Song: Body in a Box --City and Colour
Word: oracle
.....
It was Friday, a cold, windy and hostile Friday when Saleem received the letter. He hadn’t expected it at all. They day had gone ordinarily enough, despite the stormy weather. He had his dentist’s appointment, went to work, came home, and there it was, sitting innocently on his desk. It was an average white envelope, could have even been his telephone bill for all he knew. He picked it up, turned it over, seeing no address on it dropped it back on his table, and went to the kitchen to grab something to eat.
It wasn’t until later, after dinner, that the envelope caught his eye, still innocently sitting on his wooden desk, just the way he’d left it.
He picked it up again, this time wondering why there was no address on it, just his name in neat cursive. Saleem Abid.
Saleem quickly tore it open.
To, Mr. Saleem Abid
This letter is to inform you that your turn has come. You have waited patiently. I shall drop by tomorrow and discuss how we shall proceed with the transition.
Regards,
-Larzae.
Larzae? Turn had come? What turn? Baffled, Saleem leaned back in his chair, trying to think of any time he had signed up for something. He was not entirely sure if this Larzae would show up, or if he would open the door for Larzae in the case that he did show up.
Saleem yawned and left his chair to snuggle in for some sleep. The letter was probably some sort of a childish prank, he decided. Nobody serious would mail him in such a manner.
Larzae, he scoffed, what kind of a name was that? Saleem turned in his comfy twin sized bed and turned the lamp off with his left hand. Tomorrow was Saturday, that meant sleeping in.
He wasn’t sure what time it was when he heard the loud knock. He wasn’t even sure if he was awake. It was loud, clear knocking right on his bedroom door. Saleem opened his eyes slowly, adjusting his sight to the dark. There it was, the sound of someone’s fist rapping urgently on his door. It had the urgency of a phone ringing, he had to pick and answer it, now.
It wasn’t until Saleem reached for his lamp, that the full meaning of the inconsistent knocking occurred to him. Someone inside his house, knocking against his door, in the dead of the night! He shoved his feet in his slippers and jumped up from the bed, the hair on the nape of his prickling up. He wasn’t going to open the lamp that was for sure. He would pretend he was still sleeping, yeah. What was he supposed to do? Protect himself first. Right. His heart sank as he realized he’d left his cell in the kitchen. The cordless was in the lounge. Damn it. He walked softly and slowly to his closet.
Saleem’s heart raced, pounding in his ears. Who ever was knocking on the door, should not know he was awake. Why? He was not sure. He almost wished he’d stayed in bed, and pretended to be asleep, so whatever the person wanted to steal would steal it, and leave. He would never have to face Saleem. What if he had a gun?
He walked along the wall, his hands stretched out, one feeling the wall, the other groping around in the dark ahead of him. The coolness and firmness of the wall felt reassuring. When there was no more wall, he knew he had reached the closet.
If the guy had already entered his house, why did he not just enter his room as well? Why did he want to wake Saleem up? This question occurred to him and sent fresh goose bumps along his arms. This was getting creepy. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. The burglar was supposed to creep around the house silently, take his money, his worthy possessions and beat it, all very secretly and stealthily. Yet, here he was making a racket right outside his door.
Saleem fumbled around in his small walk-in closet. There was supposed to be a tennis racket there somewhere. He groped around, his hand feeling and touching his clothes, the hangers making a tinny noise as they scraped against the rod. He paused, his hand in midair. No, the idiot was too busy making a rumpus on his door, to have heard the scrape of a hanger. A hanger. That was it. He felt around for an empty one, free of clothes and quietly unhooked it.
He went back against the wall, walking slowly all the way back to his bed, towards the door. He stood in front of the closed door, halted, his hanger poised. The knocking was more consistent and urgent, now. No more breaks between each knock.
“Open up already!” A muffled voice came from the back of the door. It had to be a madman. Probably escaped from Demented Heights Hospital a block away from his house. Oh please God, let it be a retarded person. At least he wouldn’t have murder on his mind.
“I will knock three more times, and then I shall have to invade your privacy without your permission. I’ve got concise orders.”
Three very obvious and thunderous knocks followed. There was a slight pause. Perspiration poured from every pore on Saleem’s body. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. No please. God, I’ll do all my prayers from now on. Please. I promise.
“Saleem, I’m coming in. And put down that hanger. You neither need it, nor will it help you in any way.”
Saleem grasped the hanger tighter, his hands sweaty, and the plastic slippery in his palms. Oh, God. Allah, please. Tantalizing fear ran up his body, pricking his skin.
The door slowly swung open. Saleem raised the hanger higher, holding it like a baseball bat.
“I just don’t get why all you get so scared. I sent you a letter, letting you know I’ll be here. You people hear it all the time, especially in the news. One would think you people would get the idea by now. It would make my job much easier, you know.”
A middle aged, balding man emerged from the doorway; his right hand expertly reached towards the hanger and snatched it. Saleem stepped backwards in shock, his eyes scanning for any sign of a gun.
“No, Saleem, I don’t have a gun. I don’t need one.” His voice had an urgent note to it, like he was in a hurry. He looked annoyed, yet he had a manner of coolness and indifference, which confused Saleem as he just watched the man toss the hanger aside. Saleem’s eyes followed the hanger, land on his bed, steps away from him and the stranger. Saleem gulped.
“Okay, you know what Saleem? You go to the computer chair and sit down. Go on.”
The man, in no way looked strong. Saleem was sure he could take him if he tried. The man had a medium build. In the dark Saleem could not see his ethnicity or give a guess at it, but his accent baffled him. He’d never heard it before.
