Madmoud

The Iron Ball The iron ball scraped against the stones with every step. Scrrrape... Scrrrape... Scrrrape... The sound was familiar in this city, but this time it was louder than usual. A man in his mid-thirties, dragging behind him a massive black iron ball tied to a thick chain around his ankle. It was bigger than any ball seen on the street that day. Sweat poured from his forehead despite the cold weather, and his torn clothes clung to his thin body. He finally stopped at the edge of the sidewalk. He threw his exhausted body to the ground, then pulled an empty pack from his pocket, stared at it for a few seconds, and tossed it away. He raised his head toward the gray sky. As usual. Nothing new. No job. No home. No one waiting for him. People passed by without looking at him. Some turned their faces away. Some looked at him with contempt. And some acted as if he didn't exist at all. He smiled a mocking smile. He'd gotten used to it years ago. At that moment a woman passed, holding a small child's hand. The child stared at the homeless man in wonder. Then looked at the huge iron ball he was dragging. He stopped for a moment. "Mom... why is his ball so big?" The mother pulled his hand quickly, as if wanting to get away. Then said, without looking at the man: "If you keep misbehaving and don't listen to me... you'll end up like him." The child looked at the man one last time. Then kept walking with his mother. The man stayed silent. He didn't get angry. He didn't get sad. He laughed a short, quiet laugh instead. Then the laugh died out quickly. And his eyes dropped to the ground. Because he remembered something he hadn't thought of in years. The same scene. A different street. A different time. But the same scene. He had been a small child that day. Standing, holding his mother's hand. And there had been a homeless man sitting at the corner of the road. Dragging an iron ball behind him. He'd asked the same question. And gotten the same answer. "If you don't behave... you'll end up like him." The man closed his eyes slowly. Then muttered to himself: "The funny thing is, I was never a troublemaker..." He went silent for a moment. "And yet here I ended up." A cold wind blew through the alleys. And the chain wound around his foot shook. It let out a faint metallic ring. Clink... Clink... Clink... That sound alone was enough to remind him that a new day of carrying the ball had begun. He raised his head again and looked at the crowded street. Life kept moving as if it didn't know how to stop. But for him, life had stopped long ago. It was no longer about hunger or poverty. Even if he found work. Even if he got a home. Even if his iron ball vanished tomorrow. He no longer had the strength to start over. He felt as if something inside him had broken years ago, and could no longer be fixed. He lit a crumpled cigarette and took a long drag. Then watched the people. A well-dressed businessman walked lightly along the sidewalk. Behind him, three poor men dragged a massive iron ball tied with his name. A wealthy woman sat inside a luxurious carriage, while two exhausted workers pulled her ball for her. A familiar sight. In this world, no one escaped the ball. The rich simply paid others to carry it for them. And the poor sold their backs and their years for a few extra coins. His eyes wandered further. The bread seller. The policeman. The laborer. The teacher. The beggar. Everyone dragged their balls behind them. Some small. Some large. And some so enormous their owners could barely stand. Everyone... Without exception. Except children. And animals. He had never once seen a child carrying a ball. Nor a dog, a cat, or a bird dragging a chain behind it. It was so normal that no one ever questioned it. Just as people never ask why the sun rises every morning. The man sighed and slowly exhaled the smoke. Then muttered sarcastically: "Enjoy it while you're still young..." He looked at a group of children running freely in the street. "Because it's coming for all of you." A shadow fell over him. He raised his head slowly. Another homeless man was walking past him. His beard was unkempt, his clothes filthy, his eyes carrying the same exhaustion he saw every day in the faces of the street's people. But one thing was different. The massive iron ball tied by a chain to his foot wasn't touching the ground. It floated behind him at a low height, moving lightly as if it had no weight at all. No scraping sound. No dragging on the stones. No heaviness. The man smiled and said: "Bad day?" The seated homeless man looked at him and said with quiet sarcasm: "Is there any other kind?" His eyes landed on the floating ball. "Looks like your ball's having an easier time than I am today." The man laughed, then patted his pocket. "I've got a few bubbles." He pulled