Haytham wasn't one of those kids whose lives were marked by comfort and luxury.He belonged to that miserable middle class — you know the type — boring routine, colourless days.Wake up.Brush your teeth (so we don't have to pay your dentist bills).Breakfast... if his father wasn't in a hurry.And if he was? Then Haytham would be the laughingstock of the class, munching his sandwich in the middle of the lesson while everyone stared with those mocking eyes.
Oh — and let's not forget the great "Tiguan" — the noble steed of Northern Morocco. There isn't a single household in the region that hasn't seen it drive by at some point.
But let's spare you the dull monologue and get to what matters.
Our little protagonist had mastered the art of faking smiles, even manufactured laughter, like a factory line of expressions. He looked cheerful, even joyful.But sorry to burst your bubble: it was all an act.He had already passed through the school's "filter gate" — not a literal one, of course.But if you observe life, you'll find that every setting has its filter.
At work, surrounded by women's desks? He looked thrilled.At the corner store, surrounded by sweat-soaked doorways?He looked like the gates of hell had opened.Tense face, clenched jaw — like a cat protecting her kittens from a pack of wild dogs.
But the moment he was alone, all that tension vanished.And just like that, he returned to his neutral state, expressionless.That's Haytham for you — at least when it came to sweat, not emotions.
He was a sociable kid, sure.But the kind of students he was surrounded with?Walking disasters of filth and foolishness.So he found refuge in the seat right in front of the teacher's desk — better to face the fire of the lesson than the swamp behind him.
The day had begun with two soul-draining math sessions.It was unusual — math was usually fine.But not today.Add to that the cruel summer heat, and it was unbearable.
Then came recess.Then physics.Then lunch break.And the grand finale?Two hours of Life and Earth Sciences.
By the time Haytham got home, he was cursing the soul who invented that cursed school system.
His only solace?It was Tuesday.And Tuesdays meant… six glorious episodes of Detective Conan, Season 6.But as they say, nothing lasts forever.
Just minutes in, his mother snatched his iPad.
"Would you please go hang the laundry, Haytham?"
"But I just sat down and—"
"Are you raising your voice at your mother now?!" she snapped."Oh Lord, I've lived to see my son — from my womb—disrespect me like this!Should I turn to your father?Or the kitchen?Or… GET UP NOW or I'll SMASH your head into that wall, you little—"
(BEEP)
Of course, Haytham — powerless, exhausted — carried the heavy basket and climbed the stairs to the rooftop, six floors up.
He finished his chore, sighed the sigh of the damned, and dragged the empty basket down.
As he walked in, his mother yelled again.Another errand.To the corner store.Now.
Groaning, he walked to the shop, and there, on the small TV, played scenes from Gaza — death, hunger, blood.It twisted his gut.He nearly vomited.
But beneath that disgust, there was something else.A feeling...A flicker of something unspoken, unacknowledged.Even Haytham didn't recognise it.
Then—A voice in the store shouted for the channel to be changed.From Al Jazeera to a local news station.
And at that moment…Haytham saw something.
He froze.His blood ran cold.His legs felt like stone.His breath caught in his throat.
A sight—Unspeakable.Unimaginable.One that would follow him forever.