Bad Lights, Good Lights [Chapter 8.1]

Saturday, 20th April 2014

The cool morning air met Damon and me once we stepped out of Sarah’s car, intent to make the chilliness in her car to prolong. I was wearing a collared, long-sleeve turquoise shirt with a white jacket hugging it to make my body shape less prominent. It reached the middle of my thighs to cover my butt shape, which was layered with a navy blue jean. The pale pink scarf wrapped my head with its end tucked into my shirt.

I watched as the car drifted away from us, and when it was out of my view, I tuned my attention to Damon. I couldn’t deny I liked what I saw. He was wearing a peach cardigan that showed the lines of his athletic body, and a simple black trek bottom. His hair was spiky as usual, and his eyes were sharp. I realized I noticed they were like that because he was staring at me with raised eyebrows. A warm blush placed itself onto my cheeks, and I turned away.

It had been a while since I checked out a guy like this, and I knew I shouldn’t. Not in this situation, and definitely not on someone with an attitude. I really shouldn’t appreciate a guy’s appearance too much. But then again, I rarely interacted with guys, and mostly I was with Sarah. Having to be with an attractive—objectively speaking—guy like Damon wasn’t a scenario I had went through many times. We were both by ourselves in this seemingly deserted area. Islam forbid it, but it dawned on me we weren’t exactly alone. Two lights accompanied us, and their presence was as much as equal as two people.

My silence and stillness must be a bit too long, as Damon spoke up. “What’re you doing standing there? We have a job to do,” he said with a no-nonsense flat voice. “Don’t waste my time.” Yup, this guy had a dislikable attitude. I definitely wouldn’t fall on him.

Glad he didn’t figure out the kind of staring I gave, I turned to him with a frown. “At least try to observe the surrounding,” I said, not bothering to hide my irritation.

Under the warm sunlight, I looked about us. The ground was mostly unattended, typical construction workers’ home. The ground, supposedly carpeted by hard brown sand, was mostly scattered by artificial gray-to-white small stones instead. Some parts here and there were of sand, but pools settled between them, given the recent rain this dawn. I looked further in front. A dozen meters away from me was the construction worker’s houses, made from zinc and plywoods, and by the look of their tattered surfaces, they were secondhand stuffs. I pitied the workers; they were doing important things, but they weren’t having the luxury others had. But then I realized something, and brushed off my sympathy.

Right now, the place was silent, as it should be—the construction workers started to go to work an hour earlier, according to Imran, who had been passing this place numerous times before to go to his school as a shortcut. There was a still-developing road leading to there here. He was a Form Six student, and that form was different than the other forms since it was basically a step before you go to university; a pre-university stage. Due to that, a school was made for it, given its study schedule differed from previous forms.

I walked to one of the worker’s house, navy blue in colour. I heard footsteps from behind, and knew Damon was following me. I swung away the metal door—lacking any paint—between the house’s side wall, and it creaked open. Inside, I could see a small bed beside the interior wall in front of me, covered with worn brown sheet, and a couple of bare pillows on it. The room reek with musty, male odors, and I had to rub my nose to get used to it. I heard the door croaking again, and I knew Damon had closed it.

I glanced beside me, and saw a wooden wardrobe, leaning a bit to its side as if it lost one of its feet, and looking down, part of its base was actually missing. I was pretty sure if enough force pushed it, it would fall. Beside it was a couple of bags, unzipped and showing some clothes peeking out of it.

I turned back and looked at Damon, wanting to see his reaction to all of this. His eyes were wide and his eyebrows were knitted together, but I didn’t know for what reason until I heard him mutter, “Poor people,” and a wave of irritation washed over me.

Not wanting to see his sad face, I turned to the unpleasant-looking view in front of me. “Don’t pity them too much. You should see them on the newspapers—these foreign workers are criminals taking advantage in our country’s economy,” I said, not bothering to layer the stress of my anger in my voice.

“You’re being ridiculous,” he said, sounding as irritated as I was before. “Just because some of them commit crimes don’t make all of them bad. That’s generalization.”

I wasn’t sure what made me want to be honest with him, but his unwavering sympathy to these construction workers irked me. I snorted, and looked at him straight in the eyes. “Six months ago, three of these supposedly not bad workers broke into my house at midnight. I wasn’t able to recognize them since their faces were masked with their folded shirts—just like when they were working. Waking me from my sleep, they tied my hand with wire of a hand phone charger—my charger while I was trying to make a sense of what was going on.”

I realized my body was shaking with anger, and my voice fell into a seething growl. “They had a machete with them, Damon, a machete, and I wouldn’t fear of it that much if one of them didn’t put it on my neck when I tried to resist them.” Tears started to dwell on the brink of my eyes. “One of them threatened to chop off Mother’s head when all of us—Mother, my brother, and me—were put together in her room.”

“Merah, I don’t think—” Scarlet tried to interrupt.

“We were all tied,” I said, releasing each breath of anger forcefully. “They shut the door and left through the backdoor, taking with them most of our possessions including laptop, hand phones, Mother’s necklaces and bracelets, our money. We were lucky my brother could untie the wire binding his hands, and he helped us untie our wires. Mother rushed to the window and screamed with utmost fragility vibrating her voice for help. Our neighbour checked on us eventually, and Father arrived from the bitch’s house after an hour, and did you know how he reacted to this?”

Damon, looking at her with a frown, and a mouth tightly sealed. I could see his body tensed up with how rigid he now stood. Silence hanged around us like a nasty observer laughing quietly to my emotional outburst.

At my sides, my hands formed into tightened fists. “He got mad at us. He said it was our fault—no, my fault—to leave the backdoor opened and unlocked. I was the last person to stay awake that night, and I was to blame. All of it. Even now, I can still see the dark accusation in his eyes.” I turned to the bed, narrowing my eyes at it. “It’s not my fault. I forgot to lock the door, but they shouldn’t intrude into our house. The construction workers are to blame. If despising them all means generalization, then so be it. If I can avoid the robbers like that, then that’s good.”

Damon was about to open his mouth when I heard the door cracking from behind him. I caught my breath, and before I could think of something to hide ourselves, a man went into the bed. He was wearing a gray, long-sleeved shirt, and a worn out black trousers. He looked at Damon, then me. His thin face formed a frown, and he said with suppressed anger, “What’s good about blaming all of us?”

He closed the door.