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Ampersands

By Muhammad Aladdin All Rights Reserved ©

Mystery / Drama

Chapter 1

I woke up.

It was like escaping from something. My body shuddered while I was looking for assurance am here, in my home, in my life. I lay on my back, closing my eyes, trying to collect any sort of sanctuary. Deep breath. Calm down. I felt like dizziness. I can’t remember what I saw in my sleep, only that horrible feeling of fear. I am here.

I am here.

I opened my eyes, truly gazing ahead this time.

I’ve been slashed by the view.

I didn’t saw a monster, or a jinni, or a reckless devil. I saw the beige surface of the roof.

It is innocent harmless view, by most of opinions, but I cannot agree, especially when you turn your eyes around, while sitting down on that bed supposed to be yours, the space surround it supposed to be yours, feeling it doesn’t actually, in the very moment.

It was a small living room with a small woody bed, a pc, a telephone, a TV set, some broken ornaments, a huge bookcase, and an old pink sofa looked weird besides that khaki dirty armchair along with a dirtier rug with various and used-to-be vivid colors. Some usual wobbly things for a single male are just about the slovenly living room like clothes, some food plates, some packs of cheap cigarettes, and papers some of it held writing with a black ink. I could saw a small corridor leads you—I knew that—to a small kitchen and a bathroom with a broken faucet. Light came out a window in front of me. Its beams showed little molecules of dust swimming in the air. The light fell on the beige walls with upper dark brown outlines. I’d never made my place like that—I thought.

I didn’t wonder where I am, because I knew. I am at my place.

I stood up and walked slowly to get nearer to a picture on the wall. I saw a beautiful young woman who looks at the viewer with a foolish pride. She had a red bobbed hair with standard bangs, as the hookers in a science-fiction porn movie would be when they act like imaginary naughty scientists, or exquisite horny robots. She has narrow firm lips and wide innocent brown eyes. I didn’t wonder again. It must be mom’s picture, the fashionable 60s, European-style mom who left me while I was too young. It’s all popping into my head in the very time I even began to ask myself. Suddenly I was hit by the feeling of having a history which I really can’t stand I’ve lived it, or, in a reflection, that’s what we usually say.

I rushed to the bathroom, where I know I’ll find a mirror. I stuck my face to it. I’ve prayed me to find another face; so maybe when I saw it I’ll wake up from that nightmare in the place I belong to, and I feel it’s really mine. But, I did find the face I did expect.

I leaned my head, looking to the floor while feeling that rhythm of bitter mixture of fury and fear is overwhelming me. I found out that I was wearing boots, and for the first time, I realized that I’ve been slept in my full wearing; a sweater, jeans, a messy jacket, and a tartan old scarf. I searched my pockets like a maniac to show up my ID. I found it, along with the very face I have saw in the late second.

I am at my place.

A distinctive old wisdom.

Suddenly I felt like peeing. I rushed to the bathroom. I pulled down the zipper, I closed my eyes, listening to the sound of my urine slashing the toilet bottom as usual. And when I opened them, while dragging my thing back into the jeans supposed to be mine, I saw it.

A black bra; there’s a bra on my toilet. Do I “know” a woman? For my surprise, I couldn’t remember.

What I know is that I do like a sweet woman with a shoulder length wavy black hair and bright smile. She’s a girl I see in my cafe. We used to have little conversations; what’s most advent about her that she’s a liberal woman who’s in love with a stupid bull who’s always coming to escort her out the place. She’s a doctor came recently to work in that near hospital by the gigantic Bibliotica, that’s why she’s here. It was so strange that a beauty like she would work in such governmental shitty hospital, she must be coming form another Ciccerian household, or that combination of military ranks and them, or just the 70s fat cats, and usually it is a big mixture of all of that. I do not know, and she never said anything about it. That’s not her bra. She’s hooked up, and seems to be very faithful.

Any other woman? I tried hard, collecting anything would spark in those dark alleys of the memory, but nothing.

I simply don’t know who the woman of that 33 C bra is. On the other hand, that was a nice gesture. You are not sexually frustrated! I picked out the bra, nice breasts, whoever she was.

I logged into the kitchen chaotic like the living room, and just alike my own mind. Under my feet there was a can opener laid with indolence besides a dishtowel. An overloaded waste bin fell on its side. A dirty kettle and broken toaster. Some segments of oranges in a plate with a lump of butter. I found myself walking in ease, fixing a breakfast. I was opining the cupboard to take what I want in the place I memorized. I found myself sitting on the red stool, at the table, with slivers of cheese and hunks of bread, giving an absent look to the wisp coming out my tea mug. A cigarette is resting in between my lips.

Am at my place.

A scientific Truth.

I stood by the window. The crowdie neighborhood is exploding before my eyes. A hectic motion cannot allow itself to stop predating up my street. People come and people go. Lonely thin trees standing, staring at people in what seems like cautious approaching. It came to my mind that I do love that street, the way I found it irresistible to write a story about it.

A Story?

I returned to the papers. It took me a while to read some of what’s written down on it. I knew all about the stories. Every word. Every letter. Even with the pages which have been really smudged. I had no doubt it’s my handwriting, although I never experience it till the moment. Thus, am a man who writes petty stories. They are petty, let’s face it. I found uncompleted draft of what seems to be a novel. In the first page there were words:

“I know it’s my first shot to write a novel, but am really optimistic with that matter. Am afraid, that’s right, but I know am gonna pass it, and with a great success.”

Do I, the humble little god, know everything like so?!

I felt petty for myself, as am even thought about publishing that line within the novel. Then I realized am thinking like really confident that I’ll have that book published. I’ll never quit that attitude. That’s me who wrote that, am sure.

I felt woozy.

Am at my place.

A pure logic.

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