If stars could ✔

three

IF THE STARS COULD HEAR, they'd have heard him sobbing in the night holding his knife.

He had prayed and he didn't even remember the last time he had prayed. Was he a man of faith? He didn't know. But he had prayed to someone All Mighty and Merciful, and he had felt peace. He had asked for help, something, anything. He was sure that he would receive it.

So he had sobbed -- sobbed because he could finally see a silver lining. He sobbed because in this vast world, he had been a man with no name. But that wasn't true anymore -- he had initials. It was better than  . . .

Something stopped his train of thoughts. He wiped his eyes and nose as warning bells rang in his head. Something was wrong.

He glanced at his monitor, his pulse rates were increasing at rapid speed, even his blood pressure! He opened his mouth and closed it shut. There was something wrong with his chest. It was not expanding, it was not contracting. He was choking. He was choking on something.

Drool leaked from the corner of his mouth, it didn't taste like spit though. It was thicker, and tasted like metal.

Blood; it was blood!

His eyes widened. This shouldn't be happening. He had just prayed. Would the stars let this happen? If the stars could stop it, he believed, they would have. They would have given him another chance; just like the old nurse and the lady who wore the beige overcoat.

Help, he thought. He must have spoken it or not, he didn't know. Not a lot was making sense to him. The machine was making noise now. Obviously his blood pressure and pulse rate had crossed the abnormal range. Help would come now. Yes, help was coming. He imagined the old nurse and her affectionate smile. What had she said? What had been her last words to him?

She had said -- no, she believed that he had a mother. Would his mother ever come find him?

"His lungs are filling with blood!"

"How?"

"The rib, it must have punctured something that we didn't notice."

When would she come? Would it be after he died? How would she feel? Had he been her only son? He hoped that he was not. At least, that way, his loss wouldn't be so heart breaking.

His mind was clouding over and his senses were dulling. His eyes were drooping and even though multiple pair of hands worked on him, he didn't feel anything. No, he just hoped that his mother -- if he had one -- would remember him. Maybe come visit him. Call him by his name.

"Surgery! He needs surgery!"

Mother . . .

▪▪▪

Someone caressed his face and someone else talked in hushed whisper. He moaned and the hand caressing him froze, but when he didn't say anything else he continued.

He was there but he might not as well be. Try as he might, he could not open his eyes. It was shut, as if pinned by some external force. The caressing continued and he could feel her touch or maybe he was imagining it. They were talking and someone was . . . sobbing? Could there be someone that cared? Cared enough to cry for him?

A chuckle slipped from his mouth and the hand stopped again. Did corpses chuckle? Or was it is hypoxic brain that was hallucinating?

"Ibrahim?"

Someone called out to him. Or maybe someone called out to someone else.

"Are you awake, Ibra?"

"Baby?"

Was this woman talking to him?

"Ibra?"

"Mama?" A grunt slipped from his mouth and as if that triggered something in his brain, his eyes fluttered open.

A beautiful, beautiful, woman stared at him with tears in her eyes. She cupped his cheek and kissed him. Tears flooded his eyes at the kiss. He had someone! And his name was Ibrahim!

"Mama?" He asked.

She nodded. "Do you not remember?"

He couldn't shake his head, he was too tired, so he let his tongue do the work.

"No."

"I am your mother!"

"Oh."

She placed his face on her chest as she caressed his hair. He let her familiar scent envelope him. She radiated warmth and comfort. He closed his eyes as she hugged him. He didn't want her to move. He didn't want him to move.

"Ibrahim." She whispered.

It felt good. It felt good to be called something. It felt good to have an identity. It felt to good to have a mother. So he was a man, a son, a burglar with a name.

Ibrahim.

"Ibrahim." He muttered.

"Madam, he needs to rest."

"No." His mother sobbed.

"No." Ibrahim protested.

The old nurse smiled kindly at him as she pulled his mother away. He had been crying like a child against her chest and he hadn't even realised until he had seen her damp blouse.

"Please." He craoked.

"You need to rest, son, your mother will be here when you open your eyes. I will take good care of her." The nurse said.

"No." He said. He did not believe her. She was lying. The old nurse was lying. His mother wouldn't be there. She would be somewhere else. He would be somewhere else.

He knew.

His mother knew.

"Mama." He cried.

"Ibra." She sobbed. She knew, she knew, she knew.

"Please, madam." The nurse pulled her to the door.

"Mama."

Lies.

Lies.

Lies.