The air was thick with tension, the only sound the distant, intermittent beeping of medical equipment. Everyone sat in silence outside the emergency room, their eyes fixed on the doctor emerged—a man in his mid-fifties, exhaustion etched into his stern features.
Doctor (calmly):
"I know you're worried, and unfortunately... I have bad news."
A heavy silence fell. The brothers exchanged fearful glances before the doctor continued:
Doctor:
"Houssam had what we call an indolent cancer—a slow-growing type that's usually manageable. But in recent months, it progressed aggressively. We still have options, but... smoking severely worsened his condition."
"He must stop smoking entirely... starting now."
Breaths quickened. Some of the brothers bowed their heads, unable to meet the doctor's gaze. Then Dmitri, a man in his late twenties, erupted:
Dmitri (furious):
"And where was George? He was supposed to watch him! How could he let him smoke knowing his condition?!"
Tyrone:
"Cool it, Dmitri. This isn't the time for blame."
Lisa:
"We thought George cared... but he proved us wrong."
Nora:
"We trusted him. He failed us all..."
Just then, their mother rushed forward, clutching a bag of Houssam's clothes. Her eyes gleamed with panic as she demanded:
Mother (voice trembling):
"Where is Houssam? How is he? Why won't anyone speak?!"
No one answered. Heads dropped lower, the truth too heavy to voice.
Suddenly, the doors swung open again. Lena, their eldest sister—a fierce woman with her black hair pulled tight—stormed in, flanked by Rania (gripping her hand) and a weary, anxious Jacob.
Lena (shouting):
"Where is he?! What happened to Houssam? Tell me!"
The mother turned to them, eyes pleading, silent tears streaking her cheeks.
Rania (whispering to Jacob):
"This atmosphere... Something terrible did happen."
Jacob (low, steady):
"We have to hold it together... for him."
Words failed to capture the sorrow of that moment. Hearts shattered until they lay cradled in God's hands. Even those who never believed or lost their faith long ago now whisper prayers more fervently than priests and imams. All for Houssam.
It's in such moments you realize adversity strips man to his essence—a fragile, powerless creature. Yet in times of ease, watch how some grow more arrogant than Nimrod or Kan'an ibn Shaddad.
But wait—this isn't a history lesson. We're at the heart of a complex novel that demands your full attention, because its writer (I admit this freely) is a sadist who delights in tormenting readers. There are no heroes here. Just tangled threads in my hands, moved like wooden puppets in some ancient theater.
Even that Arab boy they all despised at school might end up crowned king of graduation. Who knows? I'll let you imagine. For now, let's return to a story that may have become tedious—or perhaps you're wondering: What's wrong with this writer? Does he think he's a genius? Is this how you win readers?
To which I answer plainly: I have no fans, no readers... only brothers. Those who understand my style and tolerate my madness know I write not for praise, but for truth. Even my own family... avoids reading my work.
Anyway—let's continue the story... before I get any more lost in these labyrinthine thoughts.
A deadly silence fell between Houssam's brothers and their mother. Not a whisper, not even a sigh. Only burning gazes, as if each one was blaming the others for their youngest brother's condition. Chests tightened, hearts torn between fear and regret.
Suddenly, George shattered the silence with a cold, furious tone:
George (with contempt):
"So... who's going to keep an eye on that Arab bastard now?"
Bodies froze in place.
The words were like a gunshot in the heart of the room. Blatant racism—pure venom spat from his lips—igniting a pile of pent-up emotions.
Luis (standing up angrily):
"What the hell did you just say, George?! Houssam is our brother! His origin, color, or religion doesn't justify your filthy mouth!"
Tyrone (clenching his fist):
"Did you forget he saved you when Dad's car exploded?! If he hadn't pushed you away, you'd be a corpse in the morgue right now!"
George (defiantly):
"I just... spoke the truth."
But before he could continue, Jacob lunged at him, fists flying.
Rania (screaming):
"Jacob, don't!"
Too late. Jacob crashed into George's solid frame and was thrown violently to the ground.
Jacob (groaning as he got up):
"You piece of shit... If you weren't his brother, I'd bury you right now!"
Rania (shouting at George):
"You're a disgrace! You don't even deserve to call yourself his brother!"
Amid the chaos, their mother stood silent... but her eyes burned like live coals.
She stepped forward slowly, deliberate steps, as if carrying a Glock in her hand—ready to empty the clip into her own son's chest.
She stopped in front of George, raised her hand, and slapped him hard enough to echo.
Mother (furious and heartbroken):
"If you ever speak about your brother like that again... "I'll cut off your manhood and hang it as a warning to anyone who dares utter a racist word in my house!"
George staggered back, his body trembling as if electrocuted. He stared at the ground, shamefaced, hidden tears welling in his eyes.
George (voice breaking):
"I... I'm sorry, Mom. I didn't mean it... I was just angry."
Mother (low but firm):
"Your anger doesn't justify your hate. We're family. We don't break each other—not even at our worst."
Rania (locking eyes with George):
"If you want to help Houssam... stop hurting him. With words, or with silence."
A heavy silence settled. Everyone caught their breath, as if the room had been on the verge of exploding—then suddenly cooled.
While everyone was drowning in their pain—their guilt, anger, and fear—in a forgotten corner of the hospital's first floor, where the ceiling lights flickered off automatically every few minutes... a trembling hand appeared, writing something on a dust-covered wall.
The hand didn't belong to a doctor. Or a patient.
It belonged to someone unseen.
The fingers were long, unnaturally thin—as if not quite human. The markings burned into the wall quickly but deep, more like scorch marks than writing.
The words were black, as if traced by invisible fire:
"He will wake up... but not like Houssam."
"Watch his breaths... when they slow, the countdown begins."
Then the entire floor plunged into darkness.
The faint wail of an alarm began to rise.
And from the emergency room... came a sound nothing like Houssam's voice.
A laugh.
Long. Warped. Wrong.
But undeniably from his throat.