The Beast Beneath My Bed - By Ishaam Moosa

Written By: Ishaam Moosa

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

We are honored to feature Ishaam Moosa's compelling short story, "The Beast Beneath My Bed," as part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. This thought-provoking narrative explores the depths of identity and the turbulent battle between one's faith and desires. Moosa's work stands as a testament to the power of storytelling in navigating personal and cultural complexities, inviting readers to reflect on their own inner conflicts and the forces that shape their lives.

About the Work

Ishaam Moosa's "The Beast Beneath My Bed" is a profound exploration of the human condition, delving into themes of identity, faith, and inner conflict. The story's evocative imagery and introspective tone invite readers to confront the dualities within themselves and the societal expectations that weigh heavily on the protagonist. Through a rich tapestry of emotional and spiritual elements, Moosa crafts a narrative that is both haunting and enlightening.

The beast beneath my bed

Original Submission by Ishaam Moosa

The beast beneath your bed

By Ishaam Moosa

It was an ancient hunger, aged by years of choice, I sit locked behind bars of flesh. Cocooned by another desperate lover, sullen dreamer, the boy’s nose whistles gently beneath the covers. Brothers and sisters stalking the night sky, I hear their claws dig the dirt, their teeth gnaw the bone, and in agony I must sit in war with my nature, reminding myself that my place is not with them.

Allaahu Akbar! Allaahu Akbar!

Faith demands.

Ashhadu Alaa Illaaha Illallaah!

I must remain.

Ashhadu Anna Muhammadar-Rasoolullaah!

Within myself, a shadow that goes unseen, the beast beneath his bed. The sinister bone in his body that reminds him he deserves more, and now another beckons him. Red-eyed and pale, brown curls dangle languidly in his face, my shell, my home, can you not see me?

Hayya’alas-salah Hayya’alas-salah!

Skin and bones, the covers are old, his mothers feet glide in the kitchen. I play with the harp of his heart, he listens to the tendons buzz, sinking into the mothers embrace, submitting to the moonlight.

Hayya’alal-falah Hayya’alal-falah!

Wrenching from my claws he stands, words oozing like honey in his eardrum, he can’t hear me scream. Blessed boy, it is you that makes the taste bearable. I alone guard your slumber and I alone know your song, that gentle string that sings and sings for the rise of a blood moon.

Allaahu Akbar! Allaahu Akbar!

His slumped shoulders outline the doorway, his face shrouded in shadow. Licking his lips he tastes the sweetness of comfort, the very sweetness that dances over me like rain on a winter coat. Impenetrable, my taste is much earthier, like the smell of dirt beneath your nails, summer flesh in your gums.

La Ilaha Illallah!

A call he can’t seem to ignore, the emptiness of it is starting to feel like home. He and I, the blade at each other’s necks. Our very own executioners, for there was something wrong with him, and thus me. The grotesque self behind the mask, the boy shirks his fate to don it once more. The masquerade ball that is life, he dulls his colors to evade superstition yet he knows what he is. He may cover it up and deny it but I am always here, and he is always there, biting down while the whip of approval rains down on him.

Face pressed to the mat he shuts me out. Reciting the words, a muzzle on my snout that I am tortured by, do my whines not pierce your armored shell?

-

The hours hum by and the same images burn through my brain. A gloomy sea, undisturbed it stretches to the far corners of my mind, crashing waves of memories too violent to subside. My mother in an emerald dress as she and my father go off to a wedding, playing with cars and blocks as she accused him in the other room, her trying to smile even when she prefers to live in dreams than reality. My own expectations weighing heavy as the day of judgment roars closer, emails and letters that dictate my worth. My future dependent upon words on a page, my body shivers with the thought of this town steadily grasping me. It’s blackened claws ripping at my kurta until I’m everything they want me to be, just like them.

Sterile hallways harboring trapped dreams, everyday is exactly the same. Eating, praying, working before praying again, a loop that never ends, I see mine own reflection in its mirror, his nose a bit bigger, his eyes a shade darker, a mangled beard that tells me my fate is to be my father. A marble prison that swallows you whole, I can name a dozen boys that have fallen privy to its curse. Mine own isn’t so different, a tempting voice, a sultry light that rises from the east, whispering tales of another life, devoid of repetition and capped desire, I can’t help but entertain it. A beast beneath my bed that I myself nurture and ignore, but in this flesh he speaks to me, and I him.

Gazing into the mirror I’m not sure whose eyes stare back, two vibrant souls tearing each other apart beneath this empty mask, Yahya and Him. A mongrel shadow that I just can’t seem to shake, his voice heard even in sleep, I watch as he smiles back at me. Proud and brazen He whispers to me, the vilest of things and yet honey has never tasted sweeter. He mocks my devotion and snarls at my submission, an alter-ego convinced that my place is not here, but out there, in tantalizing cities and streets that would see me for what I am, the bard who’s told not to sing, the wolf ordered not to kill. My very nature going against that which I am accustomed to, my Imaan.

Dark blue eyes across the dining hall, I see you there. Pointy eared and giddy, a wicked smile that endears me so. Catching each other here and there, a game of sorts, your name circling my lips, I whisper it to the moon from time to time. Even in prayer it is you that possesses my dua’s even if my creator wouldn’t hold us close. Driving me to strive for night, the only place where we can be a whole, and my heart is heavy with dreams we may never get to fulfil, a role I cannot in truth serve whole heartedly. Yet still, it is your fingers my strings yearn for, your name engraved in the crook of my neck. Your song that I fall asleep to every night, Alex Alex Alex Alex

Ma sets the table, steam swirling from the pots as she mixes one last time. ‘Heard anything yet?’ she asks, dishing my Pa’s plate. ‘No, maybe next week,’ I answer, biting my nails as I do. ‘How many times have I told you to stop that?’ Pa asks, his eyes only the heap of steam before him, ‘It’s ugly,’

Grabbing the urge to bite again by the neck I place my paws on the table for all to see. Mangled nails, reflecting the orange glow Ma drops the pot and scurries to get ointment. ‘There you go, ruining the appetite,’ He spits, setting his fork back down.

