Sleep walking

Dark. Everything is dark.
I try to open my eyes, but they won’t move. They’re glued shut, as if something heavy is pressing on them. I can’t see. I can’t even tell if I’m dreaming or awake. The air is cold, biting my skin. My blanket must have fallen off. I reach out, searching for it, but my fingers don’t touch fabric. They touch grass. Long, cold, wet grass that brushes against my hands and face.

I freeze. This isn’t my bed. This isn’t even my house. My hands tremble as I press them against the ground, trying to understand. The grass is tall, reaching up to my arms, swaying gently in the wind. The smell of wet soil fills my nose. My heart starts beating faster. I move my fingers again, hoping to feel the edge of the bed, my pillow, my brother next to me, but there’s nothing. Only this endless sea of grass.

My breath shakes. I try to call out, my voice breaking in the cold. “Houssem! Manel! Nizar!” I cry their names, louder and louder, waiting for someone to answer. But the only response is the wind. It moves through the grass with a strange whisper, like it’s speaking a language I don’t know.

I rub my face, desperate to open my eyes. They won’t move. Panic fills my chest. My throat hurts as I try again to call for help. My hands touch my eyelids, cold and wet. I drag my fingers down my face, and as I brush against the grass again, a few drops of water slide down from one of the blades and fall on my skin. One drop lands on my right eye. Then another.

The cold sting helps. My right eye twitches open, just halfway, and everything becomes blurry. Faint light glows through the darkness — the pale, trembling light of the moon. I can see now, but only a little. The world sways like I’m still dreaming. My heart pounds as I push myself up, my knees sinking into the soft dirt. Around me stretches an endless field, silver and black under the moonlight. The grass moves in slow waves, whispering, breathing.

I don’t know where I am. My throat is dry. The air tastes like metal. I turn slowly, hoping to find a road, a wall, something familiar — and that’s when I see it. Far in the distance, standing all alone, there’s a door. Just a door.

It’s not attached to anything. No wall. No house. Just a brown wooden door, glowing faintly under the moonlight. My chest tightens. I don’t think. I just run. My legs move fast, stumbling through the grass, tripping and catching myself again and again. My breath is loud, echoing in the quiet.

When I reach the door, I stop and stare at it. It looks old, with small scratches and a brass handle, just like the inside door of our house. My shaking hand reaches for the knob. I turn it slowly and pull.

Light spills through. On the other side, I see my neighborhood — the same narrow streets, the old white houses that shine under the moon, the smell of wet dust after a long day. I step through, and the grass behind me disappears. When I look back, there’s nothing but that sea of tall grass glowing faintly in the distance. I close the door.

Now I’m standing barefoot in the middle of the alley. The walls are cracked, the paint old. The silence here feels heavy, as if everyone is asleep. I walk slowly, the ground cold under my feet. The rain hasn’t started yet, but the air is thick, ready to break. I pass by the broken house at the corner, the one with the old electricity pole in front. There’s trash scattered under the wall, the smell sour and strong. Cats crawl out from the shadows, their eyes glowing, their cries sharp and angry.

And then I see them. Two men sitting under the wall. Their faces half hidden in the dark, their clothes torn and wet. Bottles beside them. They’re talking loud, almost screaming, the words mixed and broken, sounding like growls more than speech.

I take a small step back, praying they don’t see me. But one of them turns. His eyes catch the moonlight. He says something I don’t understand, and then he points at me. I freeze.

He tries to stand but his legs fail, and he falls again, crawling on his hands and knees, dragging himself toward me. The other man stumbles up and follows, his mouth open, shouting nonsense, spit flying, his beard glistening wet and dirty.

My whole body locks. I can’t move. My chest feels heavy. My brain is screaming “run,” but my feet won’t listen. The man crawls closer, his hands scraping the ground. His fingernails are black. His breath smells rotten even from where I stand.

He reaches for my ankle. I jerk back, but his fingers wrap around me tight. “Let go!” I scream, but he doesn’t stop. His hand squeezes harder. The second man gets closer, his eyes wide and empty. He looks like something broken, not human anymore.

