Why Don't You Care?
Jalil couldn’t get the scene out of his head—the elderly woman sitting in the middle of the busy sidewalk: she was crying, screaming at the top of her lungs, pulling at the thin grey strands of her hair. He was haunted by the memory; he had tried focusing on the peeling paint above his bed, but it was hopeless—there would be no sleep to comfort him. The woman was in so much pain, so much agony—staring at her was like staring at a solar eclipse, too long and a person could go blind. Jalil got out of bed and pulled the window open, taking a huge breath of fresh air; it smelt of lavender, owing to the wild, burgeoning bush that had overtaken the backyard fence—the wind must have carried its scent to him. Better, yes, pleasant enough, but Jalil was still lost to his mind.
The people—the people walking past her—it was like they didn’t even notice the person at their feet, the same feet which navigated around her so casually, as if the route had been pre-planned. Why don’t you care? Jalil had shouted at them from beside her on the ground. Why don’t you care?
The barking of a neighbor’s dog jolted Jalil back to the present. This was odd; Remington was usually asleep at this hour. What had awoken him? Maybe the brightness of the full moon was too overwhelming to bear quietly. Jalil’s hand was shaking—perhaps from the shock of the sudden loud noise, or was it something else, something from before?
She had a newspaper clutched in her left hand, the woman; that’s all she had on her, other than a small ruby-red leather handbag twisted around her shoulder. What had she read? What could have brought her to such a grieving state? But Jalil could not tell, neither from the stolen glances at the tattered pages, in between efforts to comfort, nor from the fresh copy he had purchased from the store, out of curiosity, on the way home. The headlines were more of the same: the poor getting poorer; the bombs hitting harder; the powerful orchestrating it all behind a veneer of benevolence and philanthropy—nothing new. Still, the woman cried ever on, the sound coming from somewhere deep inside her, her body vibrating as each sob escaped her lips.
A distant roar of a car engine pierced through this thought, and Jalil, after a moment, closed the window and stumbled back into bed. He closed his eyes…hadn’t he joined her in crying—he wondered—all the hurt, the sorrow, the rage, emptying out of every corner of his being, like a punctured balloon?
Why don’t you care? he repeatedly screamed at the endless stream of disinterested passersby; for he could think of nothing else to say. Why don’t you care? Jalil now whispered to his empty room, the only sound of response being Remington’s muffled howls. Why don’t you care?
Please, he continued, do something.