out a small glass orb, about the size of a grape. Inside it, a faint silver mist swirled slowly. The seated man's eyes narrowed. "Back on the bubbles?" The man shrugged. "Never really left them." He raised the glass orb between his fingers. "If you've got some money, I'll share one with you." The seated man gave a short laugh. "Do I look like someone with money?" The man studied him for a moment, then smiled. "Fair enough." He put the bubble back in his pocket. "Just one bubble makes the ball float for hours. You walk like you're a child again." The seated man kept staring at the floating iron ball behind the other man. "And after that?" The man's smile faded a little. "After that..." He paused for a moment. "It gets a little heavier." The seated man said: "A little?" The man turned his face away. "A little." Neither of them believed it. They both knew the truth. The bubble doesn't remove the ball. Doesn't break the chain. Doesn't free anyone. All it does is wrap the ball for a while, make it float, make its owner forget its weight, forget its sound, forget it even exists. Then the bubble pops. And the ball returns. Bigger. Heavier. Closer to the ground. And still, people bought them. Workers. Beggars. The elderly. Even some owners of small balls used them, afraid their balls would grow one day. The man said as he prepared to leave: "Still... it's worth trying." He smiled a tired smile. The smile of someone who knows he's losing but can't stop playing. Then he continued on his way through the crowd, his floating ball following silently. The seated homeless man kept watching him until he vanished into the crowd. For a brief moment, he imagined himself walking without a sound. Without dragging. Without weight. Without that ball reminding him with every step that he could no longer escape his life. He was about to look away from the street when he caught a familiar face among the passersby. He stopped for a moment. A young woman was walking along the sidewalk with calm steps. Behind her rolled a medium-sized iron ball tied by a chain around her foot, but it didn't seem to weigh on her the way it weighed on most people. She wasn't poor. And she wasn't homeless. She looked like an ordinary person living a normal life. Clean clothes. Neat hair. And a face that still held something rare in this city. Kindness. When she saw him, she smiled and waved. Then approached, carrying a small paper bag. "Hi." He answered with a slight nod. She sat beside him and pulled a piece of bread and some simple food from the bag. "I bought more than I needed." She said it the same way she always did. And they both knew it was a small lie. She was buying the food for him. But he never commented on it. He ate in silence. While she talked about ordinary things. A new shop that had opened in the neighborhood. A vendor who'd tried to cheat her on the price. A lost dog that had followed her the whole way. Trivial things. Things with no real value. And yet he listened to her attentively. Because she was one of the few people who still talked to him like a human being. Not as a warning for children. Not as a burden on society. Not as an image of what others might one day become. But as a person. And that alone was enough sometimes. When she stood to leave, he thanked her in a low voice. She smiled at him. Then continued on her way among the people. He kept watching her until she disappeared into the crowd. Then sighed slowly. He knew the truth. He knew they weren't friends. He knew she didn't think about him when she went home. He knew she probably helped dozens of other people besides him. She was just a kind girl. As for him... He was an extremely lonely man. And when a person sits alone for too long, his mind starts inventing stories that don't exist. Sometimes he imagined they were friends. Sometimes he imagined he had finally found someone who cared about him. And sometimes he imagined an entire life that existed only inside his head. Then he'd return to reality. To the cold sidewalk. To his torn clothes. And to the massive iron ball tied around his foot. And still... Seeing her was one of the few things that made his day a little less bad. One of the few things that gave him a reason to wake up in the morning. And for very brief moments... He'd feel his ball had become a little lighter. After finishing the last piece of bread, he rose slowly. What he was thinking about now mattered more than food. A cigarette. He looked around the street. He saw a man smoking in front of a shop. He approached him. "Got a spare cigarette?" The man looked at his dirty clothes and turned his face away. "No." He kept walking. A few minutes later he saw another young man smoking near the bus stop. He repeated the same question. The young man snapped back: "Get a job." His friends