‘You learn the para I asked you to?’ I stare into his eyes, the fridge winces behind me and my mind is as blank as the plate before me. My breath shifts as his weight does, the wooden chair creaking with his rage.

‘no,’ I whisper.

‘What was that?’ his brows shrouding his gaze in darkness.

‘I haven’t,’ shielding myself I turn to my mother, the ointment to this wound, she dabs the scars and scabs lightly. Smoothing over the edges, the fridge winces once more as she taps round the table dishing the rest. The metals scream as she scraps the bottoms clean, he sheaths his blade for another time. ‘If you don’t read regularly, how do you expect to become Hafiz?’

‘He has to make the time on his own Akram, you cannot force him,’ my mother argues, her gaze floating between us.

‘If I don’t he won’t,’ he bites down.

‘Then so be it,’ the fridge winces for the final time as my father reaches for the Quraan on the table behind him, his broad shoulders unfolding like wings I watch from the reflection in the mirror as he grapples the book, stretches across the table and places it before me, all the while still in his seat.

‘Read,’

‘Akram, it’s supper time, please after,’

‘Read boy,’

‘Can I be excused, I’m not hungry,’

‘Hey wait, you haven’t eaten all day, you must be hungry,’

‘No I’m fine,’

‘Read!’

‘Akram please!’

Gripping the rim I leap to leave, he balls his fist.

‘Finish, your, Barakah,’

Her pale fingers wrap round his bulky knuckles, ice to the bruise. ‘Come please, let’s sit and eat, it’s not right to fight on the supper table,’

A hollowness, like nothing I’d felt before conquered the room. Dark crevices in our kitchen and dining room grew darker, the only match for them the furrowed glare of my father’s stare. It was now I realized the mutant I was to him, the all encompassing reminder of how he failed as a father. The very few good memories fluttering away as the bird of prey claim’s them for sport. Everything that I despise about my religion grows in him like weeds, sprouting from his mouth comes a beautiful flower that’s toxic to the touch. Sipping on his ambrosia often led to paralysis, my mother sadly had grown addicted to it.

Reclaiming my seat I make sure to hold my breath, his poison lingered. With an outstretched arm the bird of prey made amends, not by apologizing, no that would be too much to ask for. The book was returned, his wings are tucked away, and he is once again just like the rest of us, silence and nothing more.

Forks scrapping plates and chewing cut the air, we don’t even look at each other. ‘What have you decided for your birthday?’ my mother asks as she scrapes her plate clean. ‘We don’t celebrate,’ he jabs, setting his elbows on the table, his talons linking together. ‘A sleepover would suffice,’ I managed to blurt out. ‘Settled then, Friday night at Adam’s,’ her closing statement.

Allaahu Akbar! Allaahu Akbar!

Saved by the bell.

In the safety of my room the moon beams brightly, and words turn to whispers too soft for winged kind to hear. ‘Why do you provoke him like that?’ my mother begs, ‘Why do you defend him like this?’ I concur; the subtle shift in my tone shrinks her further away. ‘He only wants what’s best for you,’ she pleads. ‘What of me? My time? My mind? My future? My life?’

‘That will come,’ she holds my hand gently. ‘You have everything he never did, space to dream, his harsh hand comes from soft gloves,’

‘Then why does he bruise me so?’

‘Because men like him were not taught to hold other men up? All they know is to conquer, but he still has goodness in him if you would just,’

‘When I see it I’ll believe it,’

Her eyes float to the musallah that sits untouched beside his bed. ‘Don’t let him poison your relationship with your creator my love, no matter what the world says Islam is a solitary faith, the only words needing remembering are those spoken between you and Him,’ she points to the void outside my window, the ancestral starry night that we all look to. Only my gaze flutters to the moon, commanding and eternal, a tug at my ribs that tells me that bowing is unnatural. That I should have what my heart desires, that endless ocean I swim in here and there, soft hands and an infectious laugh that reminds you what life is for. But I was a child of a charnel house, and he was not mine. So I watch from across the dining hall as he carries on without me, a fig fallen, the hungry boy starves a little longer.

-

I am the backup singer, hear me between the notes. I am the wolf, stalking you in the dead of night. I am You, when nobody else is around. The grotesque shadow, hovering over you now, the smell is pungent, wet dog and meat. I saunter the lands too far for you to reach. I test those bonds between you and Him, ninety-nine names when you need only remember one.

Alex Alex Alex

His scent hot on my nose, I’d follow you anywhere. Down dark alleys and empty streets, through the devastating cold of your fathers disgust and into the warmth of a lovers summer embrace. I can take you to it, if only you’d let me. Gaze upon my monstrous mouth, muzzled by your devotion to another, and see that I would make a God of you if you’d let me. A face that inspires me to live off scripture than scraps, prophet boy Yahya Abdeen, sip from my cup that fragrant oblation and taste that which your predecessors have thwarted, destiny.

Let me live as freely in your bones as you do in the world and maybe a truce can be struck. Only do not shut me out in this darkness where I cannot hear your voice. Hold me tenderly in this eve’s moonlight, and just once I might catch you gazing into me. To face yourself in my pools of honey and see that I am more than just teeth and claws, but a part of yourself that you cannot reckon with.

-

Jummah salaah brings people together. Row by row men stand side by side, equals in the eye of Allah. Servants in solitude, warriors of faith, their eyes pass over me, ignoring the stain on my imaan. The microphone booms as the khutbah sets its tune, and the Imam greats us warmly.

