Carrion (The Bren Watts Diaries #1)

Chapter 107

YOUSEF

Yousef Erkan pushed his legs back against the couch's armrest, carefully drawing Indy's eyes on his sketchbook. But the little mutt kept moving his head, never laying still whenever there was a bump on the road, or the other guys kept passing by the narrow aisle, expecting the food to be dropped on his nose, only to be met with disappointment. Once he was sure the golden eyes looked good, he went to sketch Indy's cape, planning to finish the details later that night.

Indy, The Super-Puppy, Yousef thought, smiling. The best superhero in the world.

Yousef already sketched him flying in the air, fighting hordes of vectors and honchos, and had drawn at least three sketches since they left Colby where Indy was saving people around the world. He never planned to show it to the other guys since they would probably think it was stupid, a waste of time instead of looking for resources, cleaning guns, or learning how to use a knife. Bren had taught him the past few weeks: where to slice and stab, where to stand, and taking someone down. It was a steep learning curve, and Yousef never considered himself a good fighter.

Not even a good fighter, he mused, finishing the sketch for the cape.

Yousef admitted he resented Bren slightly during those "training" days, which mainly consisted of getting beaten up when Bren would show him his signature moves. Then, Bren forgot to mention most of them were jiu-jitsu, and his legs and feet were on fire after each session, having neither the reach nor the flexibility that Bren expected of him. Seriously, how does he expect me to bend that far back and not break my spinal column? Is he insane?

It usually ended with Yousef laying in bed for two days, groaning, and taking some Advil to lessen the pain on his legs and buttocks. No pain, no gain. Isn't that what they tell you? Yousef shrugged. He couldn't forget the nightmares he would have trying to grapple a man slathered in olive oil and failing miserably to take him down while he laughed maniacally.

As much as Yousef didn't like to admit, he felt a little jealous of Alfie doing better than him. Out of the eight, they were the only two who weren't exceptional fighters, and now Yousef had been relegated to the bottom rung of that ladder. Perhaps he should have tried harder, but fighting was never his backbone, years of his parents drilling into him that violence does not solve problems had that effect on him.

But violence was the only language to survive in this world. To run was to die, and there was no more room left for me to go.

Except drawing. That was an escape, more so now than it was before. Even when he was a child, Yousef had always loved sketching: the buildings around Fort Wayne, the houses in his neighborhood, the birds, the trees, the school, his friends, and even the things he imagined or what he had seen on TV. When his mother found out, she threw a fit and admonished him constantly not to do it again since drawing Allah's creation, Subhanahu wa ta'ala, glorious and venerated is He, was considered haram, so was forbidden. She had thrown all his drawings out, fearing the angels would not come to their home as Allah would know of his sins.

If not for Balian, his oldest brother, sneaking sketchbooks he bought secretly from the store, he would have spiraled into depression.

Ana and baba had only known what büyükbaba and büyükanne had taught them. It is better to understand them than hate, Sef, for there is too much hate in this country, Balian would say. They wanted to keep home close, remind themselves where they came from, and never forget. Too many white men want to get rid of us and who we are after those towers fell.