Dad! Stop!

Ali turned the knob of the main door and entered in to the house cautiously. Hoping today

would be different. He tiptoed through the lounge without daring to look at the sofa but it was

of no use. His father was awake, a nearly empty bottle of Chavez in his lap. His eyes

bloodshot, he growled at the sight of Ali. The right hand clenched, tightening the grip on the

belt held in it. Ali knew what was coming, he ran towards his father and grabbed his leg

begging him to stop but it was as if Mobeen didn't even hear him. Left, Right his belt swung,

over his shoulder, hitting his back, left, right, much like the Shia's did during Moharram, he

beat himself endlessly, ripping new wounds on his already shredded back, trying to feel the

pain, trying to punish himself, at the same time crying and screaming "Kill me too, I'm a Shia,

Kill me too". Ali tried to stop him but what could a 10 year old child do in front of a man whose

heart ached for the love he had lost and who was reminded of it whenever he looked at his

son's grey rimmed eyes, his face with high cheekbones and a complexion that was the perfect

shade not too dark yet not too pale kind of what you get when you order a cup of Mocca at

Gloria Jeans and the barrista makes it perfect to the tee. A man whose hand held a two year

old crumpled newspaper clipping with the headline "Renowned painter Zarrish Shah shot in

front of her home, another victim of sectarian killing".

The End

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