laughed. And went on with their conversation as if he weren't there. The third time, he didn't even get an answer. The man just cursed at him before walking off. He was used to it. He didn't expect anything different. As he walked, he noticed something on the ground. Half a cigarette. Someone had just thrown it away. He stopped. Looked right. Then left. Then bent down quickly and picked it up. He looked around again. As if he'd committed a crime. Then lit it. Took a long drag. And closed his eyes. He felt a brief comfort. A small comfort that wasn't worth all this trouble. And yet he was grateful for it. When the cold started to bite harder, he decided to look for a place to sleep. On warm days he slept wherever he happened to be. On cold nights he headed to the train stations. The guards sometimes chased him off. And sometimes pretended not to see him. He reached the station. Wandered among the benches until he found a nearly empty row. He laid his head on one of the benches and lay down. The chain tied to his foot rattled. And the iron ball settled beside him. He raised his eyes toward the ceiling. And began to think. Is this freedom? He smiled a mocking smile. People always talked about freedom as if it were a lost treasure. But what was it, really? Were cavemen free? They had no boss. No rent. No bills. No work hours. All they had to do was find their food. And look for a place to sleep. Isn't that exactly what he was doing now? Looking for food. Looking for a place to sleep. So... Why didn't he feel free? He stayed silent for a moment. Then muttered to himself: "Maybe because we're no longer slaves to one person..." He turned his head toward the iron ball. "We've become slaves to more things." Slaves to money. Slaves to status. Slaves to laws we made ourselves. Slaves to other people's opinions. Slaves to an image we try to paint of ourselves. I'm an important person. I'm a successful person. I'm better than others. He closed his eyes. And for the first time in hours he felt something like relief. Maybe because he no longer had anything left to lose. Maybe because his mind was trying to deceive him. Convincing him that the absence of responsibility was a kind of freedom. He smiled a small smile. Then gave in to sleep. While the iron ball stayed still beside him in the dark. His sleep didn't last long. He felt a hand shaking him violently. He opened his eyes groggily. A security guard was standing over him. "Come on. Get up." He rubbed his eyes. "What time is it?" "Doesn't matter. Get out." He sat up slowly. His body still exhausted. He looked around. It felt as if he'd slept only moments. Maybe two hours. Three at most. He got up, dragging his iron ball behind him. He didn't try to argue. He didn't have the energy for it. He left the station. The cold air hit him directly in the face. He shivered. And pulled the collar of his worn coat tight around his neck. Across the street, near the river, he caught the glow of a small fire. He approached. A group of homeless people sat around it. Familiar faces. Faces he'd seen dozens of times before. Some laughing. Some arguing. And some staring silently at the fire as if watching their own lives burn with it. When they saw him, one of them waved. "Come." He sat near the fire. He finally felt some warmth. The man next to him pulled a bubble from his pocket and held it out to him. "Take it." He looked at it. "I don't have any money." The man laughed. "I found some money today." Then added, smiling: "Consider it a gift." He kept staring at the bubble. He'd tried it before. Once or twice. But he hadn't reached the point of addiction yet. He hadn't been homeless for years like most of those sitting around the fire. He hadn't gotten used to this life yet. Or maybe he just refused to admit he was starting to. He looked at his hands. Then at his iron ball. Then at the cold eating into his bones. He was exhausted. Angry. Angry at the cold. Angry at people. Angry at himself. And above all... He wanted to escape. Even if just for a few hours. He took the bubble. And popped it. Silver mist spread around his iron ball. And within seconds the ball began to rise. Slowly. Then more. Then more. His eyes widened. It was higher than everyone else's balls. Much higher. He looked around. Their balls were floating too. But barely lifting off the ground. His, though, hung in the air above him as if it had completely lost its weight. He felt a strange lightness. As if something had been crushing his chest the whole time and suddenly vanished. He stood. Then took a few steps. Light steps. No resistance. No dragging. No that metallic sound that had haunted him for months. And finally... He smiled. A real smile. The men around him laughed. "Look at him!" "The bubble's still new to him!" They laughed more. He didn't care. In