It is foggy and cold. I sit in the darkness; the day is done. For hours, I haven't moved. I lie beside the darkness, an earache born of silence. The night’s only lamp is the cigarette burning in my hand, The smoke stinging my eyes, tears streaming from a gas that won’t enter them.

Over there, it burns in fire—bright and red, the colors of hell. A hell where the Devil, with a ladle, pulls little pigs out of his own arse. Pigs who know how to shout Allahu Akbar loudly, and how to aim even better. They hit the mark because blood whets their appetites and leaves the Devil thirstier; for this blood is salty, acrid, and warm— like hot iron. The blood of the living; the tears of the dead; mirrors in the hands of swine; footprints on the ground—all fading away.

Here, people walk the earth, they pedal, they smile. But I don't blink, held in a fragile balance between pills and alcohol, Listening to a song on repeat. I’ve pressed my head against the bus window; I’m not going home. I am staring at you through the glass—you, who have made a sidewalk out of my nerves. I’ve been waiting for your call for days. I saw your picture on the news; for once, you didn't look your best.

Something was missing in your eyes, and there was a hole in your heart that you never told me about. Surely you know what is happening there. Surely you are happy that freedom is near, And you, too, are waiting for my call. Know that I’ve called you many times, but it doesn’t  ring—just a long, continuous tone, Like the sound of a flatlining heart in the movies. 

You should be nominated for Cannes or the Oscars this year; no one has ever died as realistically as you did. The way you screamed, the way you played your part, the way you died and were torn apart... How you held your breath inside black plastic bags and endured the stench of blood. The way you left your brains on the asphalt and played dead so perfectly... You’ll sweep all the awards this year. I’ve seen the other films; they don't come close.

It is foggy and cold. People quickly forget everything, good or bad. They are kind and good, but they exhaust me quickly. I just miss you. Get up already. Give me a call. There are still things to do, there is still pain left. Rise from hell or heaven; rise and take my hand out of this limbo and take me with you. Here, I constantly feel like I’ve lost someone—But I still don't know who.

Zar Mohseni (she/they) is a writer, theatre maker, dramaturg, and performer from Iran, based in The Netherlands.