Less Than Perfect

{22} Blood Moon Boys

Tanwir Sarker

A crescent moon smiled down on me, its light shimmering across a familiar lake. Nature rustled with the paws of the animals, whistling in tune with crickets. My mind was in a haze, lost in a fog of memories, and chained to the past I escaped from. Closing my eyes, I allowed myself to bask in the moonlight, to seep into a reality far from mine.

The night covered me in its cloak, shielding me as it would an infant child. Changes spun like a violent wind, yet the night held me tight, kept me stagnant in time. I wondered what infinity felt like, what the security and safety truly meant in my life. I swore I'd never look back, and still I lingered with a dulling ache.

Ya Allah, am I making a mistake?

My whole life, I'd make mistake after mistake. I'd chase after danger for the thrills, the revitalizing jolt of excitement that pumped my veins with adrenaline. There was an addiction to that life, and I fell in love with it.

When I misbehaved, everyone craved me more. The mafia needed me more. What started as a gateway became the magnitude to power. No longer did I have to fear what students said about my religion, no longer did I feel haunted by death. With this power, they all feared me.

A chill ran up my spine. It was wrong. I searched for answers in sinful places.

The inner demons won the battles, but in the end I won the war. I came back to the right path, and I swore I'd never stray again even if it killed me to stay.

* * * *

"Aren't you tired of the way people belittle and hurt you?" whispered the dark voice in my ear, his tone dangerously low. His ghostly hand gripped my shoulder as he leaned closer. "Don't you want respect?"

I swallowed, hands clammy from the confrontation. "It's wrong."

He chuckled. "Wrong?" he mused, circling around me like a hawk stalking its prey. "What's so wrong about respect? Do you think people will ever listen to a Muslim in this country?"

"My faith means everything to me."

"And what has that gotten you?"

I stayed silent, letting his words soak in. Being Muslim in our society wasn't easy, and there were more difficulties around every corner. These days, I couldn't guarantee my life or my safety. After a while, I lived in my sorrow, mourned the death of my older sister, and tried to end it all.

What hope did I have left? If I was truly loved by Allah, why did I have to endure all this?

A small voice inside told me to keep fighting, to keep believing. Struggle was part of faith, and this was a test. I was told this countless times, but as the days dragged on and the light began to leave my eyes, I wondered if I was fighting for dust. My faith was at a tether, a second away from ripping.

The boss knew. In fact, he predicted it.

"You have a beautiful sister," he commented, making my fists clench. There was a lustful nuance to his voice, ripe with a hidden desire. "So innocent, so pure. What would it be like to have her in my arms? Is her skin as soft as it looks or will I find out by ripping apart her modesty?"

My nostrils flared as I whipped around to face him. "She's a fucking minor. Leave her alone," I all but growled.

"How will you protect her without the power you crave?" he whispered like the snake he was. "If I touch her, you wouldn't be able to stop me or anyone else. At the end of the day, you're just a pathetic little boy too afraid of his own shadow."