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 All, but indifferentShort story By Reza T. Saberi August 1, 2002 The Iranian The sounds of shots were successive and sudden. I didn't even have time to react. I tried to stand up and get out of the bed, but I couldn't. I felt that under my legs were wet. I put my hand under my leg and felt warmth and humidity. When I took my hand out from under the blanket and looked at it under the dim early morning light, it was red. I couldn't believe that the bullets had hit me. Where from? Nobody except my old mother slept in this room, but she was crippled and didn't walk. It was strange. I didn't even feel the pain. I tried to stand up, but I couldn't. I sat on the bed and removed the blanket. The bed covering under me was bloody. My mother was now sitting beside the bed, stunned, looking at me. She had a worried expression on her face, but didn't move. The windows were closed and the glass was intact.  I slowly got out of the bed, opened the door and pulled
myself through the corridor. Moving was very difficult and painful. Who and why had
shot me? I opened the door and got out of the house to the little alley, barefoot.
My pajamas were red from below the waist. I thought I got shot under my belly and
thigh, but I didn't feel any pain. Everyone I asked didn't pay any attention, as if they didn't care. I was frightened very much. Every second now counted and I had to get to the hospital. Didn't they see my blood-soaked hand? Didn't they see that I needed help? A man stuck out his hand in my direction. When I got to him with much difficulty, he put a quarter in the palm of my hand and pointed to the public phone. He told me that if I called 911 they will quickly come to help me. I hated him a lot. Is it possible to be so much indifferent toward a wounded man? I saw my brother. All of a sudden I felt happy. Now, he was my only hope of survival. In this early morning he might have come to visit my mother. I pointed to my bloody hand and pajamas. He looked at me and said that he was in a hurry to go to clinic to have his injection and that he will come back and take me into the hospital. A sense of hate toward him overwhelmed me. I was getting weak every second. Standing was getting difficult more than before. I begged two other men, but both looked away. Did they think I stretched out my hand for money? No, probably not. They must have seen my bloody pajamas. My heart was beating slower and weaker. I was filled with fear. I thought what would happen if I fell down on the ground. Then who was going to take me to the hospital? I couldn't walk any more. I sat there. My heart beat was dying down. I looked around and saw nobody.  I felt like something was leaving me. Like a balloon
which gradually loses air. Something was separating from me. Somebody who looked
like me. He separated from me and stood up. I tried to grab his legs, but my hand
passed through him. I filled with more fear. Was that my soul leaving me? Was I to
die right here: on this alley without a friend or family beside me? Was I to die
lonely?I put my hand over my heart, it was beating fast and hard. I touched my legs again. I could feel them all right. I touched my belly and thighs. There was no pain and no blood. I looked around. My mother was sitting beside the bed praying. I took a deep breath, pulled the blanket away and sat on the bed. My mother looked kindly at me and asked "Are you all right? You were moving a lot and talking. Did you have a bad dream?" Author Reza T. Saberi is the author of The Vicious Circle (Ibex Publishers, 2002) -- the story of a young physician whose life becomes interwoven with those who participated in the Iranian revolution (see excerpt). Saberi, is a pharmaceutical scientist born and raised in Iran. A former university lecturer, research scientist, and editor of medical journals, he presently works as an editor in a scientific publishing company and contributes regularly to the Persian literary magazines. He has written and published several other works of fiction in Persian.
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