One day in late autumn, I was sipping on some cider and admiring the color changes in the trees through an upstairs window when I saw the girl sitting on the back step that overlooked the little garden behind her house. She had her knees pulled up to her chest, holding them tight to her, and she was crying, I guessed from how her body moved in the autumn light. It was a painfully lonely scene. What had happened I do not know, although I figure that if I had been alone for six months in a foreign land without the sight of a friendly face I might well have mustered a tear myself.
No one visited her while she lived in that house, not that I noticed at least. The neighbors certainly made no attempts at congeniality, for their time was consumed watching her movements and of course watching the News when they weren't doing that. I sipped my cider, and it tasted all the more bitter for the scene I was witnessing, but I will admit I did not act upon my emotions. The hand of friendship remained firmly on my cup, and I went about my business rather than have the neighbors on my doorstep interrogating me about collusion with the enemy, for their concerns had escalated once again, you see.
By then they were claiming that anyone who had the audacity to come to this Great Country of Ours and brazenly wear that thing on their head was clearly trying to make some kind of a statement. They said that she was someone to keep a close eye on. It was pretty likely she was planning something, they reckoned, something that ultimately meant the maiming and killing of God-fearing homegrown men and women. We were under attack, they said. Vigilance was required. The News had to be watched, and so did the girl in the headscarf.
The gossip that whispered up and down the neighborhood was an infectious kind of chat, one that you could easily find yourself believing in completely if you weren't careful. The neighbors told stories of refugees raping and slaughtering innocents at every opportunity. Atrocities were on the increase around the globe, they said. To be honest, I got a little nervous when I heard that. I even watched the News myself that night.
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Thanks so much for reading! G.H.
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The Girl in the Headscarf
Short Story**Previously published in Mobius** A piece of dark fiction that reflects the realities of our modern age, yet remains timeless. A passive narrator from Anytown observes the comings and goings of an apparent refugee throughout a calendar year and de...
