“Take down the poster!” I commanded myself because I didn’t want the man at the front door know my religious sect. “We’re not Shia, we’re Sunni” my mom said to the man. We’re Shia. The man left and my father came out of his hideout, the back yard. We closed the windows and planned our leave, our temporary leave. My parents discussed the escape for the next day, and I went to the living room. I watched “Thelma and Louise”. Louise left a tidy kitchen because she thought she was coming back.
It was night time, I went to my room. Dark and humid, and the sweat dripped down my forehead, and turned back to my scalp. I felt the weight of darkness on my chest and I tasted the saltiness of my tears. The room talked through the dark with a motherly voice urging her child to leave. “I can’t leave!” my voice cracked. “My eight year old lives here. She makes up stories out of the ceiling’s molds”. One of the molds looks like a deformed princess, another like a foul priest”. “Leave!” the room cut the humidity with her sharp whisper.
It was morning. The ozone smell was in the air. It was chill, and the dug up street was muddy. My father and I stepped out of the doorstep, a taxi driver abruptly stopped, and we rid the car without hesitation, like mafia members leaving a brothel after their killings. We left to the temporary life. My mom stayed home to sort out the furniture. She thought she was coming back.
My mother followed us the next day. She left home looking back and forth; looking at home, and at the temporary apartments, looking at home, and the temporary blocks, looking at home, and the temporary cities, looking at home, and the temporary homes.
Unknown Artist: Mercatornet: mercatornet.com
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