Red Is the Brightest Color

My mom gnaws at her bottom lip, as though that might satiate her hunger. 
The prices have increased again. 
Standing in front of the open fridge in the supermarket, we scanned our options, which became more and more limited, as the prices flashed before us. 
I couldn’t feel the chill escaping the open door. I wondered exactly when numbness had made a home out of my bones.
“We still have some canned beans left,” my mom said. At some point, she bit down on her lip hard enough to draw a dollop of blood—just resting on her bottom lip before she licked it off. “We can have those for lunch. If the rate goes down tomorrow, we'll come back for these.”
It didn’t.
It went up.

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We drive to Beirut in silence. The highway is nothing more than an open road, a deserted city, a haunted home. But my mom doesn’t drive faster like she once would have. It would be too costly given the steep cost of gas nowadays.
My father left the country ages ago, cutting all ties with his family and home, claiming a new life for himself. He had removed all his burdens, sought happiness in a different form, leaving my mom and me in the dust. I wanted to fault him, accuse and hate him, but sometimes…sometimes when the sun dips below the sea and darkness overtakes my room, I long to do the same as he did. And despite the guilt it causes me, I can’t help but wonder if I would follow his path should I receive a similar opportunity. 
I look out the window to get my mind off the fuel gauge’s needle nearing empty, off the latest job application rejection emails. The remnants of the Port stood in the distance, getting further and further away as we drove in silence, looming over like a phantom still awaiting its vengeance.
Still waiting to understand.
The explosion had stripped it of nearly every object that existed in its vicinity, either reducing it to a pile of crumbling trash or eradicating it from existence. It's been three years—not a particularly long time—but I can’t remember how it used to be. When I picture it in my mind now, all I can see is its grave.
I see the spray-painted declarations of people who have gone unheard for too long. Their anger lashing out at those responsible for their miseries, at the world for not protecting them. 
نعيش لموتكم … We live for your death.
The faces of those lost hang on every light pole, now their only function, as the bulbs hang darkly and the only source of light becomes the fading sun, which now sinks so fast as if trying to hide the atrocities that lay before it.
“I can’t believe the nerve of these people,” my mom mutters angrily.
She has papers she needs to submit to the insurance company but was not informed that there was a deadline until the day of: today.
Getting it done has been impossible since most of the governmental offices are closed – electricity was too expensive to keep them open and the employees weren’t being paid enough either way, but it wasn’t something we could forgo. My mom’s thyroid issues and growing list of physical illnesses require constant medication which, in turn, require money—money we don’t have. Continuously receiving insurance would promise some of that money coming back to us, even if it was in much smaller amounts. After searching for a good while, going from office to office and asking each and every person we come across in hopes of finding some semblance of an answer, we find one that was open, and after some begging, we manage to get the old man to agree to finish the papers. Even pity can overtake the exhaustion of old age. While we wait, a man appears at the door with a stack of papers in his hands, but they won’t let him in. His back slouched, eyes glaring at both the officers inside the building and—at my mom and me. He turns swiftly, leaving in anger, but I can still feel his accusatory gaze. When I turn back to face the worker, I see the new emptiness in his eyes. The blue hue fading and his withered face slouching in real time. We leave immediately so that my mom can submit the papers before the company closes.
We drive in silence, the things unsaid hanging between us too loudly for me to attempt to rupture their wall, so I hold my tongue, burning with anger. Even though she had been employed for the past thirty years and consistently achieved her duties, she had never been promoted. Passed over and ignored for those with connections and the willingness to use them. Even after everything, her promised retirement dissipated before her eyes as the banks closed and refused to return people’s money. I wanted to scream and destroy something but couldn’t muster the energy or any actual will.

