“What’s wrong, mon chéri?” Shafina asked, coming up from behind him to touch the small of his back.

A hot lava cut through him. He whipped around and grabbed her by the arms. He shook her violently and flung her aside.

Then, he heard the clanging of garbage cans, and Shafina was on the ground, in a sea of garbage. Only then did his rage subside. Only then did he understand what he had done. He was overcome with shame. Until then, he felt as if he’d been hovering above himself, watching a horror movie. Not in it. He rushed to her side. “I’m sorry, ma chérie. I don’t know what—”

Shafina threw his hands off her. “Get away from me!”

He could see in her eyes that she thought he was a monster. He turned and walked back to the lamppost. Under the hard cone of light, he examined his hands, turned them from side to side. The hands that hurt Shafina. Hands that were broad and powerful like his father’s hands. Hands that tossed him up into the air, swung him over pools of melted snow, stroked his hair as he lay in the crook of his arm, a newspaper spread between the great expanse of those hands; hands laid over his as he learned to steer a car. Hands that became fists. His mother beaten to the ground. Shafina on the ground.

Hateful hands. He punched at the lamppost lightly, then again and again, a growing frenzy of fists, as if fighting someone. He wanted to bring him down. Punish him. Make him pay.

“Ashif! Don’t!” Shafina shrieked, scrambling up from the ground.

He couldn’t stop. He punched and he punched. “I hate you,” he said over and over again. Blood dripped down the lamppost.

“Please stop! You’re hurting yourself!”

The more it hurt, the better he felt. He deserved it.

“Please, Ashif.” Shafina reached for his shoulder. “Look at me.”

He stopped, but he wouldn’t turn around. He kept his head down and started to walk away, slowly at first, then faster and faster.

“Don’t leave me alone here,” Shafina cried. “I can’t drive!”

Ashif couldn’t stop. He ran through the parking lot and into the park. He ran along the winding trails, his hands broken and bleeding. “Coward!” a voice in the trees called after him. “You just stood there and watched. You did nothing to stop him.”

“What kind of man are you? A sissy boy, that’s what!”

“No, I’m not!” Ashif yelled.

“Yes, you are!”

“I wanted to stop him,” he whimpers. But he couldn’t move. As if he’d been injected with anesthetic. His body was frozen in place.

Faster and faster he ran, through more trails and trees. But the voice would not stop. It gained speed. Chased him down and toppled him. Climbed on top, crushed his chest. He tried to fight, but it was too strong. He gasped for air. Above him, the stars began to fade. His voice, too. “Please, don’t…” It only pressed harder. Until all the air was out of him. Until there was nothing. Only silence.