She had stayed with him in the hospital the night it happened, desperately clutching his lifeless body, willing his lungs to breathe, his heart to beat, willing him to come back to her. As dawn approached, she tried to piece together a day in her life without him. It was empty, blank and numb. Replaying the last thing he had said to her over and over again was not wise, but the words had taken on a life of their own – they floated around in her head and slid off the walls of her mind. The steps of her thoughts were littered with Dalí-esque versions of the sentence, ‘I’m not here anymore.’
Nour’s throat had been raw for the past two days: when she spoke, her voice sounded raspy and evil. She knew why, of course, everyone knew why. Her throat was raw from wailing at his funeral. Funerals have a nasty habit of doing that to a throat. But she wasn’t particularly focused on her throat. She was more concerned about the last time she had seen Jihad because the fingernail that was on the middle finger of his left hand was missing.
The flowers, they decided, had to be blue. Ideally, of course, they should have been a warm pink because pink was his favourite colour. But to them pink was a womanly colour. Blue would just have to do. So blue it was, and the specially ordered irises were delivered on the day with just one hitch: they were far too happy-looking. In compliance with the men’s orders, they were carefully carried to the roof by the servants and set in the sun to wilt.
The food had also caused some friction. One uncle argued that there should be no food at funerals, but his suggestion was dismissed after several stubborn and rather tough-looking aunts protested, insisting that death was a celebration and food had to be served. You see, it was a matter of honour.
Nour sobbed quietly in the corner of her room, her knees drawn up to her chest, her face in her hands.
They decided that mansef would be ideal.
The flowers were brought down from the roof, wilted and dry. Proud of their achievement, the men simply ordered the bouquets to be hung on the hooks that had been hammered into the wall the day before. Ever so gently, Nour, with the very tips of her fingers, touched a petal that was so dry it had become almost transparent. As soon as her fingers made contact with the petal, it disintegrated and disappeared.
Her first reaction was to kill herself, too. She expected his family to anticipate this and was extremely surprised when she realised their indifference to her, the ever-unwelcome daughter or sister-in-law. She soon saw that she meant nothing to them, even less than before. She was simply an obstacle, a wild child blocking their way to a life of complete honour.
She had dishonoured them when she had remained with his body the night of his death. She knew from the way they looked at her and whispered to each other that she was being blamed for the manner in which he had died, for his suicide.
After the funeral was over they had driven her to her brother’s house. There was no need to live with them anymore. Her brother Khaled and his family had welcomed her warmly, as if to say that they understood. But she was oblivious to their warmth and care. It meant nothing to her. She was a phantom of desperation, invisible even to herself. Her slow descent into apparent madness pushed away all the people who loved her. They began to forget that she actually lived with them. Her room became a box, her prison and her sanctuary – away from accusing eyes, or even worse, away from pitying looks.
Khaled gave his sister her old bedroom, hoping that the sense of familiarity would help her overcome her grief. And for a short time it looked as if she was beginning to show a slight sense of normality. But, as time passed, Nour became thinner and paler, and even quieter than before. She was so withdrawn that the family grew accustomed to not seeing her for days at a time. When they did, the experience was more like an encounter with a ghost than with a human being.
Nour began to notice that whenever she ventured into parts of the house that her brother and his family frequented they would barely acknowledge her presence, even to the point of ignoring her. She had become a burden to them, a constant reminder that a stranger was in the house.
One night, months later, as Nour lay in bed, grief began to talk to her, whispering quietly into her right ear, ‘I’m not here anymore.’ Nour tried to ignore Grief, but the whispers grew louder, so loud that the voice seemed to be coming from inside her own head.
She looked down at her left breast. Mildly surprised, she realised that it was no longer there. She shifted her eyes to her right breast – it too had disappeared. Nour lifted her hand to feel her chest and realised that although she could feel her hands, they were nowhere to be seen.
For some reason this struck her as somewhat amusing. For the first time in months she smiled and wondered, although she could feel them, whether her lips and the tiny lines of blood that were now forming on them were actually there at all.
Nour decided that some experimentation was in order. She wiggled her toes (something of an inside joke between her and Jihad), and felt them. She knocked her heels together, and felt that too. Then, crunching herself up into the all-too familiar fetal position, she realised she could feel her shins, calves, knees and thighs. For a moment, Nour thought she heard laughter somewhere in the bedroom and realised that it was her own. She was laughing at the idea of being able to feel her body while it was invisible to the naked eye. But this possibility soon gave way to panic because her logic was telling her that what was happening was impossible. She pulled herself up and sat with her back against the headboard.
Nour woke up in that position. The sun was streaming in through the window, illuminating the room. Miniscule particles of dust were floating around, rearranging themselves for the day. She decided that it probably would not be the worst idea in the world if she rearranged herself too.
The sun was warming the skin on her knees, making them feel itchy. She reached down to scratch one knee and caught sight of nothing. The memory of the night before crept back into her thoughts. And then she made the connection, smiling as it came to her. ‘I’m not here anymore.’ Suddenly Grief was shouting, urging her over and over to do it.
She realised that the time was now. It was all over and she had to act before she lost complete control of herself. Nour ripped off the bed sheets and tied one of them to an iron rod near the window, carefully making a noose, with her trembling hands. Slowly, methodically, standing on a chair and pulling the noose around her neck, she cast one final look at the ever-present photograph of Jihad. And the wild child whispered: ‘I’m coming.’