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חיפוש בבמה

שם משתמש או מספר
סיסמתך
[ אני רוצה משתמש! ]
[ איבדתי סיסמה ): ]


מדורי במה







נעם בלום
/ Remorse

He walked down the long corridor. It vaguely reminded him of
the corridors of prisons in old movies he used to watch at
his uncle's house; Ahmed's uncle owned one of the only
televisions in the village and it always made his friends
jealous.
The light bulbs flickered on the end of their cords as they
swayed slightly to the tune of some invisible air
conditioner. Ahmed was still shaking from the adrenaline. He
could still clearly remember getting on the bus, could still
remember selecting a good seat in the middle section, just
like he was taught, could still feel the cold plastic button
against his finger, the warm waistband against his torso.
Ahmed could describe in detail how he waited patiently for
the bus to fill up, waited patiently while he silently
recited a verse from the Quraan, the one recommended by his
Imam as being appropriate for the occasion. As Ahmed walked
down the long dark corridor towards the unseen end of it, he
could still replay in his mind the sense of growing
anticipation as the bus arrived at one of its more busy
stops and, as the intelligence reports predicted, a swarm of
schoolchildren got on, chattering and making quite a mess,
and occupied all parts of the already crowded bus. Ahmed
remembered the climax of emotions, the feeling of catharsis
as he stood up, spread his hands, and pushed down on the
button...

...and then...

...nothing...

Just a blank space filled the gap between the depression of
the death switch and this corridor. It would have made Ahmed
angry that he could not remember essential parts of the most
important event in his entire existence, but, he couldn't
really come to be angry at all.
Since childhood Ahmed had always heard the stories about the
glorious afterlife as a Shahid, as a martyr. He even studied
them in school, and they were always fantastic tales of
brave men being rewarded by Allah with an eternity of wealth
and joy. Ahmed felt none of that now. To be honest, Ahmed
couldn't quite describe what he was feeling to himself; it
was as if he could not experience feelings at all, as if he
was separated from his feelings by a vale, by a cloud of
fog...
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of walking,
Ahmed reached a door. Funnily, it was a large metal door
with an intercom buzzer to one side. Ahmed could think of
nothing better to do then press the button, but he had no
idea what he was going to say to whoever was on the other
side. But he didn't need one: a voice said: "Come in Ahmed,
we've been expecting you" and the door opened with a slight
hiss.
It was warmer in here. Much warmer. It felt like coming out
of an air conditioned house on a hot and humid summer day.
Ahmed stepped into a large reception area and, again finding
nothing better to do, he walked up to the desk clerk.
The reception desk was crowded with people, and they all
seemed agitated and upset. Ahmed couldn't understand what
they were saying, since they were all talking in different
languages, and yet, the clerk answered them all in Arabic.
Or at least Ahmed thought it was Arabic; after all, he could
understand what the clerk was saying. Suddenly, the clerk
made eye contact with Ahmed, he pointed off to the left to
another door and said: "You don't belong here with these
people, go in there. He's waiting for you."
"Well of course I don't belong here," Ahmed said to himself,
"I'm a martyr, I should not be subject to the same demeaning
pushing and shoving in line of mere souls."

Ahmed opened the door and walked in. The room was small and
blank. Except for two chairs and a modest desk, it was
completely empty. Behind the desk sat a man. There was
nothing remarkable about him and yet Ahmed knew instantly
that he was god. Allah himself was sitting in the room with
him.
"Sit down Ahmed," said god, "I have been waiting for you."
Ahmed found that he wasn't as star struck as he always
thought he would be in the face of his creator, but still,
he couldn't think of anything to say, so he sat down
silently.
"I am sorry to be the one to tell you this Ahmed," god said,
"but you are in what people generally refer to as hell."
Ahmed understood. God went on: "You have done a bad thing
Ahmed: you have killed many people, innocent people, and in
my name no less. I cannot say that I am not angry."
"Of course he's angry," thought Ahmed, "I've done a bad
thing."
Ahmed sensed that god was waiting for him to say something,
so he said the only thing he could think of: "I'm sorry."
"I know that you are sorry," god smiled, "everyone is
eventually sorry."
"What will become of me?" Ahmed asked nervously. "How will I
be punished?" "Punished?" god sounded surprised. "You will
not be punished! Contrary to what people believe there is no
real difference between heaven and hell. They are just run
by different proprietors. There are no devils here, no
furnace, no whips, and no eternal suffering."
"So nothing will happen to me?" Ahmed was, to say the least,
relieved at god's words, even though he never got very
scared; he still had trouble experiencing intense emotions.
God chuckled, "No. you can experience the afterlife just
like everyone else. But there is one thing I need to do."
"What is it?" said Ahmed, curious.
"I need to give you back the memory I took away; you have to
understand that if the memory of your death was too fresh,
we could not have conducted this conversation."
"Why not?" said Ahmed.
"It will become quite clear in a moment," said god as he
reached out across the table and took Ahmed's hand, "it will
all be clear..."

...and then, the vale was lifted, the fog dispersed. Just in
time to welcome hell.

All of a sudden, the gap in Ahmed's memory filled up. It was
like a dam being opened and water rushing in. His memory
filled up with the pressing of the button, the electrical
impulse running down the cord, hitting the detonator cap,
causing it to spark and ignite the explosives. It filled
with the fiery hell ripping through his body and pulsing out
across the cramped bus like a ripple in a pond. It filled
with the shredding of young bodies, with the explosion
eating everything in its path and blowing the bus out like a
soda can with a firecracker in it. And it filled with the
screams: the screams of souls being torn from their bodies
as they disintegrated, the screams of souls searching for
their lost vessels and finding nothing, and the screams
coming from his own mouth. It burned his soul. It felt like
continuous death.
God stood up and made towards the door, stopping only
briefly to pat Ahmed, who was sobbing uncontrollably, on the
back. He stepped out into the reception area which was by
now empty. He exchanged glances with the desk clerk, who
shook his head slightly.
"Maybe this one will come to terms..."

"You're such an optimist boss."

"Can a deity not hope?"

"None of them has ever even left their room. They just sit
there and cry forever."

God shrugged and turned away, slowly walking down 'Shahid
corridor', as it was so lovingly called, listening to the
symphony of weeping, occasionally stopping next to a door
that was suspiciously silent. He was never pleasantly
surprised.







loading...
חוות דעת על היצירה באופן פומבי ויתכן שגם ישירות ליוצר

לשלוח את היצירה למישהו להדפיס את היצירה
היצירה לעיל הנה בדיונית וכל קשר בינה ובין
המציאות הנו מקרי בהחלט. אין צוות האתר ו/או
הנהלת האתר אחראים לנזק, אבדן, אי נוחות, עגמת
נפש וכיו''ב תוצאות, ישירות או עקיפות, שייגרמו
לך או לכל צד שלישי בשל מסרים שיפורסמו
ביצירות, שהנם באחריות היוצר בלבד.
החברה עצבנית
החבר'ה בקריז
נדפק המחשב
הדיסק על הפריז
אם אין לך עם
משהו מגניב
להתעסק
כדאי שלבמה חדשה
תשתזרק


תרומה לבמה




בבמה מאז 26/5/04 13:57
האתר מכיל תכנים שיתכנו כבלתי הולמים או בלתי חינוכיים לאנשים מסויימים.
אין הנהלת האתר אחראית לכל נזק העלול להגרם כתוצאה מחשיפה לתכנים אלו.
אחריות זו מוטלת על יוצרי התכנים. הגיל המומלץ לגלישה באתר הינו מעל ל-18.
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