Within the Sins

١ The Hidden Shadows

بالي معاك

The night sky coats Yazid's surroundings with darkness, but because of the lampposts that are on either side of him, he can see what is in front of him. He is at a park, around it a beautiful scenery. Green bushes scatter about. Fully grown trees stand confidently, and dirt is spread all around the plants.

With the exception of the ones who worship sin, no one is out at this time. Only boys and men like Yazid wander the streets late at night; only ones without a home settle outside their houses at this time of the night. Usually, they attempt to find a home in that which they smoke. They are the shadows hidden behind walls that only reveal themselves in front of the carrier of sin.

It has been exactly seven years, three weeks, and six days since Yazid's father, Hasan, moved Yazid to settle in the city of Amman, Jordan. Ever since he moved from Canada to his father's homeland, he has been counting the exact days since he arrived.

Yazid takes one last look at the calendar app on his smartphone before opening up the camera. He looks over his face, and after examining it carefully, he shrinks back into the bench he is sitting on. The effect of what he has been injecting is finally showing: his light, warm skin tone has become paler. His light brown eyes hold droopy lids and dark circles under them. With lessening meat on his cheeks, his cheekbones are starting to pop out, and his black hair is spiking up everywhere. When was the last time he combed it? He cannot even remember.

Now he finally understands why women at his university never look his way.

"Yazid," he hears someone call.

Yazid looks up and sees Moutassem, his dealer. Yazid met Moutassem through Hasan's friend. Moutassem is somehow related to the man, possibly a second cousin of some sort. Hasan knows Moutassem quite well, but Yazid has always ensured that his meetings with Moutassem stay a secret. Relations between Yazid and Moutassem have been strenuous lately, but he is managing to keep Moutassem quiet so far.

As a man in his late twenties, Moutassem looks much older than he actually is. His almost pale skin makes the bags under his eyes more visible. His lips are always dry, cheeks sucked in and shoulders crouched. His family is originally from Egypt, although Moutassem has lost his Egyptian dialect with time; he does not remember much of Egypt, let alone speak their dialect. As an illegal, Moutassem deals on the side.

Yazid stands up from the bench he is resting on. "Moutassem," he says in a raspy, low tone. "You're finally here," he says in Arabic.

"Kol saneh o enta salem."

Instead of responding to the happy birthday wish like he is supposed to, Yazid nods with no interest.

Moutassem stares at him for a few seconds before speaking. "Give me the money, and the bag will be all yours."

Flipping his wallet open, he takes Moutassem's request out—the money he stole from his father's wallet. He hands each and every single dinaar to Moutassem in complete silence.

Each one exchanges what is in his hands. Afterward, they both nod, and Moutassem walks away.