‘My beloved brothers and sisters, we thank Allah for granting us another Yaumul Jum’ah as we leave behind the month of Rabi al-awwal and enter Rabi al-thani, the last spring. We live in dangerous times, our children don’t rely on us, the world is at war, and yet we must still guide them toward the steadfast path.’

The trees shiver outside as the ulama take their seats, spots of green disappearing and reappearing as the flock take shape.

‘The world has changed, with a click of a button our youth are exposed to the sins of the world that they can navigate whenever they like. They disrespect their parents, believing they know what is best but is our job to prevent them from destruction. But out there,’ he points to the window.

‘They will be faced with trails we never had to. The drugs, the alcohol, the sins of the flesh are shoved down their throats, infecting their minds, turning them from Allah to these false idols, the worlds tolerance to these afflictions may have changed, but not for us,’

The sea of white stir, wide-eyed and worried they nod in agreement, lapping up his sermon, his ambrosia is rather sweet. Regal and fair, he grants us his words as a gift from Allah’s lips. A divine intervention, they see what’s wrong out there but not here, not in these marble walls and carpeted floors, not in their clean-cut Kurta’s and agreeable dispositions, not in their hard-strung minds that proves that his words are true, not even in their humble homes that they rule with an iron fist.

Like a dog hearing all his favorite words they repeat after him as he makes sure to leave no leaf unturned, it’s not long before realizing that the world and I have few things in common, a genetic deformity that makes me a target in this hunt for salvation. Yet here I stand, shoulder to shoulder, nothing amiss, a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

I choke the shadow inside me, holding him tightly as I shake the hands of uncles I do not know the names of. He claws at the gaps in my ribs, made from own living marrow, he feeds into my bottomless desire. For mine is distinct and unnatural, when God filled my cup He was sure to provide me less so I hungered more. Adam hungered too, some would call him my other half but growing up together has only drifted us further apart. The only thing keeping us was familiarity and tradition, a trained limb that responds instinctively.

‘I expect that para when you return,’ my father says, smiling as he shakes a friends hand. I nod as my head sinks to the floor, my swaying shoulders shimmy me to Adams side, his familiar face centering me in this grave of memories, the cobblestone parking lot of our masjid. I wonder what these trees have seen, what stories they’ve heard as their leaves swept through the years. From child to man, they’ve watched me become what I am today, a ball of dreams yet to be fulfilled. Wobbling from left to right, the uneven floor presses into the arch my foot, Adams squinted eyes watch my father leave through the arched passageway.

Nutmeg and cardamom, cinnamon and coriander, I am hoisted into acquainted scents. Adams mother stands guard over the lunch, her spoon sheathed, her helmet of silk fastened neat, an anointed knight at the helm of this fleet. My birthdays consisted of consistent events, Friday sleepovers at Adams that left me with an empty feeling in my stomach. Fragrant nostalgia that lingered for months at a time, I chased that high only finding that this rose bush only grew here, and only bloomed once a year. My father was a demanding man, celebrations were hard earned badges of honor only worn when he saw fit, and this night had something it. A cramp in my ribs that wouldn’t subside, I sat silently on the lunch table that was adorned with all my favorites, steam rising as Farida opened the pots. Aaliyah wasted no time digging in, the mischievous younger sister, the two of us had grown closer over the years. Ditching sports for film and art was as easy as breathing, Aaliyah had made it so. Partnering up with me in class, joining me at lunch because nobody else would, the only light I saw at the end of those hallways, except his. Alex

‘So, heard anything from those uni’s yet?’ Farida enquires, taking her seat at the center of the table. ‘No, not yet,’ I say with a smile. ‘Don’t worry though, it’s on it way,’ Adam chiming in-between his chewing. ‘UCT like him?’ Mo asks, if he and my father had been speaking like they normally do, he’d know that wasn’t an option for me. ‘No, thinking someplace else,’ I note, swallowing a fork full of rice. ‘Just make sure wherever you go, it feels like home, yeah,’ Mo says warmly.

‘I’m sure he has things figured out hun, how is your mother doing?’ Farida swiftly redirects.

‘She’s okay, hasn’t been selling a lot recently,’

‘I see, food business can be difficult, haven’t heard from Nailah in a while though, and your father?’

Fork dragging across my plate, Aaliyah’s eyes linger tenderly. The birds chirp a couple times before Mo huffs.

‘Saw him at the butchery yesterday, smiling ear to ear,’ He lies.

‘Alhumdurillah, so the butchery is doing well then?’ she asks with a smile.

‘It is yeah,’

The fridge cries.

‘Let’s talk about what we would all rather be discussing, the movie for tonight!’ Aaliyah cuts through with a wicked smile, and finally I exhale.

‘I’m fine with anything so long as it’s not dancing in the rain,’ Adam jokes.

‘Oh please I saw you getting down in your room right after we watched it,’ Aaliyah exaggerates, Adam shrugs.

‘I don’t need to watch a movie to bust some moves,’

‘Adam please, you dance like you’ve got two left feet,’ Farida laughs.

‘You get that from your father too,’

Mo sits baffled as we all ramp it up, an infectious laughter, spreading through the table like weeds. This was why coming here felt like a breath of fresh air, not a single silence followed suit. My thoughts are sealed, empty streets in the neighborhood of my mind, is there a point to keeping him in his cage?

Aaliyah touches up her mascara in her mirror before swiftly turning to me. She tosses a wristband across the bed, it stands out amongst the pile of laundry I was helping to fold. Scanning its surface the images scream at me, sweaty bodies and a pumping crowd, drugs and alcohol swirling in every mouth, the hate in my father’s face when he smells it on me.

