Priority Of The Dead

By Ariba Fatima

CHAPTER 1

“I hate life,” Azeez had said, young and ignorant of the world. It is unfair, Julie had agreed and reminded him of when her servants had returned empty-handed, without the boots she had requested. But it was more of a tough day to her family than her; everyone had suffered ear damage severely. The first thing that the King, his father, had ordered the next morning was to immediately have Julie transferred to a sound-proof room, for which he had to hear another melody of screams full of rage (his eardrums survived barely). But life was unfair to Azeez more, for it was he who remembered all these terrible memories. The shrill sound of laugh Julie would make when the prince of Alad would visit and crack dull jokes, the way his mother’s lips would turn up all the way when he ran to her and sat in her lap, and the nurse who was friends with a chef in the kitchens and would often bring twisted dough pastries for him, and the worst memory; when his mother would come late at night, and he would pretend to sleep, and she would walk around the bed and plant a kiss on his head. Sometimes, she would stay for a while, humming a melody. Other days, she would look at the stars from his window. It had made him feel queasy, while another part feared that he would break out laughing, because no matter the seriousness, Azeez was truly terrible at controlling his laugh. Her mid-night visits were awful and scary, especially when a few months later, his mother’s lifeless body would lay in the piles with all of the other members and servants. She had stared at him with her unlively eyes, all greyish, for hours that night. Azeez had dragged all the bodies at the center of the huge hall and burned them. A feeling of regret had settled in his heart and threatened to break him in pieces, like a plate wobbling on the edge of table. He remembered the memory of the night that had caused this regret so vividly. That night, he had asked her to stop coming to his room any longer, but his mother had protested…

“Mother,” Azeez had spoken, as she had leaned in for a kiss. It had startled his mother. She had straightened her skirt and stood by while he had leaned on the headboard.

“Oh, I thought- I thought you were asleep,” she had stuttered, he remembered.

“I’m awake. I wished to speak to you.” He also remembered his own steady voice echoing in the empty palace. It was way past midnight; all the servants and lady-in-waiting’s had fallen asleep.

“Say.”

“You-” Azeez remembered licking his lips, a habit he had taken up from Julie, who always did it before she spoke something wrong.

“I wish you to know that I have been aware of you visiting me each night.” He had thought that she would hesitate, at least, or apologize, but was taken aback by her response.

“And so? What’s wrong with it?” her voice had found some steel. She had responded as if he was accusing her of something, which he slightly was.

“So,” another lick of lips, “why? I am here in the castle all the time, and still, you linger here at night? For what purpose?” Now, he was accusing. His tone had made that clear.

“Am I not allowed to see my son? Is that what you’re asking?” her own voice was becoming steadier every second, as if readying for an argument.

“No, you’re allowed to do so, no one has stopped you to, but it itches my curiosity as to why you chose the middle of the night for this purpose. What is it?” it was more like a command, than anything, but there was a reason why she was a queen. She would not yield so easily.

“Do not demand answers from me, son. I check on you, that is all, understood? Don’t give me that look, Azeez.”

“No. That is not the reason at all. I know there is something. Of course, there is. You think I don’t know that my guards report to you?”

“Don’t you speak back to me. Your distrust runs deeper than your father’s. He makes you think everything is either a trap or a mission. My son,” she had said, as she placed her hand on his jaw and made him face her, “everything you see is not a race to win. Some are just…there. Simply there. You speak back to me, because you feel you need to win the argument. But why don’t you see that instead of an argument, this can be a talk? A simple, normal talk. You are not even 17, yet you question each person’s motive as if they need one. My son, you can just talk as well. Each statement isn’t hiding a motive, though you clearly see when it does, that I am sure of. Sleep, my child. Go to sleep.” And she had given him his daily forehead kiss. As well as his last.

He had shoved her hand away from his face.

“What? What are even speaking of, mother? I do not distrust anyone. What do you by mean “motives”? Mother, I asked you something. I see you do not wish to answer, do you? I understand, forgive me for asking. Forget it happened. I wish you a good night. Please leave me to my rest.” He had spoken all of it in one breath.

“Son-” she had tried to start once again, but he had silenced her.

“No! Go, please. Leave me.” Azeez had spoken over her. At last, she had left, to his relief. But before leaving, she had handed him another trouble. She looked straight in his eyes, and smiled, but it felt as if it was full of contempt. Of hatred.

Now, he stared back at her body burning in the pile. He knew he must leave, for the smoke had started entering his lungs, but he stayed. For hours and hours, the fire burned. He wished he could just die as well, in here. Julie, gone. Father, who never loved him but also never allowed anyone to disrespect him. And mother, of course. Mother, who cared. Mother, who manipulated still. Mother, who was still his and his alone. But nothing brings back the dead. So, everyone left, all. But so what? Had he not wished that Julie dies because she spoke over him sometimes? Had he not wished Father dies because he shouted at him? And had he not wished Mothe dies because she cared too much? He did. Why, of course, he did.

Be happy, you idiot, isn’t this what you wished for? Here you have it. All you wanted. Be happy. Smile.

At last, the plate fell off the table.

By Ariba Fatima