OK guys! This is another part of my novel. Hope you enjoy it.
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Mary wakes up in the middle of the day, she has no idea what time it is, and from the corridors of the dorm, she hears some surreal-like sounds and voice which soon fade away. Her thumb in Yan Andrea’s book, her headphone in her ear, she decides to remain in that position for a while, looking at the dirty old floor carpet of the dorm. Since her roommate has gone to their village, it seems like something ominous has happened. It’s now two months and her cell-phone is always off. And now the sunlight is putting his feet delicately on her fingers which are wandering through the streets of Tehran. Her fingers are two beautifully-shaped legs. They go wherever they wish but sunlight isn’t yet satisfied and moves up to her white arm as if for her nothing is important but onslaught; to continue her raid to the realm of dark. Do you really care, she thinks, if people live or die? To me, he starts with an extremely deep, abysmal voice, what is important is coming and going. She sits on the edge of the bed, and looks at the smart Caterpillar and his hookah sitting peacefully in front of her. Who are you? He asks. Who are you? She questions him back. How could I know? He says. Why not? He puffs smoke into her face, that’s probably something you know, he says and so deliberate continues, sorry about the smoke. It’s ok, she says, maybe because you change several times a day. What do you mean? He asks curiously. Well you change, I mean first you change into Chrysalis and then then to a butterfly. He remains silent and puffs away for a while but then takes his hookah out of his mouth. They both start to say something, but she stops and he says, I believe your size have changed, not mine. No, she rushes, I am the same. No, you’re not, he answers, you’re getting smaller and smaller.
After he vanishes, she looks at herself in the small mirror on the wall. Nothing has changed, yet I’m not the same person. She opens the door to the corridor: no movement, no sound. I’m getting filled with something. She sits on the cool ground of the corridor and leans against the wall with her locked knees in her hands. I’m also aging, faster than these walls. Mary, you are aging, Mary? Mary, you have nothing of your own, Mary! Mary, Mary, what if she’s hung herself? Mary, start the thesis Mary! Ok, repeat this Mary:
“You are old, Father William,” the young man said,
“And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head—
Do you think, at your age, it is right?”
“In my youth,” Father William replied to his son,
“I feared it might injure the brain;
But, now that I’m perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again.”
Mary? I have answered three questions already, be off or I’ll kick you down the stairs, whispers Mary, yeah I know it was wrong from the beginning and then opens the noose of her wavy brown hair around her neck.
It’s either now or never, move, move, you know what to do, move, the library, get the books, yes, back to the suite, she’s OK, you never know what happens in a village, take notes as you read, life is but the smell of this rice, the four of us age, the four of us know what it means to be old and then we taste death, only then.
