Seek Refuge

This is a little short story that I had started a long time ago. On another website my storytelling was described as 'A story struggling to come out from layers and layers of descriptive writing'...Obviously, that was not much of a compliment but I always like to think of it as if it is.
Hope you like this!

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"Did I not enjoin on you, O you children of Adam, that you should not worship Satan – since, verily, he is your open foe"
--The Holy Qura'n, 36:60 (Surat Ya-Sin, verse 60)

"Then Jesus said to him, "Go, Satan! For it is written, 'YOU SHALL WORSHIP THE LORD YOUR GOD, AND SERVE HIM ONLY.'"
--The Bible, Matthew 4:10

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Mid October in Alexandria was possibly the dullest time of the year. In the morning, trees drenched in humidity shaded the commuters and the elementary school students dressed in thick cream pullovers and grey sweaters as they rushed to work and school. And in the night, as the windshield wipers lazily crossed glass, women and children ran under tiny black umbrellas, all scampering back home and running from the rain. The drizzle on that Thursday was light but it did not distract Boutros Abd-al- Maseeh from stopping for yet another customer. The man is bearded and his mustache is neatly trimmed…The cotton skull cap over his head is soaked with rain and he takes it off and flicks it in the air as he instructs hurriedly, ‘Sidi Gaber rail station’. Boutros takes off with his Fiat 128 and waits for what he secretly calls ‘the moment of realization’. It only takes a few second before a smile draws across Boutros’ face. The moment of realization is here at last; the bearded man raises his eyes and stares (for a mere split second) to the cross hanging from Boutros’ rear-view mirror and then glances sideways with a mixture of dismay, disappointment and a tiny bit of embarrassment on his round face.

***

Boutros does not recognize himself sometimes. His face, covered in sweat, dust and (occasionally) grease embodies a permanent grimace. His eyes portray emptiness on first sight and pure sarcasm when a sentence escapes his mouth. Boutros talks in sarcasm because there really is no other manner of speech left to talk with.

His days are a strict routine, boring, repetitive and terribly uneventful. On the one occasion or two when Boutros is not paid what is worth the petrol and the simple shit he has to bear; Boutros does not curse. He does not fight. He does not ask for more. He shuts up, glimpses the cross, asks God for mere patience, for the best of whatever lies after his pathetic little life and takes off to the streets.

On the day this tale started, the Abu Kir street (the heart of Alexandria’s down-town geography) was buzzing as always with cars, donkey-driven carriages and hundreds of motorcycles. Abu Kir Street is a mystery; is doesn’t have a rush hour…Simply because every hour is a rush hour and for that reason, taxi drivers will usually prefer the Cornish. Boutros was stuck in there, on his way to dropping off a college student (possibly an undergraduate engineer by the look of the T-shaped ruler he was clutching to his chest) to some place near Roushdy…It was a short ride and Boutros estimated about four pounds for the whole thing. He didn’t object when he go one and a half…Just gave the kid a look that the kid will hopefully not forget soon. A second before Boutros pressed the petrol pedal, a man simply jumped into the taxi. His eyes were a little mousy and Boutros thought the man looked more like a mouse himself anyhow. He hated those types of customers; the ones who jumped in as if they owned the freaking car; as if you were all going the same place anyhow. As far as Boutros’ simple philosophy of life was concerned; that was definitely the only true fact of life.

Quietly, the man sat there, his arms crossed. With not even a hint of fast breathing or hesitation, he took out a hundred pound note and placed it directly between Boutros’ hand and the steering wheel.

“Kafr Abdu” were the only two words he said. The ride was worth no more than three pounds at the maximum…But Boutros has learnt at an early age the common Egyptian proverb: Never kick away a gift of God. Delightfully, he tucked in the one hundred pound note as the street started to clear up a bit. Boutros thought to give the man one of his elite chats on the way, discussing of course one (or all) of the four issues taxi drivers talked about: prices, traffic laws, people or football. Considering the man’s well-fitted tuxedo, Boutros thought prices would possibly be good enough.

“Terrible prices these days…Just last day I was buying some batteries when the salesm-“

Boutros did not finish. His throat was starting to burn with a tingling sensation, as if someone’s fingers were literally inside his neck, with sharp fingernails scratching against the inner lining of his larynx. His voice slowly drifted away until it was mere movements of lips. The man next to him was still sitting as calm as he could, his eyes focused on the way ahead, Boutros felt a sudden presence, terrible misery land on his heart…It was crushing and coupled with the soreness in his throat and inability to speak; it was simply suffocating.

Boutros, terrified, looked to his side to find this mystery man smiling. Snickering, the man turned to face Boutros. And his eyes were not mousy anymore but wide and staring. And red...Bloody, crimson, red.