The Days and Months We Were First Born- the Unraveling by Christopher Hunter Page A
Book: The Days and Months We Were First Born- the Unraveling by Christopher Hunter
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Authors: Christopher Hunter
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throughout the entire district. The museums featured art from all over the Islamic world, from centuries-old paintings to modern glass and chrome sculptures. And my favorite places, the restaurants, were absurdly expensive at almost EAD10 a plate, but the food and the service was worthy of royalty.
Communipaw Avenue was also known for its famous Shisha houses: places where people (mostly men) would come to enjoy coffee, tea, kabobs, and small dishes of curry. They would smoke wet tobacco from silver colored hookahs, and discuss business, the Qur’an , or the local politics of the day.
After a few blocks, the main business district gave way to beautiful apartment buildings. The y were a perfect blend of old world design and modern amenities. The clay sidings were painted in soft colors, from canary yello w to powder blue. The balconies— constructed of synthetic marble — had wide archways that gave each unit a sense of personal luxury. The windows were stained in rich colors, giving each building a unique pattern. The patterns were like quilts—ten-level-tall quilts.
Communipaw Avenue was a great and exotic place to visit, completely different from life in the city, and yet only a train stop away. When my father and I wanted to spend time together, just the two of us, this was where we used to hang out. The environment was festive. The people were friendly. And there was never a shortage of activities or interesting things to discover.
But on September 3, 2068, it was a completely different story.
Communipaw Avenue was the scene of a great battle. It must have happened earlier that day or the night before. And the aftermath was complete devastation.
The open-air market stands were smashed to pieces, the gold colored tents were ripped to shreds, and the shreds were either lying in ruin or smoldering from spent fire. There were a few burnt cars as well. They were totaled, as if someone had taken a huge hammer and had beaten the shit out of them. The street lights above were broken and bent, like giant, snapped toothpicks. The goods were looted long ago, the storefronts were broken into and burnt, the prayer house and museums were deserted, and everything was riddled with sporadic bullet holes.
Glass and bullet shells littered the wide sidewalks and pavement. There were dead corpses strewn throughout , like discarded piles of clothes . I stopped counting at ten. They were men; dressed in khaki pants, stained white t-shirts, and black shemaghs. They were lying in their own thick blood, with prolific flies gleefully hovering around them. Putrid garbage bags punctuated the scene . Some were ripped open spilling their contents, and some were intact. It was hard to tell which smelled worse: the garbage or the dead.
Eventually , I made it to the apartment buildings, and I could hear the occasional murmur of misery inside. From my jud gment, someone was either dying, or mourning for someone who had just died. I couldn’t see them. They were inside their units, and for that, I was grateful. I kept walking with my hand on the gun. My pace was slow. I stopped every few seconds to look around. The misery, the danger, the hopelessness; it was all so stifling .
At the intersection of Grand Street, there was a storefront at the foot of one of the apartment buildings. The glass was cracked, but I could tell that it was a shop that us ed to sell nuts and spices. Movement inside caught my eye and I eventually made out a woman. It was dark; I had to squint to see her. She was kneeling in front of a counter, and she was holding her dead infant. I could tell that she was dying herself, from the last stages of the cancer. She stared ahead at nothing, and rocked her limp child back and forth.
I continued on my way, trying to shake the image.
I kept going until I reached John F. Kennedy Boulevard. There was an old man in the middle of a sidewalk. He had a bald head, a gray beard that dominated his face, and he was shirtless, revealing a
Communipaw Avenue was also known for its famous Shisha houses: places where people (mostly men) would come to enjoy coffee, tea, kabobs, and small dishes of curry. They would smoke wet tobacco from silver colored hookahs, and discuss business, the Qur’an , or the local politics of the day.
After a few blocks, the main business district gave way to beautiful apartment buildings. The y were a perfect blend of old world design and modern amenities. The clay sidings were painted in soft colors, from canary yello w to powder blue. The balconies— constructed of synthetic marble — had wide archways that gave each unit a sense of personal luxury. The windows were stained in rich colors, giving each building a unique pattern. The patterns were like quilts—ten-level-tall quilts.
Communipaw Avenue was a great and exotic place to visit, completely different from life in the city, and yet only a train stop away. When my father and I wanted to spend time together, just the two of us, this was where we used to hang out. The environment was festive. The people were friendly. And there was never a shortage of activities or interesting things to discover.
But on September 3, 2068, it was a completely different story.
Communipaw Avenue was the scene of a great battle. It must have happened earlier that day or the night before. And the aftermath was complete devastation.
The open-air market stands were smashed to pieces, the gold colored tents were ripped to shreds, and the shreds were either lying in ruin or smoldering from spent fire. There were a few burnt cars as well. They were totaled, as if someone had taken a huge hammer and had beaten the shit out of them. The street lights above were broken and bent, like giant, snapped toothpicks. The goods were looted long ago, the storefronts were broken into and burnt, the prayer house and museums were deserted, and everything was riddled with sporadic bullet holes.
Glass and bullet shells littered the wide sidewalks and pavement. There were dead corpses strewn throughout , like discarded piles of clothes . I stopped counting at ten. They were men; dressed in khaki pants, stained white t-shirts, and black shemaghs. They were lying in their own thick blood, with prolific flies gleefully hovering around them. Putrid garbage bags punctuated the scene . Some were ripped open spilling their contents, and some were intact. It was hard to tell which smelled worse: the garbage or the dead.
Eventually , I made it to the apartment buildings, and I could hear the occasional murmur of misery inside. From my jud gment, someone was either dying, or mourning for someone who had just died. I couldn’t see them. They were inside their units, and for that, I was grateful. I kept walking with my hand on the gun. My pace was slow. I stopped every few seconds to look around. The misery, the danger, the hopelessness; it was all so stifling .
At the intersection of Grand Street, there was a storefront at the foot of one of the apartment buildings. The glass was cracked, but I could tell that it was a shop that us ed to sell nuts and spices. Movement inside caught my eye and I eventually made out a woman. It was dark; I had to squint to see her. She was kneeling in front of a counter, and she was holding her dead infant. I could tell that she was dying herself, from the last stages of the cancer. She stared ahead at nothing, and rocked her limp child back and forth.
I continued on my way, trying to shake the image.
I kept going until I reached John F. Kennedy Boulevard. There was an old man in the middle of a sidewalk. He had a bald head, a gray beard that dominated his face, and he was shirtless, revealing a
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