The Devil’s Garment Short story by : Abdel Latif Moubarak Egyptian writer
The village was losing its last colors in the twilight. The narrow streets of mud and ancient stone were emptying of groups of children; the only remaining reality of the day was the smell of smoke rising from the chimneys on the roofs. At the edge of the village, inside a small house surrounded by worn, ancient olive trees, Youssef, an eight-year-old boy, sat on the high wooden chair by the window. His way of playing was quiet: he preferred watching ants climb the wooden sill rather than running after a ball with the other kids in the neighborhood. He was a boy who noticed everything: the shift in tone when his mother’s laughter changed as horses passed in the street, and the way his father closed the door when the harvest was sparse. That evening there was no sound other than the hum of the stove and the clinking of pots. His mother, Maryam, carried dinner to the table with movements as gentle as a barely visible cloud. Strands of her raven hair escaped from her light veil every time she bent down. Youssef watched her, seeing in her eyes that sweet weariness that was always followed by a warm embrace and a short story before sleep.
Everything changed when the front door burst open with an unfamiliar thud. Omar didn’t enter as he did every evening, tossing his cloak onto the chair and asking for water, but with a heavy step that foretold a silent evil. He stopped on the threshold for a few seconds, looking at his wife and son. His eyes were bloodshot, darting from one corner to another as if searching for something lost or waiting for a reason to explode. The room went completely silent; even the wind outside seemed to stop all at once. ”Didn’t you fetch water from the well?” Omar asked in a sharp voice, low but laced with threat. Maryam raised her head, looking at him with a composure steeped in fear: “The well was dry today, Omar. I waited for it to cool down so we could go to the canal together.” It wasn’t the answer he was looking for. He took a step inside and slammed the door behind him with a crash that made Youssef curl up on his chair. The boy’s small hands tightened on the edge of the wooden table, while his gaze oscillated between his father’s grim features and his mother’s effort to remain calm.
Voices began to rise bit by bit. It wasn’t the first time the two had argued, but the night gave every word a terrifying echo. Youssef wished he could close his eyes and disappear, or call his mother and run together out from under that suffocating roof. His father uttered confused words, words about poverty, shame, and the doubts twisting around his neck like serpents. Maryam pleaded in return, denying and weeping, bringing her hands to her chest as if to protect her heart from words that hurt more than blows. Suddenly, the quarrel ceased to be merely verbal. Omar lunged toward her, and a clay vessel shattered on the floor, scattering water and small shards everywhere. Maryam screamed—not for help, but out of fear for Youssef, who was watching everything with wide, unmoving eyes. She ran toward the corner, driven by instinct, but Omar was faster. From under his cloak, he drew an old dagger with a rusted blade—a knife Youssef always saw hanging on the wall, its steel wiped clean by his father every Friday. For Youssef, time froze. He saw the dim yellow light of the oil lamp reflect off the iron of the dagger. He saw his mother raise her small hands to ward off the danger, and he saw his father’s eyes, which no longer resembled those of the man who carried him on his shoulders during holidays. His eyes were filled with absolute darkness, a shadow that knew no mercy. The first blow fell. Maryam’s cry was brief, stifled, as if the air had suddenly fled her lungs. Her legs gave way, and she collapsed onto the edge of the worn rug. Omar didn’t stop; the blows followed in blind fury. The sound of metal against flesh and the heavy, labored breathing mixed with gasps echoed in Youssef’s ears like thunder striking from inside his own head. The white wall was stained bright red.