 

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 Bus 24 seems more run down than usual. As I head to Hamra, I can feel the early winter chill settling in. I huddled to preserve my body heat. The seat covers are almost completely peeled off, leaving only a dream of brown behind. The cushion are smeared with suspicious smudges, each one varying in color and size but collectively forming an artwork worthy of Jackson Pollock, but it was the only seat left. I went forward and promptly took a seat next to an old woman staring at the window. She had multiple full plastic bags in her lap but still tried to corral them to make room for me. Goosebumps crawled all over me as I held my breath in anticipation for take-off. The engine sputtered lethargically, and the vehicle began to move forward. There was a time when I considered taking the bus and vans as adventures. It seems like so long ago, but it has only been a year since everything changed.
“Hello. How are you?” the woman asked politely. Her tentative smile was warm, red painted lips stretching upwards just like my grandmother’s, but her eyes were tired.

I can’t breathe. Just blinking is tiring. Help me, please. Help me breathe again.
“I’m fine hajje, how are you?”
“I’m well, thank God,” she nodded and went back to staring.
A bitter feeling rose inside me. Every conversation is miserable. People say they are well, thank God for it, then talk about the misfortunes that plague them. How they have been affected in every single possible aspect, but yes, thank God. Say you’re well. Lie.
I clench my jaw and try to breathe, to quell the rage that suddenly rises inside me.
It’s difficult at times, to remember that I shouldn’t be angry, especially at those that are undeserving of it.
The bus driver sees someone on the street waving at him and slams on the brakes in the middle of the road. A cacophony of horns rains down upon us, as the traffic is suddenly obstructed, but no one pays it much mind. The men behind us curse out politicians in rhythm to the bus stopping; they quiet again when it starts to move. The rest of us just wait for the next person to get on before taking off again.
But, it isn’t just one person. It’s three. Three children who couldn’t be older than seven each get on the bus, pay for the fare which has increased exponentially from its original price and continues to do so with the consistent increase of the dollar rate (but remains a better option than spending gas), and sit down on the covered engine since there aren’t any seats left. I look at the street just as the bus begins moving again, but there is no one there, no one with these children. 
Fuck.
I need to get a job.

 

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The lecturer's voice drones on as I submit job applications like I breathe— easily and without thinking, but sometimes laboriously.
My scholarship stipulates I need to get a minimum C-average  to maintain it, so I rest a bit easy in completely ignoring the lesson before me as I go on my job hunt.
I usually get one of two responses: rejection or complete silence. 
I move on and apply for others.
Waitress, research assistant, cashier, analyst, translator, guard, teacher.
No matter how ridiculous it is for me to apply, no matter how unqualified, I maintain my resolve. I can’t afford not to. 
“Who can answer question B?” the lecturer asks, breaking my reverie. I look up by instinct but cannot comprehend what is written on the board. The letters jumble together, forming a language I cannot understand no matter how hard I tried. 
I swallow the lump that suddenly rose in my throat and look back at my laptop’s screen only to see a similar hazy view.

 

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“FUCK YOU, YOU ASSHOLE! YOUR MOTHER SHOULD HAVE SWALLOWED POISON AND KILLED YOU SO WE’D ALL REST EASY!”
The road back home was tiring. Two buses, a lot of walking, and a fight on the road between two drivers that led to a slew of insults.
As I walk to my house, pepper spray clutched tight in my fist as shadows overtake my vision, my phone buzzes suddenly. I ignore it though, I can’t afford to lose focus in streets shrouded in darkness, light bulbs gathering dust as silence overtakes every neighbourhood. 
I have never been good at maintaining my attention. Even in such situations, I catch myself zoning out in my own panic before jolting back to the present.
I hate it.
I hate this.
I reach home, an hour since leaving Beirut, and check the elevator out of desperate hope. There is no electricity in the building either.
I begin my climb up the stairs to the thirteenth floor, legs burning with each flight, teeth grinding. I grow angrier with each step, each lift of my legs. A wrath overtakes me, steals my breath and urges me to hit and punch and scream until my fists are nothing more than bones covered by tattered pieces of skin and muscle.
My foot trips, and I crash to the ground.
Red overtakes my vision and somehow, I become angrier and my resolve almost breaks.
I grab my phone, my fingernails digging into my other hand as I fumble to turn on the flashlight.
And then I see it.
The notification that buzzed on my way home. It’s an email from a company I applied to.
I got the job.

