First Day of Sun
First Day of Sun historical fiction stories

souchipi Community member
Autoplay OFF   •   a year ago
This is a short story set in the late 1800s in Tunisia.

First Day of Sun

Beya loves mornings for their quietness.

She wakes up every day to the scent of Jasmin and roses (smoothly piling up from the garden to her window, sometimes leaving leafs and petals on the ground,

and Beya usually fails to notice them which makes Lela Douja furious whenever she steps onto them with her barred feet and feels their corolla sticking to her skin.

) And she finds comfort in the way the room gets reaerated by the warm spring’s breeze as she walks out of the door to the bathroom.

She’d hear the snoring of Sidi Abdelmakki as she travels the hall to the kitchen, and as she passes by his room, she takes a glimpse at his wife, through the half opened door,

trying to escape his embrace as he pulls her closer to him, and Beya knows by then that she’d end up faking her sleep for him (the way she fakes her orgasm for him,

too) until he wakes up and shoves her out of the bed asking her to dress up and meet him downstairs to have breakfast.

Beya starts to hate mornings when the quietness gets replaced by the loud voice of Sidi Abdelmakki asking her to boil his egg again and to bring in more salt,

as he listens to Lela Douja’s never ending gossips; it would always be about Latifa their neighbor, she always had something to say about the poor woman, don’t trust the horses if they run away,

or the whores if they repent, that was how she’d always end up her talks as she pushes her plates aside and calls for Beya’s name to assign her for the day’s house chores.

Beya hated the way she’d look down on her as she orders her around, but, at the same time, she pitied her, and pitied the way she uses her power to prove that she was superior,

or equal in her rights to her husband, something that both Beya and she knew was nonsense. She was so desperate for equality that she’d use another woman to make her feel better about herself.

Beya never understood what it was in men that made them better than women.

Her mother used to say that God has gifted them with the physical and emotional power that was nowhere to be found in women.

They are born to be fighters, to protect us, while we sit at home and make a safe environment for them to come back to.

Her mother used to say that she’d understand, one day, when she gets married and finds the one who will house her, and make her his.

Beya never wanted that.

Beya was passionate by the sky and the sun; she loved the scent of Jasmin invading the Maksoura after the rain, she loved the sight of the rain droplets slowly sliding down the walls,

and she loved hearing the birds chirping in the morning. Beya loved life.

For the world was free, and lively, and beautiful, and she always dreamed of watching it up close, away from Sidi Abdelmakki’s snoring, and Lela Douja’s loud, high-pitched voice.

She wanted to roam around the earth, freely, and smoothly and explore the sea and feel the sunlight kiss her skin, without the Safseri covering up every bit of her body.

Beya wanted to feel alive.

She opens her eyes and feels the sheets slowly grinding against her newly waxed legs (that she secretly shaved last night,

when she made sure that Lela Douja already went to bed and wouldn’t wake up in the middle of the night, feeling thirsty or whatsoever.)

She stands up and walks to the window and watches as the sun rises and feels the wind pushing the strands away from her forehead,

and at that second she makes a wish that no one but her could hear, she wished to see the world from somewhere other than her window, or from behind her Safseri.

She wished to feel the sun burning her skin. She wished to be alive.

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