It’s Fiction Friday again. If you haven’t read it last Friday, make sure you go back to Part 1 before you read the following. As previously mentioned, the narrator is a pianist whose fear of the ocean is about to be challenged.
Part 3 will be revealed next Friday… and I hope you’ll feel the urge to come back! ;)
A gust of wind makes me shiver. When I open my eyes, I notice how rough the ocean has gotten. An sudden wave comes crashing against the seawall and soaks my legs. I jump up and bestride the wall, seeking the comfort of the ground, far from the tumult of the waves. It is time to return to civilisation.
Upon turning around the corner of the mosque, I see it. A colossal cloud of sand is sweeping over the city, creeping towards the ocean at a threatening speed. I freeze. An ochre wall like none I have ever seen before is swallowing the buildings by the second. I stand here, feet rooted to the ground, mouth as dry as a clump of mud. The esplanade in front of the mosque is empty except for a few reckless photographs, tripods and cameras out, snapping the approaching storm with excitement.
Does my mother know? I dial her her mobile. My clammy fingers slide on the wrong keys twice before they find their bearings. It rings through. A strange sensation spreads through my stomach, like a hundred little knots forming all at once. Keep calm and think on your feet. The voice inside my head is becoming increasingly loud.
I dare to look up. The winds are getting stronger, and along with them, the storm is drawing near. Five hundred metres. I swallow dry and take a step forward. I look towards the mosque and its tall, closed doors, wishing I could find refuge behind them. But my mother’s god is not on my side. He is raging above our heads, oblivious to our dreams and hopes.
There is a hospital across the road. Without further a due, I run towards it. My legs feel like jelly and I trip at the second step. As I stand up, a distant cry for help forces me to stop. I glance at the rolling cloud of dust. Four hundred meters. I turn left and right like a broken weather vane, madly pivoting on its pedestal. It was a child’s scream, I am sure of it. My legs are quivering and my heart, thudding inside my chest. Find the child or save yourself? What’s it going to be Angel?