Author Games: The River of Night

Quarterfinals: Abbas Naeem

There have been times when he has tried to push them away; there have been times when he accepts it is impossible.

He has decided, for his own sanity, that the world around him is one, continuous dream- a fantasy of the nighttime that simply strikes him as sharp and lucid, yet is nothing of the sort. No, eventually he will wake up, and the world will be as it should be; the sun will rise without question in the morning, and an aging construction worker will shuffle off to work. Perhaps it is that he cannot cope with such a restored vision of himself, that perhaps there is good within his actions. Perhaps it is that he cannot accept there was nothing left for him to do for his family, and that he could not have done something that would keep his wife smiling by his side, his daughter nourished and breathing. He has learned not to trust fate.

There have been times when he has tried to push them away; there have been times when he accepts it is impossible.

Reeds brush against his skin, the rags draped across him. He has been worn thin, and his eyelids ache with fatigue, but still he wanders onwards, meandering through fields of plants that blossom golden, fueled by flawless quantities of water and sunlight. Odd, to think that they have stolen this from him- no, from his daughter. She was parched without water; she was dark without sunlight. She was pale, sickly skin- bones he could fracture from a gentle tug. Had he been able to succeed in his search for food, she would have shone in the sun- just like her mother had. Heartache lingers within the folds of his chest, and he pauses his trek to bend over and catch his meager breath, his lost inhale of oxygen.

There have been times when he has tried to push them away; there have been times when he accepts it is impossible.

A ghost. The reeds part for her, and she is young, so delicate and fragile. Her hair... she has the same curls as her mother, winding down her back in ringlets he doubts were ever so neat, so flawless. Her hands... he could fit one inside his palm, just as he had as she'd wheezed her final breaths. They had been cold then, ice weakly resting on top of his warmth, and he'd been scared to rub his other hand against hers for fear that she would shatter under his touch. He had prayed in those final moments that she would not be in pain as she slipped from his grasp into Death's, for he had known no amount of food could restart her broken systems, no river of water could wet her chapped lips and parched tongue.

There have been times when he has tried to push them away; there have been times when he accepts it is impossible.

Her limbs, thin yet not with starvation; she is healthy. Her cheeks, pink with heat and joy; she is happy. Tears simmer, clouding his vision. Her eyes. They meet his own, and his world falters for a second, dizzy with emotion. Denial- she is dead, has been for ages past, and there is no reversing it. But his arm weakly reaches out for her, and the ache of love weighs him down. Her name finds its place on his tongue- a name he has not spoken in far too long for fear of the agony that will accompany it. Grief and joy collide and mingle, for he cannot determine the boundaries of imagination- no longer does he want such an adventure to be a construction of his mind, for there she is.

There have been times when he has tried to push them away; there have been times when he accepts it is impossible.

"It's me. It's your father," he smiles, and he watches it bloom on her face, a mirror of his own. A cry of joy escapes her and she runs to him, runs faster than she was ever able to, collides with a force that, in life, would have broken every frail bone in her body. Her arms wrap around his neck and his throat constricts; he lifts her into the air, spins her around with a grin splitting his face in two as he watches her giggle with glee he's never seen. His daughter. His daughter.

There have been times when he has tried to push them away; there have been times when he accepts it is impossible.

For a moment, the grief and guilt creep back into his mind, and his face contorts with sorrow; he pauses the revolutions for a split second. She isn't real. But as he brings her close, clutching her in a tight hug, he feels the beating of her heart against his own chest, feels her excited exhales tickle the side of his neck. "Let me stay with you," he whispers. She shifts to look at him, and her sober gaze is a telltale sign that to stay is to never leave. That opening is a one-way ticket.

He doesn't care.

There have been times when he has tried to push them away; there have been times when he accepts it is impossible.