 

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Months have passed since I got my new job. It’s remote, so I can work at home and given that it’s freelance, I get paid depending on how much I work.
So, I work.
A lot.
Day and night, I hunch over my laptop typing out words as fast as possible. The sooner I finish this assignment, the sooner I can get started on another one. Research is tiring, but it is the only position I got.
Then, my phone buzzes with a notification. I have an assignment due at midnight. It’s 11 p.m. 
Fuck. 
Whatever.
This is more important. I can make up for university later, the fridge is empty now. 
Once I’ve saved enough, I can rest easy. I can help my mom, and we won’t have to worry about feeding ourselves ever again.

By the time I’m done, it’s 2 a.m. I have classes in a few hours and need to leave early for the commute, so I try to get as much rest as possible.
I lie in bed. The itch begins to crawl. I try to relax, to close my eyes and find rest. Rest does not find me.
I try not to think about it. About the time that I’m wasting, time that can be better spent.
I turn to my side. Sleep, just sleep.
You need to sleep, come on.
I’m wide awake, eyes staring into the blackness.
Let me go to sleep.
My hand itches with the need to open my laptop. Anything and everything I can think of are ideas to implement. Researching different organizations for profiles of their company and their employees, different browsers and websites that might contain more techniques and information for me to implement and grow my skills. It became unbearable.
I start working again.
The clock reads 4 a.m. The electricity went out again a while ago, so my laptop will shut down soon. I should stop and try to get some sleep again. But there’s so much work left.
Half an hour more, I tell myself. 
It’s 5 a.m. I’m already halfway through everything, so I might as well finish it. If I get it tonight, then I can rest tomorrow—today.
Just a bit more.
Sleep comes with difficulty, but I rest easy knowing I finished my work. Maybe then I could enjoy my free time, watch something, or just laze around on my bed. That sounds nice. My back and neck hurt from so many hours hunched over my laptop, so perhaps I can also destress my muscles.

I wake up to the sound of my phone buzzing with notifications.
I’m assigned more work.

 

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My mom’s hand smooths over any stray flying hairs. Over and over, she caresses my hair as my head rests, too heavy to lift, on her lap.
I can’t tell her that, of course, can’t worry her. She was so happy when I got the job, she praised God for being so generous and helping us in our struggles.
It angered me at first, as God wasn’t the one who submitted my application or who missed lectures and classes to job-hunt,  but now I just don’t want her to be sad.
I’m tired, so tired. In my bones. I try to remind myself that it will be worth it. By the end of this month, I can get my paycheck and feel at ease in the knowledge that I’m not a floundering fish anymore. I have something to fall back on.
But nothing ends fast enough.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” my mom asked. I don’t even have to look to know she has that concerned furrow in her brows.
“Yeah, mom,” I replied, voice as steady as I can manage. Despite my resolve, her loving touch threatens to unravel me.
Damn it. Pull yourself together.
“I just missed you, that’s all. We’ve both been so busy with work, it’s been a while since we just sat down together.”
“Oh hayati,” she whispers, continuing her lulling motions. “Okay, if that’s what you say. Just remember, our health is the most important thing ever. We can’t sacrifice it for work. You must enjoy yourself too. You’re young, these years aren’t going to last forever.”
“I know, mom,” I whisper back, trying to hold back tears, to maintain this bubble that wraps around us, around me, so tight, so warm. Her cheeks flush red as she hugs me close, her hand never ceasing its movement.
“I won’t.”

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I look at the check in my hands. 1,640,000 Lebanese Lira. Its equivalent is $20. I worked for a month, sacrificed my studies, and lied to my mom for $20.
The sky was bright, the sun shining relentlessly. Hamra’s main street was as lively as ever, angry and tired faces rushing through the streets and across the road. The wind blows a few leaves off the small trees that line the sidewalk.
An incessant beeping of horns rings everywhere. I bring my head up to view the scene before me.
An accident occurred on the road. A motorcycle was speeding and ran straight into a van, its driver was sprawled out on the ground, limbs haphazardly thrown. The concrete had claimed his face as he went, spraying bright red all over.
People are screaming and honking. The man’s body is holding up traffic.
They need to get to work.