that moment he felt like he was flying. As if the ground itself had become lighter. Behind him two homeless men started arguing. "You stole my money!" "I didn't!" "Liar!" Voices rose. Then turned into shouting. But all of it felt distant. Very distant. As he looked across the river at the street on the other side. And suddenly... He froze. A fancy black car drove by on the road. And for one second he caught a face behind the window. A face he recognized. Or thought he recognized. His heart raced. He stood up unsteadily. And stared at the car. Thoughts began tangling in his head. Images overlapping. Memories stirring. "You..." He muttered angrily. Then his voice rose. He started cursing at her. Shouting toward the car. The woman turned toward him. She looked at him for just one second. A short look. Cold. Full of disgust. Then she turned her face away. And the car continued on. The lights vanished at the end of the street. He stayed standing there. Breathing hard. Not sure if the woman had been real... Or if the bubble had started messing with his mind. He woke with the first threads of morning light. The fire had gone out hours ago, leaving only cold ash scattering in the wind. He raised his head slowly. Some of the homeless were still asleep. Others had left before sunrise. He sat in place for a few moments. Then put his hands over his face. He felt disgusted with himself. That feeling visited him every morning. Without exception. As if his conscience woke up before he did. How did he end up here? When did this become his life? When did he start accepting all of this? He looked at the river in silence. Then remembered the girl he'd met the night before. And for some reason... It brought back everything he'd been trying to ignore. She wasn't the only reason he'd ended up where he was. But she was one of the things that made his collapse look clearer in his own eyes. She reminded him of what he'd lost. And of the huge distance between him and everyone else. And of the man he could have been if his life had gone differently. Thoughts began crowding his head. Anger. Regret. Self-hatred. And an overwhelming urge to get revenge on everything. On people. On society. On fate. And on the man he had become. He stood up. And clenched his fists. "I'll change." The words came out of his mouth in a low voice. But he meant them. This time he really meant them. He would look for work. He would clean himself up. He would stop sitting in the streets. He would start over. He took a step. Then another. And began dragging the iron ball behind him. Scrrrape... Scrrrape... Scrrrape... And with every meter he covered, his thoughts began to fade. Little by little. He started thinking about hunger. Then about the cold. Then about the cigarette he wanted. Then about a place to sit. And by the time he reached the city... He had nearly forgotten everything he'd told himself an hour before. As usual. This always happened. Every morning. He'd wake up hating his life. And decide to change. Then the day would swallow him. And the wheel would start turning again. He reached the usual street. The usual sidewalk. The usual noise. And sat. But this time he didn't sit because he had nowhere else to go. He didn't sit because he was tired. He sat because he was waiting. Waiting for the kind girl. The girl who brought him food from time to time. He watched the road she usually came from. His eyes scanning every approaching face. And every time he felt disappointment when he realized it wasn't her. She was different from the woman he'd seen the night before. That woman was part of a past he was trying to forget. But this girl... Was part of the present. A small part of his gray days. He didn't know much about her. Didn't know why she helped him. But he found himself waiting for her to come. Waiting for her smile. And her simple words. And that paper bag she carried with her every time. He never admitted it to anyone. Not even to himself. But he knew the truth. He was no longer just waiting for the food. He was waiting for the feeling that came with her presence. The feeling that at least one person in this world still saw him. Still noticed he existed. And that was enough sometimes. Enough to make him endure one more day. And enough to convince himself tomorrow might be a little less bad than today. Even if he knew deep down... That this small hope might only live inside his head. He stayed sitting, watching the road. And as time passed he started to believe she wouldn't come today. Like every good thing in his life. It appeared a little. Then vanished. But just as he was getting ready to stand, he finally spotted her. She was walking fast this time. Faster than usual. As if she were late for something important. When she reached him, she didn't sit like she usually did. And