Short Fiction
In a Strange Place
A boy, a curse, and a little black book
Saheem’s hands, worn from mistreatment and fear, shook in the darkness, gripping the small book tighter. The desert wind rolled across the dunes, blowing cold air into the night. There were no lights here, no wandering traveler, no village where he could rest his head for the night: just him, the clothes on his back, his cellphone, and a little black book.
Saheem groaned as he adjusted his chest binders, making sure the clasp had not left a mark too deep in his skin. His binders had become ineffective at hiding his chest since he turned seventeen last year. Maybe it was the hormones, or his mother’s blessing, or a curse in a gift called genetics. But as soon as he found his grandmother’s treasure, all his worries would disappear. He would get top surgery and begin a new life. Anything was better than his old life.
His grandmother had been his only guardian. It had taken a while to grieve and adjust after she’d passed, and even longer to get used to his new school filled with idiots and hormonal snobs who were too good to be his friend. Saheem frowned as he walked through the sand, lines furrowing on his brow. If he had not been in this situation, he would have never left his room in the attic.
Blinded by the idea of a treasure his grandmother had left in her passing, Saheem had taken the plunge and written the word desert in the little black book. At this moment, he was regretting his decision. Maybe if he ever made it back home, he would forget all about treasure hunting and just live his miserable life.
He began to mumble to himself, “Curiosity is good for you, they said, go on an adventure they said, you have to experience life, they said.” He had to find a way back home since the little black book had refused to open after dumping him in the desert. Saheem sighed as if the world would end and the desert would swallow him at any moment to end his misery. He knew that his only hope of returning home was to find some civilization; maybe then someone would be able to tell him how he got here without a plane ticket.
He pulled his hoodie closer to his body and walked on, dragging his feet through the sand in hope of warmth. By the time he saw the light peeking out over the dunes, he had cried three times, and his phone had long died.
Forgetting his dreary body, Saheem whooped in disbelief and ran as fast as he could towards the light. Slowly buildings began to form in the distance; a small village was tucked into the valley of the desert. Red and blue roofs laid checkered throughout as noise rose from the vibrant night market. Saheem felt his mouth begin to water the closer he drew to the village. Scents of meat dishes and bread lingered in the night air.
He pictured warm plates of food and a hot bath. He longed for a soft bed to rest his head and lay his aching bones. The village was situated in the corner of what looked like a mountain, but that had to be impossible. It was impossible for there to be such an exquisite mountain in the middle of this desert. The mountain was alive with light and people, pulsing against the desert sky, it felt almost majestic. Saheem scurried across the dunes like a rat looking for its next meal. His tattered clothes and scarf hung on his frame like old rags left to their own devices.
Before he could reach the village, his shouts of excitement came to a halt along with the strength in his legs, swiftly followed by his conscience. His body laid in the sand, slowly sinking as the night rolled on, wiping away all traces of his struggle to find a warm bath and a place to be at ease.
Saheem woke to the sound of laughter. His head pounded with a fierceness that rivaled the gods. Covering his eyes to shield them from the light, he struggled to sit up straight. Sharp pains shot through his ribcage, sending him clattering back to the mat. The laughter stopped, turning into worried tones as a woman’s voice called out to him.
“Miss, don’t move around so much; you’ll shift your bandages!” Her voice grew closer. A woman appeared wearing light cloth draped about her body. She grabbed his sides and assessed his wounds as she tossed him back and forth.
“The healer said if you had been a weaker woman, you would have surely died.”
Saheem hissed at her words and turned his gaze away from hers. “I am no woman,” he mumbled under his breath as he reached for the bindings on his chest. They weren’t there; his hand brushed against the soft tissue of his chest, and he gasped, looking down at his body for the first time since he had regained consciousness.
Except for the bandages that covered his wounds, he had laid in the presence of women naked as the day he was born. He tried to stand to his feet hastily once more, only to be dragged back down to the ground by the women. He scanned the room, taking in the bathhouse; women of all sizes crowded around him, whispering in low, hushed tones. Frantically he tried to escape their gazes, but his plan was foiled by the women who had held him down.
The onlookers snickered at his attempt. “You would do a better job resting than trying to escape. You are lucky we found you before the scavengers of the land could.”
Saheem closed his eyes tightly, refusing to look at the woman who had spoken or any of the women in the bathhouse. It would be quite indecent for him to peek at them since they had mistaken him for a woman despite his bound chest and obvious beard.
“Where are my things? What happened to my clothes and the book I carried?” His anger began to boil over as rifts of frustration bled into his voice. Saheem clutched his fist and screamed out for the seventh time today, “Little book, free me from this wretched curse already!”
The women looked around at each other before they began to whisper amongst themselves once more.
Stranger.
Monster.
The defiled.
Saheem screamed once more, “Little book, honor your promise and take me back!” He continued to scream the same sentence until his voice became coarse, and the women drew back in fear. Their whispers became louder; slurs flew about like water. Yet, Saheem refused to shed a tear in front of others; he had become used to these words even in his home; how could a stranger hurt him now?
He began to tremble once more, but this time it was neither from the chill of the desert or the fear of never returning home. The tremor was from the anger that grew with each murmur that he caught. Inhaling sharply, he lunged forward, this time slipping through the grasps of the women who held him still.
Saheem dove headfirst into the bath, pushing past the bystanders who stood and pointed with twisted faces. He dove deep into the water, screaming curses in his mind at the little book. Just as the water current began to shift his weight, a force yanked him through the water, knocking him unconscious once more.
He awoke, clutching a little black book to his chest and breathing heavily. Saheem had returned to his room in the attic. If he had not experienced this feeling before, he would have passed it off as a dream. Yet, if he dared to open the little black book, he would have found an old wrinkled cheque and the word desert scratched out with red ink, just like the previous words before it.
It had become his curse to live in a place that would never accept him, a cheque he could not spend, and a little black book that was hell-bent on sending him to depths of the earth hunting for a treasure he could never dream of.