“Saleem! Now! I haven’t got time. I’ve got to make a trip to Sudan, to South Africa, to Afghanistan, Iraq, China, Mexico, Pakistan. Oh, don’t get me started. Just, please go take a seat and we’ll start right away.”
Yes, he could tackle him. He was shorter than Saleem. Saleem had more of a heavy build.
“Get out of my house or I’ll call the police.” Saleem managed to say, trying to control the quiver in his voice. He tried to look tough and stepped forward. Oh God, who the hell was this person?
“The police can’t help you now.” The man said exasperated, which confused Saleem all the more. Saleem felt like the idiotic one now, which was strange as he was not the one barging into people’s houses in the middle of the night complaining that they had more places to go, which happened to be on the other side of the world. Demented Heights for sure. Okay calm down, he could handle this. He had to talk in calm, soothing voices. Tell him to sit down; he’ll call the police they’d take him back to the hospital. Courage crept back in Saleem and he took quick breaths.
“Why don’t you take a seat? Are you lost? I’m sorry but I’ve never met you before and uh, I was sleeping,” he chuckled nervously. “And I didn’t expect any visitors. Why don’t you take a seat and I’ll get you something to drink. Juice would do? Orange juice? Or apple.” He would go in the kitchen and call the police form there. Yes.
“Look, I’d love to sit around and chit chat, but I really do have to go on. And orange juice is disgusting,” the man said impatiently, heaving a big sigh. “I’m not a mentally challenged man, Saleem. Look, how would I know your name? You ever pause to think that? I’ll explain everything to you. But I’ve got orders to seat my client and break it to them gently, so go on, take a seat.”
“Apple juice?” asked Saleem tentatively
“Saleem!” the main groaned. “Sit. Down. Now.”
Saleem scurried to his chair and sat down, gripping the ends of the chair tightly. Oh, God. He whispered Bismillah under his breath, hoping that Allah would send some angel to swoop down and rescue him. He’d never been a dutiful believer, but somehow he wished right then, he had been one. This was beyond creepy.
The stranger slapped his thigh and looked immensely pleased. “You’ve got it! Yes, I am an angel.”
Saleem just looked back at him with a dull mind. He was beyond shocked. He was dreaming. He, Saleem Abid was just having a very queer dream. Ether that, or Demented Heights had better keep a close watch on their patients.
“No, no, you are not dreaming and I am not mental.” The stranger said eagerly pointing to his head excitedly. He leaned forward. “You remember the letter?”
“You can read my mind!” Saleem cried, his eyes about pop out of their cockets.
“Oh you noticed, did you?” said the man, rolling his eyes.
Saleem jumped up from his seat and started slapping himself across his face. Each sting on his cheek baffled him. Was he not dreaming?
The man jumped up too. He took hold of Saleem’s shoulder, rubbing his hands up and down. “Calm down Saleem. Calm down. It’s alright. We’ll take it slowly.”
A dazed Saleem sat down in his chair, biting his bottom lip hard. The man sighed.
“Ok, look. Remember the letter?”
Saleem nodded slowly.
The man went on, “I’m Larzae. Ok?”
“You’re the one who wrote me a letter.”
“Yes, yes.” The man answered keenly.
“Yes, well Larzae, you could have made your letter a little clearer as to exactly when you would be dropping by.”
“Hey, you’re lucky I gave you some sort of warning. I normally don’t. It just doesn’t work that way.”
All Saleem wanted to do was lie back in his head and think, and try to clear his thoughts. What was going on? Who was this strange man? Get a hold of yourself, he told himself. Saleem closed his eyes really tight, shifted in his seat, and then opened them again. Larzae was still sitting there. Saleem sighed.
“Okay, so why are you here, at this insane ungodly hour, creeping the life out of me?”
Larzae shrugged, “God’s orders.”
“Oh, please.”
“You’re gonna regret that big time, Saleem.”
Saleem was beyond irritated, “Alright what do you want? Money? Food? God made me sort of a messiah?”
“Nothing, no, no,” then he scoffed at him, looking at him up and down. “And definitely no.”
“Then?” Cried Saleem, exasperated, clenching his sweaty fists. “Get on with it.”
“Alright, Saleem. I am the Anger of Death, Sariel, A-K-A Az’rael. I personally prefer Larzae.”
“Right, right,” said Saleem, trying his best to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “And?”
“Don’t you know what that means Saleem?” Larzae asked in disbelief. “Didn’t you ever read the Quran, or the Bible, or Torah for that matter?”
Saleem did know what that meant, but if this middle aged, saggy stomached, balding man expected him to believe he was the angel of death, here to take his soul, he, Saleem needed to book an appointment at Demented Heights for himself.
All Saleem could manage to say was, “You sure as hell don’t look like one.”
“Yeah, contrary to the popular belief, we don’t exactly skip around in halos and play the harp.”
“Get. Out. Of. My. House,” Saleem stated, his teeth clenched, anger boiling inside him. Who did this man think he was?
“I think I am the angel of death, because I am one!” said Larzae, which made Saleem even more infuriated. “You are going to die in exactly seven minutes and thirty two seconds. Don’t believe me, wait and find out.”
“Look Larzae, I’m not sure what you want, or why you’re here, or why you think you’ve come to take my soul, but I can’t help you because I don’t believe in this shit.”
Larazae’s eyes bulged, and he shook his head slowly. “Ooh, I feel sorry for your soul.”
Saleem felt sorry himself, more than Larzae ever could. This was the most horribly baffling night in his life, and it just kept getting more confusing.
Seven minutes and thirty-two seconds later, Saleem died of a heart stroke.