‘No,’ I mouth angrily, but Aaliyah just squints. Snatching the band I tuck it behind her pillow before her mother had a chance to see. Farida sits just outside the open door, on the floor sorting through linens. Aaliyah twirls her curly hair, pouting her mousey face in her mother’s purview, though her eyes are too fixated on whether the whites are actually cream. The recklessness of it almost had me breaking our code, though I would never dare to cross her. She reaches for her phone, sitting idly on her wooden vanity, tapping elegantly she turns the phone to scold me, but there he was, Alex.

The light in his eyes had never burned this bright, a shame it was my absence that prompted it. The scab had barely healed and yet there he was, as iridescent as I last saw him.

‘He’s out, on the town,’ she whispers gingerly, planting the seed to an electric eve.

‘You say you’re ready for the big world, have a taste,’

Sneaking out had never felt so wrong, the pill on my tongue only deepening my doubts, I could not recognize where we were, only that the sea was filling my lungs and the queue stretched far out the warehouse.

The crowd raging inside, sweat stained bodies twisting and turning to the bass. Fog machines heaving and blowing the room blue and I hold onto Aaliyah for balance and grace. One step two step, to the rhythm, breathing slowly, keeping with them. My chest is thumping, I can hear him whistle, down the alley of my chests prison. Foaming at the mouth, a beast in the kitchen. He sways with me now, our movements wisdom. A deep pit of hunger, bubbling over at the brim. The moon burns brightly outside on the eve of my rebirth, I fasten myself to that line inside my veins. A ticking time bomb of chemicals, circling one another like sharks, there’s blood in the water.

Crackling at my fingertips, touching is like fireworks with this sugar on my tongue. The drugs work quickly like a violent drum waiting in the backstage of your play, slowly building as the count down nears 1. Leather and latex, metal and skin, this melting pot of desire, I circle in. The DJ’s mask blares red and hot, a studded vest to match the skull of his face, his left arm sways while his right turns the keys, the lights flash pink then red then flashes of white, Aaliyah tethers herself to me as the crowd gathers its might. Swaying together, a school of fish but I was not meant to breathe underwater. I slow my tempo, inhaling their fumes, the bodies around me nimble like nothing is new. Soldiers of the night, an army of sin I stifle the thoughts of where I should have been. A domed building, simple silence and contempt, but nothing could fill the hole this music is leaving in my crib. The child of a charnel house, I come with bones in my bag, eager souls waiting for a taste of what they’d died for. A lavender mist, dulling their senses as the bass shakes their core. Their spirits free in this salty warehouse, I beat alongside them brutal and raw.

My legs seemed to scream but numbness had struck my lower half a while ago. All that remained was the vibration in my pants sent in shockwaves by the thumping of my shoes. Graffiti lined walls staring back at me tell stories of the people that trekked this path. Twisted beasts that sing praises for my nobility and vigor, cheering me on while water bottles and spritzer’s are sold over the counter. Muscled limbs and bare chests bring me to grit my teeth and snare, the only way I know how to control the animal inside of me. He is bitter now and rancid too, the scent of meat drives him made with lust, he tempts me to take a taste. Their pulsing veins draw my virgin fangs, I do not know if I have the strength to stop. Once the blood coats my teeth there is no telling what my next move may be. Tantalizing and rich, in their veins plays a song I am frantic to hear. A layered production so rare it’s heard first with the wanting, the killing, the first lyric is, I want to eat you.

Their eyes meet mine and an invisible line gravitates us toward one another, myself and a charming brunette, taking me in his arms I wrap my hands round his crown of light curls and sink into his tune. The beats run low as our teeth narrowly miss each other, slipping and sliding I hear my canines roar as he plunges me into his depths. Giggling is heard at my side, Aaliyah chanting on as the strangers lips meet mine again. Easing into it, the warmth shields me from the gush of smoke, his soft hands running smooth over my twitching shoulders, valves in my veins slam open and closed with the pace of his tongue. I can feel my grip slipping as his claws begin sinking.

Deeper and deeper, blood on my tongue, fuel to the flame, I push the blame away for a chance at air. Desperately clinging at the strings to my name, Yahya Abdeen, a brutal sort of shame took over me then. Yahya Abdeen Yahya Abdeen I repeat again and again, until I felt the fabric of my shoe weave back, and the heat rush back to my face, Aaliyahs voice cupping my ear in worried screams, her frantic eyes gather me in the center of this storm. The music like hail in the dead of winter, I try to hear my own thoughts to no avail. The cage of my soul rattles anxiously against the elasticity of my chest, a phantom raging to get free I cannot stifle the hunger any longer.

All I could think of was space and air, the time to grapple with the beast beneath my bed. Aaliyah tugs at my wrists, I angle my head at the bathroom and mouth ‘a moment,’ and the path before me is laid bare. I swivel through the sea of people, parting the ocean like a prophet from scripture, all the while choking on his rage. Their swaying shoulders grazing me, their perfume staining the sides of my shirt, I am one with the world round me.

Hurtling into the dimly lit bathroom, my hefty breathing bounces off the walls, empty beer bottles twirl round the tips of my toes as I stumble toward the mirror. Its cracked surface shattering me in two, the empty room holds me tenderly in its greasy claws. The iris’ of my eyes flare brown, then golden, a pigmented blood orange in the heat of summer, I falter with the ache inside my vest. My skin burning with the bite of a thousand fire ants, I rip at the seams and wrench myself free from their violent delight, only for the sizzling to set in. My body it’s own smoke machine, the party raged on in here.

