Author: Mouna Kacem

The streetlights painted the city with an orange glow, creating an illusion of warmth. I walked by the lines of high-end boutiques of which Rue Flaubert was known. Shop windows were decorated with fake trees, and “Bonne année” was written in fake snow. Whatever wintry atmosphere they wanted to set had failed. After all, it never snowed here. It rained, though, heavily. And the shoddy infrastructure made it a miserable experience. I shivered and wrapped my coat around my face to shield it from the wind, leaving my red, swollen fingers victim to its whips. Growing up, we’d never celebrated…

The breeze played with my hair, sending a strand over my eyes. I pulled it away and frowned. The once midnight-black mane had now some white strands. I flipped my head to the side, looking at the waterfall of salt and pepper. When did this happen? I reached to brush my fingers through it, but a veiny hand came in sight. It’s my hand? My mouth hung low when I brought both hands in front of me, turning them back and forth. They were wrinkly. A deep chuckle caused me to drop them on my lap. I flipped my head…

They think I’m depressed because I refuse to leave this bed. I’m not. I put the tray on the table next to me. They want me to eat, but I don’t need food. The birds chirp on the tree at the window in front of me. If I stare long enough, the voices of the people around me will fade to a background noise, then they’ll stop and leave at the end. But I won’t leave. I tuck a greasy strand of hair behind my ear. They say I’m depressed. I scoff. The only thing keeping me here is hope.…