II

I am Mr. N.

Son of a distraught doctor and of Thurayya, cruel and unfeeling as a rock. Brother of Sa’id, the shining one. And master of Mary … the true virgin. On this day, at 10:25, writing my story, my second birth is taking place. My pencil spins around in a game of truth or dare. It comes to a halt, pointing at me. My turn. So I’ve decided not to swallow all those pills that Miss Zahra brings me. I’ll hold them in my mouth and then secretly spit them out. In their place, I’ll blacken a number of white pages.

Thurayya—and I’ll keep calling her Thurayya, even if she’s the one who gave me birth—kept me at a distance from the time I was born. The spot on my back remained closed and clandestine; it didn’t respond no matter how often loving hands tried to trick it later on. And the truth is, I never once called her Mother, because I was no son to her and she no mother to me. Nevertheless, her name is present on my ID card because she is my biological mother. What it all boils down to is that she squeezed me out of her body like a turd, only to pinch her nose and turn away.