Badum Badum Badum

The veins in my neck pumped to the bass and drum, thumping and thumping I felt my skin stretching as though to accommodate more blood. Breathing and breathing, the beast will conquer me, sending me asunder. I watch the fogged reflection transcend soul and flesh, fur piercing skin, reality is what he makes it to be. I sit a passenger in what appears to be my own mind, a vague distorted picture of who I am and where I am supposed to be trickles before me. A frightening ease setting over me as the splinters of broken bone shatter my astral plane, the infection spreading to my head and hands, claws and teeth eager to be bled, the skin of my scalp ripping open, I can’t help but take a closer look. I place my hand to my head, the claws stroke the wound with care, the rogue in me heaving with desire, I feel my jaw begin to crack and shift, my tongue scrapping my teeth as they grind among each other, sharper canines and molars taking their replace. My stomach roils while my chest caves, an easer task would be death, but he wouldn’t see me go. He has roots in me, no Sheikh or priest could dig up, even if he let them close enough, prayer wouldn’t protect them from his honor. In the rare silences I hear his voice booming, nails on metal it scraps clearly to me.

‘And why are some sins treated differently to others?’ he roars.

‘And what is lineage if not mangled strands of shame,’

The bathroom door bounces with the bass.

‘And what is madness but the freedom from self,’

I peel away the skin, giving way to him.

‘Why is the boy curled on the ground? And why is he tightly bound?’ his words gaining momentum.

‘And why must he be broken? Why with his fists and arms?’ I yank the flesh from my face, gritting my teeth, I fold to the floor.

‘If you are alive then so am I, those scriptures and songs are lies told by Gods, why am I despised, when no one ought to be despised?’ his ancient voice rang loudly in my head, no flaws no walls, he descended on me whole. I muster the courage to call upon Him from the bottom of this well, commanding my lips and tongue to slip the words.

‘Allahu La ilaaha illaa huwa alhayyu alqayyoomu,’ I roar with every fiber of my being, protect me my creator, but his voice still rings true.

‘And why do they speak in Gods name?’ he interrogates me.

‘La takhuthuhu sinatun wala nawmun,’ I respond.

‘And why must my gaze be lowered? And to whom should it be lowered to?’ he snaps.

I push my shoulders back as I hear my bones crack, he twists out of me like a typhoon, forcing my limbs and nose to extend, the tinge of puke and alcohol scream through my new nostrils, he brands me with his capabilities.

‘And why must the boy be caged? And why in this cage must I be kept!’ his rage bubbling, my face melting to meet his, a crown of fur at my brow I rip the words from the sheath of my soul.

‘Lahu ma fee alssmawati wama fee alardi man tha allathee yashfaAAu AAindahu illa biithnihi!’ I growl.

‘And why does death pay for life? And why do you ignore me when I am speaking to you!’ he stretches through me as I descend into the bowels of myself, a spectator in my own life.

I am the boy!

I am that voice!

I am the moon!

I am the order!

I am the God!

I am that dream!

And I can intercede!

I can command this body! And I can set the terms.

I am you, I am the answer.

My grotesque silhouette swallows the mirror, its jagged edges scar my face, my fur covered body, I huff and puff but no words come, only howls and growls. The burning subsides and all that remains is a ferocious craving, quiet and waiting, stalking its prey as it grazes. What’s left of my pants laying in strips on the floor, blood smeared here and there, someone had died, but there was no body.

Orange orbs staring back at me in this grim underbelly, I had shed the layers of a version of myself, baby skin revealing something new, a face I did not recognize but from the depths of my soul I knew. The beast my father saw in me was true. Here he stands, inches from me, I dare to reach out and touch him but the coldness of the glass shatters the illusion. That gaping mouth is mine, this snout and these claws, paws that longed to trudge through the dirt, to feel the moonlight bounce from my coat, but I was in no forest. The broken office light reminds me so, its echo circles through my perked ears, swimming down to my eardrum, the ring of the bulb beams and bounces off of it. The veins at my temples throbbing dangerously, erratic and scared, like any moment may be my last, for there was a power in my palm, one sought out by men. A putrid stench that lingered in my wake, here in my chest lay the corpses of unlived lives, tucked neatly in the crevices of my soul, dozens of them whispering to me, infecting me. Bitten bullets lay in the deep, bought silence that has aged millennia; it spills out of me, replicating itself like sin.

How many others in my line had suffered at the hands of this curse. From behind my own eyes I call to Him one last time.

‘YaAAlamu ma bayna aydeehim wama khalfahum,’ the door creeping open, I turn to a graceful face. Starlit eyes, gazing up at me, the innocence of a lamb marked him, the unsterile light held is complexion carelessly but I recognized him all the same. From the bottom of this well I try and reach out to take him in my arms but other hands grasped him. Filthy paws and mouth sinking into him, I claw at the cell of myself, to break free from these bars of lust, but the decadence of it. The raw sweetness of feeling his lips on mine, that which I had prayed endlessly for was now sitting in my lap.

He does not caring for the ugliness of my ways, and the barbaric scene that surrounded us. Just I and him, skin on skin, lavender beckoning him, a seduction of the senses. Using every trick in my book, the wolf blinds the lamb, for fear corrupts the meat. I had not fed in years, that mutant hunger that sauntered through my being, woken and frantic, a slip of the tongue, the blood swirling in my gums, my teeth itch for a bite.

Rattling the hinges I try to catch his attention, to cull the craving but this time there was no muzzling it. My body was not mine own, it responds even when I command it not to, showering me with shame. The consequences trickle down me like paint, a vibrant necessity needing to be expelled; I recite his name like hadith, hoping a miracle could protect my love from me.

Alex Alex

The boy sings, but the lover can’t hear with all this honey in his ear. From his enclosure the boy watches as I honor his passion, a red smile on that pretty white face, he’s a lot warmer on the inside. From his soul I drain my sacred libation, that raw and brutal truth slithering up at me in wispy black tendrils, wrapping themselves round the nape of my neck, a chain of guilt clinking on my chest. The body is limp and ripped open, blue eyes staring at me in disbelief for it was I that tore into him so ferociously, I who is leaning over him as he draws his last breath. Two hearts had failed in here, but only one of them had stopped beating.

