Whistle

Artiste : Wissal Boulouah

The little kid was blowing on his little plastic toy, letting out loud shrieking whistles. His mom, having a migraine from a long day of house chores, told him to stop whistling because it will bring demons his way. The kid didn’t believe his mom. Why would demons step into a house with quran playing the whole time? Why would demons dare approach a neighborhood that has a big mosque and an old, long bearded Imam? When his mom couldn’t bear the noise anymore, he took his toy and ran out of the house to call his friends out to play.

The street was empty but from some old men playing cards on the café's table. The kid called his friends, but they were all busy with homework or napping the afternoon away. He walked around, whistling and whistling, waiting for a friend, or even a demon, to keep him company. The sun was scorching hot, and the humid air suffocating. The kid didn’t notice the silhouette following him around, waiting for the opportunity to attack. A hand came out of nowhere and held the kid’s arm in a bruising grasp, and before he could scream for help, another hand was on his small mouth, stopping him. His whistling toy fell to the ground, and he struggled to escape the embrace of the stranger, that was way older than him, way stronger.

And while the stranger’s fingers crept downwards, the kid wondered if this was the demon his mom warned him about.

Marwa Daman
I read to feel better about the world, I write to feel better about myself.

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