wasn't carrying any paper bag. She looked a little tense. She said, catching her breath: "I'm sorry, I'm in a rush today." Then held out her hand to him. She was holding some money. He looked at her, puzzled. "I couldn't buy food." She put the money in his hand. "Buy yourself something." He looked at the money for a moment. Then raised his head toward her. His heart was beating faster than usual. He felt this was his chance to look different. To look less miserable. Less of a failure. Less like the man who sat in the same spot every day. So he said in a low voice: "I'm looking for work." The words came out faster than he expected. She stopped. And looked at him. For a brief moment he felt like a normal person again. Someone with a future. Someone still able to stand on his own feet. He raised his head further and said with forced confidence: "Yes... I'm looking for work." As if he were doing society a favor. As if he hadn't spent the past months on the sidewalks. She kept looking at him for a few seconds. Then smiled. A genuine smile this time. A rare thing. She said: "Are you serious?" He answered immediately: "Yes." He didn't hesitate. Even he almost believed himself. She smiled more. Then said: "I think I can help you." His heartbeat quickened. "Really?" She nodded. "Yes." Then she glanced at the watch on her wrist. And looked rushed again. "But not now." She took a step back. "Let's talk about it tomorrow." He felt as if the world stopped for a moment. Tomorrow. For the first time in a long while he had a real reason to wait for tomorrow. He watched her move away among the people. Then looked at the money in his hand. And without realizing it... A small smile began forming on his face. As for the iron ball behind him... It looked lighter than it had in months. The moment she disappeared among the people, his heart started racing. Tomorrow. It was a simple word. But it was enough to ignite something inside him. He stood there for a few moments. Then started walking aimlessly. A foolish smile never leaving his face. He knew it was just a job opportunity. Just a passing conversation. But his mind wasn't interested in the truth. His mind was occupied with something else entirely. He began weaving possibilities. Silly possibilities. Unrealistic ones. But he couldn't stop them. What if he got the job? What if he kept it? What if she started seeing him differently? What if... He laughed to himself. Then kept walking. And his imagination drifted further and further from reality. He pictured himself in clean clothes. Talking to her every day. Eating together. Then he began thinking of even crazier things. Names of children who hadn't even been born. A life that hadn't happened. And a future that existed only inside his head. But he didn't care. When was the last time he felt excited about something? When was the last time he waited for tomorrow? When was the last time he smiled this way? He looked at his iron ball. It was still massive. But it looked lighter than usual. Much lighter. As if hope itself was lightening its weight. He reached a small shop. Looked at the money she'd given him. It was enough to buy decent food. Maybe even two meals. He hesitated for just one second. Then went in. And a few minutes later he came out carrying a pack of cigarettes. No food. No water. Just cigarettes. He smiled as he looked at it. Like a child who'd finally gotten the candy he'd been dreaming of. He knew it was a bad decision. He knew he'd be hungry later. But he couldn't resist the thought. In the end... Hunger was part of his life. As for cigarettes... They were one of the few things that still gave him a temporary feeling of happiness. He lit one right away. Took a long drag. Then exhaled the smoke slowly. And closed his eyes. Savoring that small moment. Unaware that his mind had already begun building dreams far bigger than reality. Dreams that might hurt him more than the iron ball itself. That night he sat near the river smoking a cigarette. One of the homeless men approached him. A thin man with a tired face and eyes red from lack of sleep. He pointed at the cigarette. "Give me one." The hero looked at the pack. Then looked back at him. "This is the last one." The man raised an eyebrow. "You bought a whole pack yesterday." The hero took a long drag of smoke. "Found it off someone in the street." Then raised the cigarette. "And this is all that's left." He was lying. In his pocket there were still several cigarettes. But he didn't want to give him one. The man shrugged and walked off. He stayed sitting until the cigarette was completely finished. Then pulled out another a few minutes later and lit it. He kept smoking in silence, watching the river water. Then fell asleep.

The Iron Ball

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