Chapter 8:
Heba stood in the center of the
room, the silence surrounding her like a cold shroud. Her hands trembled as she held the small wooden box she had carefully extracted from the deepest corner of her late daughter Mona's closet. It was not merely a box; it was a secret sanctuary for a muffled scream. As the lid opened, the scent of Mona's perfume mingled with the smell of old paper, causing a lump of grief to explode in Heba's throat.
She found a small electronic device, and beside it, a carefully folded note. She began to read, her vision blurred by tears:
"My dear mother... since the moment I arrived, my father has been like a monster. He only pretended to have changed; he is the same old person. Because I do not know what he might do, and as a precaution, I have placed a tiny camera. Look exactly at the room's lamp; I placed a very small surveillance camera there. This device contains everything that will happen or has happened. Thank you, Mom. I love you so much. Your daughter, Mona."
The paper fell from Heba's hand like a burning coal. She felt a stab in her heart. She looked at the device—that small black box carrying the bitter truth. She tried to turn it on, pressing the button repeatedly, but the screen remained as black as the night of sorrow she was living through.
Heba (in a scorched whisper): "Oh God, why won't it work? Is it broken? Please... my daughter is calling me from her grave through this device. Please, work!"
She suddenly remembered that Mona hadn't used her belongings for many months. The battery! It must be completely dead. She began rummaging through Mona's drawers, tossing clothes and scattering books, searching for a charger that fit the small port on the device, but to no avail.
Heba stepped out of the room with the cautious gait of a thief. She paused in the long hallway and looked toward the sofa in the living room. There lay "the monster" as Mona had described him: Khalid, fast asleep, his snoring filling the space with a false sense of peace. She looked at him with utter loathing. She tucked the device and the letter into the bosom of her dress and pulled her abaya tight. Opening the front door with extreme silence, she stepped out into the street. The sun scorched her face, yet she felt a piercing cold in her bones. She walked quickly, glancing behind her every now and then, terrified that Khalid might wake up, notice her absence, or discover the secret of the box.
She entered an area crowded with electronics shops. She was looking for a kind face, someone who would help without asking too many questions. She stopped in front of a small shop, its storefront covered in dust and tangled wires. She walked in, her heart pounding like a drum of war.
The shopkeeper was a young man, wearing a magnifying glass over his eye, inspecting a circuit board. Heba raised her trembling voice:
Heba: "My son... do you have a charger for this device?"
The young man looked up and saw a woman draped in black, her eyes telling stories of oppression. He reached out with curiosity:
Shopkeeper: "Let me see it, auntie... let's see what kind it is."
Heba handed him the device, feeling a jolt of electricity surge through her body. She feared he might drop it, that it might break, or that he would say, "There is no hope in fixing it." To her, this device was Mona's soul returning for vengeance.
Shopkeeper (examining the port): "This device is a bit old, auntie. It's the kind that records onto protected internal memory. The port is rare, but I think I have an old cable that might fit it."
The shopkeeper disappeared into the back of the store. Heba stood there, her hand over her chest, watching the street through the glass. Every passing car looked like Khalid's; every pedestrian resembled him. She felt time melting away like wax, every second of delay a gamble with her life.
The Pulse Returns: The Truth Unfolds
The shopkeeper returned with a long black cable. He slowly inserted it into the device and connected it to the power. A heavy silence fell. Suddenly, a small green light flickered on the side of the device. Heba felt as if her own soul had returned to her.
Shopkeeper: "It's started charging... but it needs some time to open the files. The memory seems very full of videos."
After a few minutes, the small screen of the device flickered to life. The interface appeared, and recorded clips began to show up by date. There were dozens of recorded hours.
Heba (eagerly): "Open the last clip, my son... please, the very last one."
The shopkeeper tapped the screen. A shaky image of Mona's room appeared. The camera was hidden precisely inside the lamp, just as the letter had said. Mona appeared sitting on her bed; she looked pale, staring at the door with terror. Suddenly, the door burst open violently, and Khalid entered.
As the video played, Heba felt the walls of the narrow shop closing in on her. It wasn't just a recording; it was a voice from beyond the grave. She saw Mona trying to smile at the hidden camera at first, as if to reassure herself, and then she saw the terrifying transformation when Khalid entered. The image wasn't perfectly clear, but the sound was enough to shatter Heba's very being. She heard Khalid's coarse voice threatening her, heard the sound of consecutive slaps, and Mona's muffled cry: "Please, Father, don't hit me! I am your daughter! What did I do to you?"
She saw his heavy hand reaching out to mess with Mona's belongings, and the look of brokenness in her daughter's eyes under the lamp's glow. The video showed Mona's muffled scream as he pushed her forcefully toward the bed and began beating her savagely. She tried to escape, but he grabbed her and continued his assault. Then, tragically, the balcony door was open. In his extreme drunken state, he grabbed her with both hands and threw her from it. Poor Mona became his victim, and every moment was recorded inside the device thanks to that tiny camera she had planted before her death.
Every one of these events made Heba feel as though a dagger was being driven into her side. As for the shopkeeper, his hand froze; his face turned pale, and his youthful features gave way to a horrific shock. A heavy silence prevailed, broken only by the sound of Heba's accelerating breaths, which turned into a drowning gasp.
The shopkeeper (in a low voice): "Auntie... this... this isn't just a recording. This is criminal evidence. This man was killing her!"
A strength began to bloom from deep within Heba. The trembling left her hands, replaced by an icy steadiness. She was no longer afraid of Khalid; she had become the fear that would haunt him.
Heba: "My son... I want you to copy these videos onto a disc or a flash drive. Now... quickly. And I want to keep the original device."
The young man executed her request with lightning speed. Heba left the shop, and the street was no longer the one she knew. The passing faces appeared like ghosts. She felt the weight of the flash drive in her pocket as if she were carrying a mountain. With every step, a reel of memories attacked her; she remembered Mona, her little girl, the joy of her heart, and how she had been preparing for her wedding—how she was robbed of it at the most beautiful stage of her life. She passed by the park where Mona loved to sit, and she imagined she saw her daughter's ghost running beside her, urging her forward. Heba drew strength from that spirit and wiped the beads of sweat from her brow despite the cold air; her body was boiling with a volcano of oppression that was finally ready to erupt. She stood in the middle of the sidewalk and raised her head to the sky; the sun had begun to tilt toward sunset, but for Heba, the dawn had only just begun.
In the Sanctuary of Justice
She headed with wide strides toward the police station. Khalid was no longer a "husband" or a "father"; he had become a "target." She stood before the gates of the station—the gates she had always feared—but today she entered with a straight back and a head held high. The smell of official papers and tobacco in the long corridor only increased her determination.
At the entrance, the memory of her daughter's beautiful face gave her pause. She whispered to herself: "Rest, my love... your mother will not let your rights go, even if it costs me my life." When she reached the desk of the duty officer, she placed the device and the letter down with deliberate slowness, as if she were delivering a death sentence.
The officer looked at her and saw a gaze that was not broken by the prestige of his rank or the sternness of the place.
Officer: "Auntie, calm down... what is the matter?"
The officer began to turn the letter over, his eyebrows rising in shock with every word he read. Heba remained silent to let the paper speak. She felt Mona's soul present in that room, witnessing the moment when "the monster" would turn from a victor into a fugitive from justice. Heba placed her hand firmly on the table and said, in words as clear and sharp as a sword that shook the walls of the room:
"I am here to report a murder..."