But I Shall Tell

Chapter 1 - Waking Up.

 Dec 13, 2019.

"What's happening?" whispered Josea.

There was a blur of movement in the shadowy corridor, and the front door opened. A man in a suit, a red tie and rectangular glasses stepped in.

"Simon?" said Josea.

The man closed the door shut behind him and walked towards the living room to his right. He sat down on a chair across from her and picked up a sandwich. It was cheese, lettuce, tomato and spicy mayo. He took a bite. It tasted delicious for a homemade sandwich.

"Simon? My head hurts."

"I am pretty sure Simon cannot hear you." He said. He smelled of fresh soap, his hair (black) was neatly trimmed at the sides and behind his head, and the top was well groomed with gel. His facial hair was in shape, with moderate beard.

"Maan? Is that you?" said Josea. Her chest moved with slow and an even breath.

"Bing, bing, bing, bing, bing, bing," and the sound stopped. The wall clock was an old fashioned one. It was six in the evening and the beginning of the dusk.

"Yes, Rain." The man said, and put the remaining sandwich back in the plate. He wiped his hands against each other and with an excess force brought the palm of his right hand against her left cheek. She cried in pain and opened her eyes. "It's the medicine that's causing your head hurt, but don't you worry."

She tried to raise her hands to press against her cheek but couldn't. The stinging of the skin on the left cheek was increasing with the increase in pain. She was entirely present now, her expression darkening and her eyes widening. She exchanged a look with him. The first thing she noticed was that he looked not happy but sad. Sad as in someone at a peak of an accomplishment of a task in hand and yet not satisfied. His brown color eyes behind the rectangular glasses were in search of something.

The room fell silent. Maan picked up a photo frame from the table which was beside him and looked at it with interest. "Now, now," he said. The chair felt comfortable where he sat. It was made out of wood, the legs, the hand resting, the back, entirely wood. The fabric above the cushion felt smooth, the one you picked after hours of thinking and waiting. The photo frame was light blue in color with the outlines in white, it felt impossibly thin.

Her knees aching, Josea moved forward but in vain. She felt like a mouse in a trap. She started forward again, ending with the same result so she stayed still. There was nothing else to be done. She saw him staring at the photo frame. Her eyes ran around reading the room. The main door to her right was locked. The window beside it was closed and curtains rolled over it. The corridor light was switched off so was the kitchen's.

"Not on social media," Maan said, in a soft voice, tilting his head to show to the photo frame which he was holding, not seeing the photo but looking at her.

Back to the room, he was still sitting on the chair across from her in the same red tie and rectangular glasses but now it looked like he had a smile on his face. It was hard to decide whether this smile was a genuine and a good one or a creepy one.

A second of waiting for an answer felt like waiting for minutes and hours, and when there was no response from her, he continued "It's a pretty one."

She was trying to judge his words, the calmness of his voice and the sad look on his face. It seemed like the pain that she felt seconds ago was all gone, like it was never there. She had stopped moving, not any more. The chair where he sat was a feet away from her. "So what happens?" Josea said.

"Oh, Rain." Maan said, and placed the photo frame back to it's original position. He touched his beard with his left hand like measuring the length of it, with the same sad smile. "I don't know."

She rounded her tongue to one corner and then covering her lower lips from left to right. She could now sense that the slap was harder than it seemed and felt a slight cut in the inner lips. She tasted something salty in her mouth, something thicker than water. She stared at him. His voice sounded small to her, like a small child's. This reminded her of a sandcastle and a beach, where her father used to take her every summer and she used to build a stream of sandcastles what she called 'City White Snow'. The voice when she was a child.

A feeling which comes only with care, years, decades and ages of care. "I'm sorry, Rain." Maan said, seeing the blood on her tongue when it rounded her lips.

He didn't sound like he was going to harm her, but then the slap might have been just a start. His calmness let her breathe again in a regular manner like nothing bad had ever happened and the world was always a better place to begin with. The man sitting in front of her was very real, and this was no dream.