Content warning. May contain spoilers.
death, funeral, sexual harassment
a collection by Jehan Ammar
Mondays, Am I right?!
It’s 7:50 am on a Monday. My eyes feel tired as I stare at my phone again, waiting for the bus to arrive. I look up, taking in the sun as I see a grey Smart pass me by. I worry about my seminar and how my group is so far behind. They better show up or else I got out of bed at 6:30 for nothing. I did not know at the time that they were still peacefully sleeping in their beds, dreaming and snoring. The Smart passes me again. The man looks confused. I remember when I first moved here, getting lost in the narrow streets and being too shy to ask for directions. He looks fifty, bald, possibly without family. That much I can tell from the car. I take a step forward, hoping to provide help. I can see the fast movement of his arm, and then something pink. It is his dick. In his hand. He looks at me and continues. I step back.
***
Goodbye
My mother next to me smiles. I feel unsure about this and stare at the camera lens and my reflection within, black ruffled blouse matching my hat in color. My father’s face is telling me to smile as well, which I find weird and strangely out of place. Almost the whole family is here, only one member missing. What a chance to capture this moment. I shift in my seat and look at my mother. I hate being here and I hate my father for taking pictures now, even though I don’t really hate him. I argue and argue and never quite smile. The camera shutters. We leave the restaurant and make our way to the funeral.
***
The good, the bad and the medium
I remember your death more than I remember your life.
But when I do, I think of mostly the good.
How the thriller we were writing had so many twists that, by the end, not even we knew who the killer was. Maybe we never did. Maybe it was never about the ending anyway.
But I also remember the bad.
Sometimes.
The moment when you came out as queer. I told you I’d support but never told you how seen I felt in that moment. How that moment mattered. But it mattered only to me because you declared it a joke an hour later. But you were perfect and beautiful and as long as you looked at me, no joke could take away words unspoken.
I also think of the medium occasionally. The moments when you felt on top of the world while climbing a tree, happy and carefree while I stood chained to its roots in worry. We were 13. How we were both failing math at 14 but you didn’t care at all while I cared too much. Now you’re eternally 15 and I’m 22 but a part of me isn’t. I wonder if it’s a piece of me you took to the grave or a piece of you, I keep carrying every day in the depths of my heart.
Your birthday is coming up. We barely knew each other, just a fleeting moment passing by, long gone. I miss you. Sometimes. In the good, the bad and the medium.