The boy screams his name from within me but this time it tasted differently. From my lips its metallic and rancid, like death and sweat. Concussive, the yelping and grunting outside sends my senses spiraling. A sweltering ache deep in my gut, its not your turn yet little boy. Your bones are mine too, and when the moon booms, my purpose takes precedence.

Water drips gently from the faucet, the dingy sink barely holding on, flesh still in my gum, shame burdened my temples then, for when I ate from his flesh it made me feel strong, having dined on his corpse I feel cleansed holy. But why does the meat taste so raw? The pride I once felt choking me along with his soul, everything I had wanted sits disfigured in my lap. My fur itches profusely and I compel myself to rush the torturous scene.

The blazing lights catch me by surprise, warm bodies in my distant purview, I stalk them intrinsically. Beads of sweat burden their brows, swinging skirts and shimmering chains, a garden of roses, ripe for pruning. All hands, legs, teeth, and muscle, I mask my envy in the dingy corners of this warehouse. The souls of the dead peruse this eve, my lycan face frightens them not, and the invitation arrives gracefully with a fleeting thought, a passing scent, seducing me to the shelter of the trees. I spot a window above me, its gleaming edges awaiting my claws, my moves swift and seamless; a wandering eye freezes me in time. Teary eyed and alert, goose pimples erupting like volcanoes across his bare arms. I can’t help but stare back, holding his fear in the jaws of my mouth, nurturing it as I disappear from his line of sight. The hour of the wolf welcomes me like family, the salty breeze hurtles toward me as my legs build speed.

A bullet home to no gun, I dart across streets and past trees like I was borne to it. The lone wolf claims dominion over the night sky, the creatures of it at my side, humans become smaller and smaller from up here. The throbbing within me draws to an end as I catch my breath beneath the gaze of the pine trees. The wind rattles the leaves and for an instant I am alone in this world, then like the hand of God, a rustle here, a distant voice there, a growl in the darkness that tells me I belong. It is in these woods I feel the most human, I shed the layers and bare my soul for prosecution yet those very animals you call beasts do not spit at me, but hold me in the most natural of ways. Without trimming or shaping, my form is of no consequence here. My breathing bothers no one, simply existing I perch upon the crown of a King gazing down upon a rainbow. The streetlights buzz therapeutically, illuminating a pride and joy, I hear them laughing in the warmth of their homes. A mother prepping lunches for her children while the world sleeps, another with her hands to the sky, begging Allah to grant her an easeful death. They say the words spoken at this hour go straight to Your ears and from within me, the boy makes his plea.

‘Ya Allah, change me, color me grey, strip every part of me you don’t deem worthy, make me just like everyone else. But please don’t leave me in this skin that disgusts You so,’

The twisting of a knife, the betrayer, so harshly conditioned that his own scent wrinkles his nose. The boy has asked You, why burden him with me? And Your answer is but an echo, ricocheting off the sea of colors, why burden him with me?

I descend upon their streets, just to frighten You. My paws gliding across the cobblestone, not a sound is heard but the Athaan in the distance.

Allaahu Akbar! Allaahu Akbar!

Men had died for this religion, I shiver at it. Stirring naturally the boy grips the bars that I know by name, praying that the sun chases me away. The walls are much taller down here, their pigmented exterior closing in on me as the dawn splits the black in two.

Ashhadu Alaa Illaaha Illallaah!

I do not belong, I feel claustrophobic and alone, I could not see the stars.

Ashhadu Anna Muhammadar-Rasoolullaah!

My cage is calling my name and I can’t help but answer it. Steadily our hearts beat as one again.

Badum! Badum!

I find myself circling the same trees I grew up with, the same soil I used to make mud pies with. Through his eyes the world is raw and wrong, too harsh is the truth when the veil has been lifted. With the slowing of his steps I feel myself twist back into form as my eyes close shut with a silent ferocity, dulling my senses I slip into slumber cradling my humanity in my hands I shield it from the shifting flesh and gnarly teeth, back within me his craving culled the silence that followed eased my sorrow. Birds chirping above my brow as the morning dew set in throes of increasing splendor, a new day burning away the sins of yesterday, I still feel them burn my temple even as my nose whistles gently in this repose, blood doesn’t wash out that easily.

Reaching for what could only be an explanation, my mind is scattered and confused. Each memory I hold yields to another question that sends me down a labyrinth of events that I cannot for certain, say I was a part of. Empty voids that echo when I speak, what had filled this room? And what was that smell?

Warm fingers cloak my bare body, I wake to my mother’s brown eyes, shaking and raw. Uncurling me from my position, she hoists me up in her guardian way, the grass where I had been now flat and dead. Leaves and twigs running ramped in the twist and turns of my hair, squinting I try to make out where I am. The greenery slows my breathing but my mother’s mumbled words disorient me, is this what a hangover felt like?

Her fingers grapple my ribs, the tenderness of my bones sends chills down my spine, I try to yank myself free but she pulls me closer. Her mouth moving but I hear no words, I use her eyes to decode the fear in her touch. We have to be quiet, her eyes whisper, my gaze floats to the slanting red roof of our home, regal it sticks out behind the tall trees of our backyard. I do not know how I had gotten here, but I was thankful to smell the chai on my mother’s breath. Then, like a thunderstorm in the heat of summer, the reality hit me, it’s a Saturday, the sun had just risen, and my father only leaves to the butchery at nine.

Like a pair of mice, the two of us tiptoe round our own yard to no avail, for there he stands, broad shouldered in the arch of our backdoor. Ghosts caught on camera, the both of us freeze under his icy gaze, arms crossed in front of him, the dance was surely to begin.

‘Yahya, go inside and put some clothes on,’ my mom says shakily, but my father’s figure deters my motion.