“Let me go!” I yell again, kicking, pulling, crying. He says more words I can’t understand, deep and wet in his throat. My leg burns where he’s holding me. I twist and fall on my knees, scraping them against the stone. Pain flashes through my body.

And then the world explodes.

A bright light cuts the sky in half. Lightning strikes the pole right next to the old house. The sound is like the earth breaking. The pole shatters, sparks flying in every direction, cables snapping free and whipping through the air. One of the men screams as a cable hits him, sparks bursting around his body. He’s thrown backward, rolling down the street, smoke rising from his clothes.

The sound is deafening. My ears ring. The other man still holds my foot, staring at the fire, frozen. I can’t hear anything for a few seconds. Just that high ringing and my own heartbeat.

Then the sky opens.

Rain starts falling, hard and fast. The drops sting as they hit my skin, each one sharp and cold. The thunder rolls again, shaking the ground. The street fills with the sound of water, echoing between the walls. The moon disappears behind thick clouds. The world turns dark.

The rain helps me. It washes my face, opens my other eye. I can see clearly now. I pull my leg back, using all my strength, and kick the man’s hand away. He falls back, shouting, and I run. I run with all the fear in my body, through the rain, through the noise, my heart pounding so hard it feels like it’s going to break out of my chest.

I know where I am now. The streets twist and turn, but I know them. I can smell jasmine, our jasmine, the one that grows inside our house, under the open roof. I can smell my mom’s perfume, the apple smoke from my dad’s chicha, the warmth of home even through the storm. I can hear the faint echo of my cartoons playing upstairs.

I run faster until I see the blue paint of our door. I throw myself against it, banging hard. “Omi! Baba! It’s me, Sami! Open the door! Please, open!”

My voice breaks. The rain hits my head, runs down my face like tears. I knock again and again, shouting louder. No one answers. My hands hurt from hitting the door. My voice fades.

Then I feel it, someone watching me.

I turn slowly. At first, I see only the rain. The street behind me is empty, the puddles reflecting the flickering streetlight. Then I see movement. A shadow standing at the end of the alley.

It’s a woman.

She’s wearing a white sefseri, covering her whole body and face. The fabric glows faintly in the rain, as if the moonlight hides inside it. She doesn’t move. She just stands there, watching me. The two men are behind her now, walking slowly, one limping, the other dragging something long — a stick, or maybe a cable.

My heart stops. I knock harder. “Omi! Please! Open! They’re coming!”

The woman takes a step forward. The rain hits her clothes and slides down like glass. She moves slowly, gracefully, her face still hidden. I want to scream, but no sound comes out.

I bang the door again. “Omi! Please!”

The woman stops just a few steps away from me. She lifts her hand. The fabric falls slightly from her face. I can’t see her clearly. The rain blurs everything. But then something strange happens.

The rain stops.

The sound disappears. The two men behind her freeze, their bodies stiff like statues. The water on the ground stops moving. Even the wind holds its breath. The moonlight, soft and pale, slides slowly across the street until it reaches her face.

And as it does, the door behind me opens.

Warm hands grab me from the darkness, pull me inside. I fall into my mother’s arms, shaking, crying, my heart still racing. She holds me tight, whispering, “Sami, shh, you’re home, you’re safe.”

But before the door closes, I look back.

The woman is still standing there, her white clothes glowing faintly. The two men are gone. The light of the moon fades behind a cloud. For a second, it feels like she’s looking right at me, not angry, not kind, just watching. Protecting. Or maybe warning.

Then the door shuts.

The sound of the rain returns outside. My mother carries me to my bed, my brothers still asleep, the jasmine smell stronger now, wrapping the room in something warm. I try to speak, to tell her what happened, but my lips barely move. She kisses my forehead and whispers again, “You were sleepwalking, my boy. You were sleepwalking.”

But I know what I saw.

When I close my eyes, I still see that woman, standing in the rain, her white veil shining under the moon, the world holding still around her.

And deep inside, I know she’s still there, somewhere beyond the door. Watching. Waiting.

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