you one thing that you will regret giving me when you grow up.” His words echo in my mind as unwanted tears fill my eyes, bringing back forbidden memories.
Tears are like uninvited guests, appearing unexpectedly on random days
Tears are like uninvited guests, appearing unexpectedly on random days. They can come suddenly, not just during sorrow but also in moments of confusion, joy, or nostalgia, catching you off guard while you go about your day. A surge of emotions can surprise you while doing simple tasks like gazing out the window or washing dishes. In those moments, tears may flow, bringing forth hidden feelings that had been waiting to emerge. You may try to blink them away, but they often persist, refusing to depart until they have made you feel something you weren’t ready to face.
I had killed Uncle Asher at the age of thirteen, on what must have been the same day he murdered my mother. I recall how my hands shook as I gripped the rifle, my pulse racing with dread and wrath. I fired four shots at him, each fueled by a distinct, horrible memory.
The first shot was for not dying with my father when he perished in that road accident. He had always claimed to be my father’s closest friend, but a true friend would not have survived while his brother-in-arms was taken away so brutally. The second bullet was for having the guts to ask for my mother’s hand in marriage while giving her barely enough time to grieve. The third shot rang out as he placed his hands around her throat, the rage in his eyes as bright as the rising sun, punishing her for rejecting his twisted proposal. The fourth and final shot was for killing her while I watched from behind the curtain, too afraid to move, too small to comprehend but old enough to feel the weight of the horror unfolding in front of me.
Even his angels, if he had any, would not know that I had seen everything. That I had borne witness to the monster he truly was. By the time he had stopped breathing, I would too become a monster, with the gun that my Dada had trusted me with and a promise of always staying loyal to it.
The door’s band comes out with a rattle, and to my surprise, it is not the officers who enter.
“Ouch.” I feel the bullet penetrating my body, and I yelp in absolute pain.
“A criminal never dies at the hands of law; he dies at the hands of his men when he tries to deceive them.” A familiar voice hit my ears, and I caught Dada standing at a distance, deeply enjoying my shrieks and suffering.
In a rare moment of bravery, I grab my gun and shoot at him, and they fire at me in return. One way or another, the gun is an object that does belong to me. The only thing I remember, which was never meant for me, is happiness; it is something I regret giving away.
The last thing I hear is a whisper from my flinching Dada.
“You shouldn’t have reported me, son.” He gives out a loud chuckle, forgetting for one trivial moment that blood is furiously shooting out from his wound and life is draining out of him gradually.
As the stars shine brighter, darkness descends on me like heavy winter snow. I lie there, recalling the soft melodies my mother sang. She seems to be calling me up to the stars, where I believe all the departed go. I forgot to ask her which star she lives on, and it troubles me to lose the address of my destination. But I reassure myself, “It’s all right”. I have already spent a lifetime looking up at the stars; I don’t mind spending another waiting for her until she can see me and assure me that this one moment of my life is not a dream.
As my mother reaches for my hand and pulls me into her arms, a final thought crosses my mind: it didn’t have to end this way. If I had chosen differently, I might have found warmth beyond this cold world, a place where love was not fleeting, and her voice was not a distant memory. I could have lived in a world where even her absence wouldn’t make me a bad boy.//
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Huma Fatima is a 22-year-old writer from Pakistan, currently pursuing a degree in Computer Science. Although her academic background is rooted in technology, she has long been drawn to the art of storytelling.
Writing offers her a creative outlet beyond the boundaries of her technical studies, allowing her to explore human emotions, imagined worlds, and meaningful ideas. It is through writing that she expresses her voice most authentically, and she continues to develop her craft with dedication and purpose.
About the Author
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