‘Where are you coming from?’ he asks, his expression unwavering. I try to reply but my words are caught up by the disgust twitching in his face, eyes burning over me, head to toe.

‘Nothing to say for yourself?’

The wind rustles the leaves round me.

‘What have you done with my beautiful boy?’

‘I’m standing right here dad,’

‘No, no, you are an imposter, a sickness,’

‘It is who he is Akram, was there no part of you that your father despised?’ my mother argued unwrapping my arm that was holding onto her for balance.

‘Yes, there was, I buried it,’

‘I am sorry, that you were not given the freedom to chase what you wished, but I will not condemn my son to the same,’

‘I should have known, I should have listened when they told me you were corrupting,’

My mother squints.

‘That your family was cursed, and now you’ve taken my boy, my only boy!’ he spits at our feet. I don’t know if it was the disappointment in my father’s voice, or the shock on my mother’s face but Arabic began to spill from my mouth like poetry. The hafiz my father always wanted me to be, possessing my mouth and mind. I began to recite the para that he had asked me to learn, word for word as I approached the arched doorway. My mother’s hand to her mouth, my father’s eyes unwavering and empty, I try my best to smooth over the wound I had ripped unknowingly open. Then he wraps his talons round the small of my neck.

‘It sounds foreign spilling from your mouth,’

I gasp frantically for air as he raises his left to meet my mother’s gentle face.

‘You, are the stain on my Imaan,’ he spits.

My father held me at the neck.

My father held me at the neck.

My father held me at the neck.

No thoughts or memories, no wishes and dreams, only the image of myself begging him for mercy, and him granting it by letting me take another breath.

‘Go make Ghusl,’

In the mirror that I watched myself grow up in I see that which made my father’s stomach roil. My bare limbs drenched in glitter and sweat, remnants of my nocturnal activities sit brazenly in my face. Yet there was no blood, no flesh, no him. Did I truly rip my lover apart limb from limb?

‘What did you do?’ I ask myself.

‘What did you do!’

‘That which you could not,’ the wolf answers, shadows shifting in the morning light, inviting him in.

‘You killed him!’

Silence, ma cries in the room next door.

‘You killed him?’ my voice trembling at the thought of it.

‘I killed the boy, so that the man could be born,’

‘What does that even mean?’

‘In time you will see,’ he says, I can feel his breath cupping my ear.

‘That you are a traitor, answering to Him far more than you do me, is balance not a necessity, can you love? Can you forgive?’

Climbing through windows and cutting corners my search leads me to Aaliyah. She stands in her backyard hanging the washing, the breeze catching her curly hair as her eyes set on me.

‘Where the fuck were you?’

‘Please, let me explain,’ I say pushing past the back gate.

‘You left me, alone at a rave, a girl, alone!’

She angrily continues to hang her father’s sweater.

‘Something happened, in the bathroom,’

She squints at me, analyzing my eyes for sincerity.

‘I don’t know if I was spiked, or if I was having a bad trip, but I did something, and there was blood everywhere, his eyes looking up at me,’ I say with tears streaming down my face.

‘Hey, it’s okay,’ she takes me in her arms.

‘I didn’t mean to do it,’

‘Yahya, I know it feels like you cannot trust your mind right now but trust me, you would never do anything to hurt anyone,’

‘But I did,’

She gazes into my face.

‘There’s something I need to tell you, they found Alex’s body this morning,’

There it was, the confirmation I needed, the seed of destruction had germinated. My lips quiver, I can’t meet her gaze, the shame of it.

‘I killed him,’ I blurt out.

‘I took his life,’

‘Listen to me, the only thing you took from that boy was your love,’ taking my face in her hands.

‘As far as we know Alex was never there, I was searching the dance floor for you anyway, I didn’t see him,’

The idea had crossed my mind, that I had invented the whole ordeal. But his voice was so clear, I could taste him, every part being broken down in me. The bitter truth that his feet will never strike the earth again, that the last thing he saw was some stranger looking down at him.

I follow the remnants of where he had been, piecing together my own mind with the cloak of grief trailing behind me. The changing rooms at the pool were always empty in the late afternoon, we used to go there on weekends, spending ours learning the shape of each other’s lips. Standing amongst the ruins of our memories, they bleed back into this dreary distorted picture, our voices truer than the bruise around my neck.

Sacred? No, no, no this was something dirtier and uglier. Puzzle pieces pushed hard into each other until their colors blended. Until the world couldn’t see where he began and I ended. We had willed this into existence with every fiber of our being. Tossing and turning on wet floors, succumbing to the fire being stoked between us. In his eyes was a tender grace, permeating into everything he touched and whom, I fought tooth and nail to stay covered in its shelter.

‘Why do you still worship Him if he doesn’t love you?’ he asked laying his head on my lap.

‘Who said He didn’t love me?’ I questioned.

‘Well He doesn’t allow you to love who you really do?’ he said closing his eyes as he awaited my rebuttal.

‘That doesn’t mean He doesn’t love me,’

‘But it does mean He dictates who you love, do you think that is love?’

‘I think that you are trying to make me come to stellies with you next year,’

‘That’s not what I said!’ he laughed.

‘It’s what you started,’ I replied tickling him.

There it was, that laugh that could shake any gloom off me, sunshine in the whistling winter.

‘Don’t you get tired of pretending though?’

‘Pretending to?’

He got up and snuggled close to me.

‘To be someone you’re not,’

An anchor sinking to the bottom of the ocean.

‘I mean when you’re standing there amongst them, do you feel like you belong?’

‘Most of the time, no,’

‘Then why bother,’

I stared toward the door, feeling my own eyes piercing through me.

