The Ghost of the Kingdom
Abdullah tried to continue his life. He tried to function, though the wounds of betrayal had severed every artery, leaving his blood to bleed internally—a silent, visceral hemorrhage that no one could see, though he screamed in agony a thousand times a day.
His home was no longer a sanctuary. It was the place where three "angels" used to wait for him. He remembered the ritual: the two small kings kissing his hands, whispering, "May God give you strength," followed by the "Grand Queen," Rowan, who had taught them this devotion. She used to greet him every single day as if he were returning from a long, perilous journey, performing a love so convincing that no human could have doubted its sincerity.
Now, Abdullah returns and locks the door. He waits for the sound of playing children, but there is only silence. He waits for an embrace, but the only thing that embraces him is the Ghost of Memories. Beautiful memories that have turned lethal; memories that will kill him day by day if he doesn't find a way to kill them first.
The Mercy of Sleep
He began to spend his days sleeping—fleeing from the "death of the living" to the "mercy of the unconscious." His weight withered; food lost its meaning. The three meals a day were replaced by black coffee and water, the bare minimum to keep his body from collapsing.
Every two days, he would call his mother to check on his children. Each call was a planet-sized burden of grief. The boys would start and end every conversation with the same relentless questions:
"Papa, why did you go and leave us? Come back, you've been gone too long! Is Mama with you? Why did you and 'Smarah' leave us and go away?"
Abdullah had no answers. He had no escape. Their innocent words ran over him like tanks over a battlefield, ensuring that nothing beating with life remained within him. He would wait until the line went dead, and then he would break.
The Anatomy of a Tear of Oppression
Let me describe to you the "Tear of the Oppressed" (Dama' al-Maqhour), for it is unlike any other:
The Weight: These tears fall fast. Not because the feeling is sudden, but because they are heavy—laden with the density of agony. They drop with a high velocity, pulled down by the gravity of a broken spirit.
The Throat: Your neck feels as if it has shrunk. You feel a constriction, a tightness, as if someone is physically strangling you. It feels like the pain of a severe throat infection, but in reality, it is an infection of the heart.
The Breath: The nose is the hardest part. It accelerates, gasping in and out, trying to rescue the body. But it's as if the air it inhales is void of oxygen. He breathes faster and faster to survive, but alas, he only suffers, suffocates, and dies.