Youssef saw his mother look at him in her final moments—a long gaze that lasted only a few seconds, yet contained every goodbye, every apology for leaving him alone in this world. Then, she went still. A terrifying silence fell. A silence heavier than mountains. Omar stood over the body, breathing heavily, as if he had just awakened from a long nightmare only to find himself in an even greater one. The dagger slipped from his trembling hand, striking the floor with a metallic chime that echoed through every corner of the room. He looked around slowly, as if his senses were resurfacing bit by bit. He turned his head toward the wooden chair, and his shock-stained eyes landed on Youssef. The boy was still sitting in his spot. He didn’t make a sound, didn’t cry, and didn’t scream. His eyes were fixed on his mother’s motionless body on the floor and on the pool of blood slowly spreading until it reached the edge of his small shoe. When his eyes met his father’s, there was no fear in Youssef, only a total absence of life—as if his soul had abandoned his body at the exact moment his mother’s soul had departed. Omar took a step toward his son, reaching out a stained hand: “Youssef…” But the boy didn’t move or blink. He didn’t run and didn’t pull away. He looked at the red-stained hand as if it belonged to a stranger. That petrified shock on the child’s face made the killer step back. Omar grew more afraid of his son’s silence than of the crime he had just committed. Omar ran out into the night, leaving the door open to the raging wind that rushed in and played with the oil lamp until it blew it out, plunging the house into pitch blackness. Youssef was left alone in the dark. He climbed down from the chair very slowly and took two steps toward his mother. He sat beside her on the blood-soaked floor and took her cold hand. He rested his small head on her shoulder and listened to the silence. There was no heartbeat. There was no breath. There was only the smell of rust and death. When the morning sun rose, the villagers found Youssef sitting on the doorstep. His clothes were soiled with dried blood, and his eyes were open, staring blankly into the distance. When they entered the house and discovered the tragedy, the village echoed with screams and lamentations. Men and women arrived and tried to move Youssef, but he was like stone. He didn’t utter a single word. They asked him what had happened, who it was, where his father was, but his sealed lips did not move.
Omar was arrested days later near the edges of the neighboring mountains; he surrendered without resistance, rambling incoherently about eyes chasing him. Youssef was taken to live at his aunt’s house in a nearby village. A new home, new faces, but what had broken that night could never be repaired. Years passed, and Youssef grew into a young man of twenty-two. His height and features resembled his father’s, but his eyes carried an everlasting cloud that never faded. Youssef never spoke of that night. He lived in complete isolation, working in a carpentry and woodcarving shop—a trade requiring silence and deep concentration. He hammered and sawed wood for hours, as if trying to bury the old sounds beneath the screech of the saws. Every time he looked in the mirror, he saw the face of the man who had killed his mother. The greatest fear of his life wasn’t the dark, nor the memories, but the fact that he carried the murderer’s traits in his genes. He feared that one day his hands might act on impulse, severing themselves from reason, just as his father’s had. Because of this, he strove to be the calmest person on earth—a calmness that bordered on coldness. On an autumn day, a letter arrived from the city’s central prison. His father was drawing his last breaths due to an illness that had consumed his body for decades, and he was asking to see him for the first and last time before he died. Youssef stood before the tall iron gates of the prison. A light drizzle was falling, and the smell of rain reminded him of that old night. He entered the dim room and sat behind a thick glass partition. Omar was brought in. He was an old man, stooped, his hair gone gray, his face hollowed by disease. He was no longer the terrifying man who had snatched his mother’s life away. The old man raised his clouded eyes and looked at Youssef through the glass, placing his trembling hands on the table. ”Youssef…” the old man said in a raspy, wheezing voice. “Forgive me… It wasn’t me… It was the devil…” Youssef looked at the old man sitting before him. He felt no burning hatred, nor a desire for revenge. All he felt was an immense emptiness—a void carved out fourteen years ago. Youssef raised his hand and placed it against the glass partition, directly opposite his father’s trembling hand. He looked into the killer’s eyes and spoke with clarity and composure, uttering his first words about that night since he was a child: ”I haven’t forgotten, Father. I saw everything. I saw your eyes, and I saw hers.
That night, you didn’t just kill my mother… you killed the child I could have become.” Youssef stood up slowly from the chair and turned his back on the old man, who began to weep softly, his voice broken. He stepped out into the street, greeted by the rain falling from the sky. He touched his face with the cool water, and for the first time in many long years, he felt something open in his chest. He hadn’t healed from the wound, but he finally understood that he was not his father—and that the shadow he had lived in all his life was not his own, but merely the lingering memory of a night that had failed to taint his true soul. He smiled slowly and walked under the rain, leaving the night and the past behind forever.
