Vision in Red by Sajjad Rasool - HTML preview

Chapter Three: The Clinic of Hushed Words

Part I: The Shape of Thirst

The morning news played on a loop in Amal's mind while she washed the breakfast dishes.

Six children dead at a water distribution point. An airstrike, the report said —a "technical error" that had killed families waiting in line with plastic jugs and empty bottles. The camera footage showed the aftermath: twisted metal, scattered containers, dark stains on the concrete that the reporter carefully avoided naming. A woman's wail in the background, animal and uncontrolled. A man on his knees, cradling something too small to be anything but a child.

They had shown the footage three times during breakfast. Each time, Amal had wanted to look away. Each time, she had forced herself to watch.

Noor had watched the news with her, sitting at the kitchen table with a piece of bread forgotten in her hand. When the report ended, she had looked up at Amal with those too-old eyes and asked: "Do you think the new ones have red eyes yet?"

Amal hadn't been able to answer.

Now, standing at the sink with water running over her hands—clean water, precious water, water that came from pipes that still worked in their neighborhood —she couldn't stop thinking about what her daughter had said. The new ones. As if the watchers were being created all the time. As if every act of violence birthed another one.

Was that what was happening? Were they multiplying with each airstrike, each raid, each child killed waiting for something as simple as a drink of water?

Fadi had left for the clinic early, his face gray with exhaustion. He had barely spoken during breakfast, just pushed food around his plate and stared at something only he could see. The children from yesterday, Amal knew. The ones he couldn't save. He never talked about them, but she could always tell when there had been children. It left a different kind of pain in his eyes.

She wondered if he would be treating survivors of this new attack. If there were any survivors.

She dried her hands and looked out the window at the street below. It was a bright morning, the kind of morning that should have felt hopeful. The sun was shining, the sky was cloudless, and somewhere a bird was singing as if nothing had happened at all. But the shadows seemed deeper than they should be, and in the alley across the street, something stood very still.

Amal blinked. Looked again.

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