‘Because it’s not about them, it’s about me, my faith, my connection, you know. It’s like my mother says, it’s just me and Him, and I don’t believe He’d forsake me,’

Most day’s I tried my best to be like them, to breathe like them, to talk like them. Then their third eye opens and they realize that beside them is not a boy, but a living reminder that this life was a test, and I was failing. My furry truth laid bare for you to stare and the stench leaves you wrinkling your nose at my innocence, though it’s your own lip that’s unforgiving.

Trekking home I pass the bench branded with our separation. An old wooden thing carrying thousands of words, the sun dances off it glistening and rare, in the details the answers lay. The dissolving into each other, he was I and I he, a fragrant mix of desperate ingredients hell bent on making a connection worthwhile. Yet somewhere along the way, someone laced our dish, or rather it was I. whether from shame or guilt I cannot say, but what I do know is that it killed me to put that poison in our meal and watch you eat it. It was selfish of me to not take a bite too so that we may lay in the ruin of each other together. But I was a coward, a monster, I allowed my need for survival to out way my devotion to you and I see now why my father can’t stand me breathing, I am him.

‘I can’t give you what you deserve,’ I said holding myself, I couldn’t even look him in the eyes, those graceful eyes.

‘So you’re doing this for me? Is that it?’

‘Yes, yes I am,’

‘Didn’t realize being with you meant I had my rights confiscated,’

‘What do you mean,’ I said turning to him, eye brow raised.

‘You deciding what I need,’

‘I never told you to not send your application to stellies,’

‘You think this is about that? All this!’ he pointed between the two of us.

‘I am not scared of people finding out!’

‘Wrong again!’ he spat at me.

‘I never asked you to choose between me and Him! I believed you when you said your relationship was singular, that you knew He wouldn’t forsake you,’ he broke down.

‘That is true,’

‘What is true is that you will never love me as much as I do you,’ he said blankly, his eyes red and cheeks rosy.

Was he right? Could the wolf not bring himself to love the lamb? No not entirely. I wish I had learnt to reach for the boy within me than the one before me. Learnt to love myself before another, I think he knew that, for he was the first person who did not ask me to change, but saw that broken bone inside me and lifted his shirt to yield me his own.

‘I’m sorry I can’t be the person you want me to be,’

‘You already are by living and breathing,’

There were two hearts bleeding on the concrete that day, both were his, though I was too blind to see.

Throughout my childhood I’ve had to mold, to form, to be invisible but still real enough to be known. Holding the same traits tightly as I saunter on in bigger shoes, will I ever be able to fill them?

My arms are tired from carrying all these ideas of me. Is there a way to take a break from self? Just for a moment, long enough for me to catch my breath before the next wave comes crashing in. I always leave myself just enough space above the water, holding onto whatever parts of myself I can while the numbers skip by. Is chasing after them really all it’s pent up to be?

I keep catching myself trailing off to the trinkets in my garage, little glimpses in the sunlight that tell me I’m worthy of the chair I’m sitting in. That my father’s glance is what I wish it to be and not what the whispers on my shoulder frame it for me, I refuse to waste a life that Alex could not live. To let the walls close in on me while I fill my ears with prayer, why be one thing when I am a multitude.

A storm was brewing as I arrive home, black clouds circling our humble abode; the front door sits ajar and sobbing crackles clearer than thunder as I saunter into the eye. On the floor of our kitchen my mother lays cradling the last memory of her father, bits and pieces of the salad bowl scattered across the gleaming floor. Her bruised face balls my fists as the shadow of him stirs beside the fridge.

‘You know, I thought I made myself perfectly clear this morning, no more disappearances,’ he says towering over the fridge, my eyes only on my mother as she scraps the pieces together.

‘It will be the last time you do this,’ I mutter, feeling him twist within me.

‘What was that?’ he asks taking a step forward.

Rain smacks against the windows.

‘You heard me,’

An outstretched arm grapples the handle of a stainless steel pan, I watch as his veins pulse on the back of his hand, Ya Allah give me the strength. Hurtling toward me, a lightning strike, a swift turn sends the metal clattering against the door frame, my mother shrieks at the contact, holding on her knees as if this was going to blow over.

A sudden step and the rage spills out of me, slipping swiftly into my second skin, no voices, no pain, instinctual. I catch his falling fist with the grip of my claws, digging tenderly into the veins of his wrist, Ya Allah forgive me.

Tackling him to the floor, he wriggles frantically under the weight of me. I dig my claws into his shoulder, ripping his wings from his back.

‘There he is,’ he manages to blurt out, a red smile gleaning between his lips.

I held his life in my hands, yet even at my mercy, he pleads not.

‘No, I’m not going to be you,’ I spit at him.

The fur round my neck settles, the muscles in my body relax and I’m once again human. He watches below me as my face changes back, wrinkling his nose as he begins to laugh.

‘Son, we’re leaving,’ My mother says, wiping her tears with the back of her hand.

I rise to my feet, taking my mother’s hand in mine as the rain trickles gently, bathing us holy.

‘You are no son of mine! Do you hear me! None of mine!’ He barks from the safety of his home.

Yet I was wasn’t I? his son, his sin, the smear on his Imaan that my mother will no longer wash out. Turning back to take one last look at him and just like God, I remain silent, giving nothing away. A monster with proper restraint, learning to become an angel, my noor burning brighter than my shame, it was now I realized that all I had lost, had set me free.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar celebrates artistic expression in its many forms, providing a platform for writers worldwide to showcase their creativity. This prestigious event highlights diverse voices and stories, fostering a global community of literary talent. Participants are encouraged to share their unique perspectives, contributing to a vibrant tapestry of contemporary literature.

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to Ishaam Moosa for sharing "The Beast Beneath My Bed" with us in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. This powerful short story resonates with its exploration of identity and inner turmoil, inviting reflection and discussion. We appreciate Moosa's contribution to the literary world and look forward to witnessing their continued creative journey.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.