The story I will be telling you happened a while ago, and I’ve always wanted to actually start writing it because of some promise I made, but I could never bring myself to do it, because at the time it was too painful to go back in recollection and put the events into words. Many a times I would say to myself: “You should start, you promised.” And I would open my laptop, but eventually end up staring at the blank sheet. The chain of events would melt into one, and it seems as though this one particular event is all that matters, and the whole point of writing becomes meaningless. But a promise is a promise, the story will be written, so here it goes…
It all began on a sunny October morning in Hamra. The sky was clear and blue, and Karim was sitting outside Starbucks, having his black American coffee, and clutching a novel he had been unable to finish for the few passing weeks. The novel was My Sister’s Keeper by Jodi Picoult, and as much as Karim was drawn to drama, he never seemed to relate to the book itself. After a while, he abandoned the book, sat back and started watching the people passing by. The laughter of a stranger would often set his mind into reverie about what might have caused the beautiful girl to laugh so hardly; a mother scolding her son would have him remember his own mother and how she suffered raising him so stubborn; two lovers holding hands would remind him of Karen, and have him paint a picture of their future: The love, the disappointment, the laughter and tears they would go through. Karim was a writer, and he was pretty brilliant at it. He’d won several Short Story and Poetry competitions, mostly local, and all his professors at university spoke of his brilliance, and told him and other students that they expected greatness from him. There was one professor who had even told him that she preferred his writings to many of her favorite authors, and all of that at the age of only 23, and he managed to keep a level head without being poisoned with arrogance.
Creating worlds and imagining endings and beginnings was what he lived for. Being a writer was everything he had wanted to become, and had no other passion but for it. However, Karim hadn’t published yet, and he’d been trying to write his first novel for years now, but he never seemed to find himself good enough to start the actual writing, and he would postpone.
Karim had beautiful green eyes, dreamy and full of innocence. He’d been through so much the last couple of years, what with his parents at each other’s throats and his questioning everything he’d been raised to believe in, be it religion, morality, and relationships. But somehow he had managed to keep that sparkle in his eyes. A sparkle that would scream of honesty and beauty. His long silky hair was his trademark and every time, his mother used to strike it when he was a little boy as she sang him to sleep. Many a times he would decide to cut it, but his girlfriend Karen would almost nearly kill him. She loved playing with his hair as he lied on her lap. He’d been with her for a year and a half now and he knew she was the one he would eventually marry and build a life with. She was the girl he would love until the day he died.
He sat by for hours, his mind immersed into the movement of the world around him, until Hamra street started bustling with noise, and the air chocking in smoke, and the sidewalks vibrating with pedestrians. And so he decided to go walking, Karen will be taking her lunch break soon, and he was supposed to meet her. She worked as a saleswoman in Zara, up in Concorde center, and every Sunday, they would have lunch together. He crossed Hamra street and started walking randomly thinking about his book. He’d had an idea for a while now, but he simply couldn’t seem to find a thread to work with to develop his plot. He had the characters in his mind, he had major events figured out, but he just couldn’t piece it all together. He wasn’t able to determine the major plot of the book.
As he walked, he kept thinking and turning ideas over in his head, he took a right, and was headed to Concorde center, but as he was nearing, an idea struck him. He needed to think the idea through before getting to Karen, so he took a left and walked along the road that lead to Spears Street. It was a brilliant idea, and it took his mind off everything in the world, he forgot about Karen and kept walking on Spears. He found it made perfect sense for his book, it was an original idea, and it would justify motivation for all his characters. He would develop it into a full length book, and maybe it would need a sequel, or he could even stretch it into a trilogy. He kept linking and unlinking events he had already planned, fitting people into them, and setting them in the places and time scales he had already figured out, and he felt it was genius. It was all coming together; he finally found the last piece of the puzzle. He just needed a laptop, or a paper or anything to write the ideas his mind was buzzing with, for they were spilling out of him like blood gushing from a wound. He elbowed his book, and took out his cell phone, opened a note pad and started typing down everything he’s thought of. His mind was racing and spilling, and his heart was pounding with excitement, an excitement only artists could understand when inspiration hits them. He could actually, finally start writing the book after all those years.
His ears were deafened and shut down from the world, and he was drifting into the world of his book, until the sound of screeching of breaks woke him from his reverie. In less than a second, before he even had the time to turn his face, he found himself tossed off his feet, and crashing in the front windshield of a car. He felt an excruciating pain in his neck and legs while he hit the shards of glass that carved into his skin, and his eyes opened towards the clear blue of sky. Unable to move, his eyes slowly twitched until he felt himself disappearing.
[…to be continued]