Chapter 1: Forehead on the Ground
It wasn’t a train station. It was Mordor.
Riyad hated this station. It smelled of death, as he liked to say. At the first light of dawn, zombie-like figures clung to passersby, yelling obscenities.
Drugs. Always drugs.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to focus on something else.
He was returning to work after a long absence. His father had finally passed away, after several weeks in a coma.
They had never been close. Hajj Mustapha was known for his harshness. Coming from a poor peasant family in the Maghreb, he had only ever known strict, sometimes violent, role models.
From time to time, Riyad understood. He had never been an easy child. But sometimes that brutality felt unnecessary, gratuitous.
His mother, on the other hand, had always been gentle, kind. She alone had kept him within the family circle.
Mourning had brought him back to his homeland. Reunions with the extended family, gathered around the grave. All those people confident in God, reciting behind the imam. That vision had left a mark.
It had been a long time since he had put God aside. But as they say: He never forgets you.
---
That day, at the office, between two accounting entries, his gaze slipped toward his bag. Inside, a small prayer rug. Just in case…
Hypocrite. Ten years without praying and now you want to start again… at work, of all places? What do you want, people to notice you?
Shut up!
— “Sorry?”
He jumped.
Marlène, his colleague from administration, was looking at him with her mischievous expression.
— “No, nothing… I was talking to myself.”
— “Always arguing in your head. How many of you are in there?”
Riyad raised his eyebrows. Translation: what do you want?
Marlène softened.
— “Sorry… I know you’re going through a hard time. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”
— “It’s fine, don’t worry.”
— “And your sister, is she holding up?”
— “She’s trying,” he said, managing a smile.
— “You got our card, right? It was Sébastien’s idea… but Léna insisted the most.”
Riyad looked away.
— “She’s not here?”
— “She is, but she doesn’t really dare to come over. Remember the day you brushed her off, playing the tough guy? She’s super shy. Everything you like, huh.”
Riyad remembered. Léna had wanted to help, the day his father had just fallen into a coma. He had been harsh. Too harsh. Not used to tenderness.
— “Yeah… I was an idiot. I should apologize.”
— “A bit, yeah!” said Marlène with a smile. “Anyway, I’m off, I’m starving.”
— “Enjoy your meal. And don’t forget to say bismillah before you eat.”
— “Uh… I’m not Muslim, remember?”
— “It’s so the devil doesn’t eat with you. And apparently, he’s already used to it.”
She burst out laughing, gave him a friendly middle finger, and walked away.
---
Riyad was left alone. His gaze fell on the drawer where he had slipped the rug.
So? Are you going to do it?
He replayed the funeral scene. Faces lined up behind the imam. The recitation. The smell of soil.
He had made up his mind.
He took the rug and laid it on the floor. Rough direction of Mecca.
You sure about the orientation?
Doesn’t matter, God is everywhere.
Oh, damn… the ablutions!
He put the rug back in the drawer and rushed to the restroom. The icy water on his hands, his face. The smell of disinfectant. A strange noise made him turn his head. The stalls seemed empty. He brushed the thought aside.
Back at his desk, he hesitated. Impossible to pray here, in the middle of the open space.
He chose the manager’s office, empty at this hour. Closed the door, unrolled the rug.
He began. The words felt both heavy and familiar. His lips trembled.
He put his forehead to the ground.
And as he sank into his prayer,
a sharp sound tore through the silence.
A gunshot.
No doubt about it: it was a firearm.
---
✨ Thank you for reading this first chapter! ✨
For Riyad, prayer should have been a moment of peace… but it will become the beginning of a nightmare.
Your feedback and comments motivate me to keep writing 🙏 The gunshot was only the beginning…
