Unnecessary Evil
a flash fiction, inspired by Mesh Darori (Mohammed Dayekh and Faraj Suleiman).
Act 1
“If only we were a little patient.”
Whispered Atef to himself in his depressed bedroom. Surrounded by empty bottles of Almaza, Heineken, and unlabeled Burgundy ones, he was holding the first photobooth roll of him and Leila, his ex-wife. She left their love nest, a small apartment in Mar Elias Street, on a rainy Monday evening after a fight that left him and his face scarred.
On the same couch that smells of Chesterfield and remorse, her legs were facing the wall as the tunes of their neighbors’ piano were filling the room, one week before that fight, one week before she fled. It wasn’t their first fight, nor the fifth, but that week before, love had never been as intense in their Beirut.
In a drunken, dramatic instinct, he smelled the blanket they both lay under six nights before the fight. “I wish we were a little more patient,” he whispered to himself, as a small tear crawled out of his red left eye.
Act 2
“We were doing well earlier. What changed you?”
Thus thought Leila, staring at her ruined white nails holding her Davidoff cigarette. She tried to forget him in her bedroom at her parents’ house in Jounieh during a girls’ night out in Hamra. Rita and Chloe noticed how their best friend was still stuck in the sea of rue, in which she drowned through her rushed marriage with Atef, so they decided to take her out for cocktails and nostalgic pop music. A Pornstar Martini, a Sex on the Beach, an Aperol Spritz, then Leila saw a young couple dancing in the corner of the club to Bailando by Enrique Iglesias.
That reminded her of her first nights with her ex-husband; the joy, the summer breeze, the freedom of love. That made her heart softer, but not soft enough to forget the nights of mutual abuse.
“Garçon! A bottle of Haut Rian, please! My girls and I are having a special night!”
Rita and Chloé thought that Leila got in a state of boozy generosity that they couldn’t contest or resist. Leila wanted to drown her sorrow in the red sea of Merlot.
They were singing in Chloé’s car on their way back to Jounieh. As they were screaming the lyrics of Kan Inna Tahoun, and the cocktails and wine were blending in their stomachs, there was a contrasted mix of yearning and remorse within Leila’s brain.
“Merci mes amours for tonight, it was much needed. I love you!!!” Yelled Leila to her friends in a “cheerful” goodnight.
She really envied that young couple. The night would’ve gone better if Bailando hadn’t played in the bar, and that couple hadn’t kissed in her field of view. That night, she was alone in her room, smoking her Davidoff, missing his embrace, and looking at the nails that scarred his face before she left their love nest.
“What changed you, Atef? We were doing well earlier!” She thought to herself loudly, as the smoke and tears choked her harder than Atef last time she saw him.
Act 3
“You’re embarrassing us in the neighbourhood!”
That sentence was the fuse to the flame of their last fight. Atef returned home wasted like usual. “O’ love of my life! Throw me the keys to the palace of our passion!” Atef yelled from under the balcony of his apartment on a Monday at 5:05 AM. Leila heard such yelling in her dreams that she thought she was Rapunzel, finally getting liberated by her Prince Charming. “Bitch come down and open the door!” That one woke her up frustrated. She went down in a blue coat covering her beige lace pyjama to guide her husband’s drunk body to his bed.
Leila
Will it forever be like this? You’re spending your Sunday nights with five other dumb fucks instead of keeping me safe in your arms the way a good husband would do, and I’m not complaining…But this drama under the balcony? Fuck! What a fool!
Atef
Is this how a good wife welcomes back the love of her life? Plus, these dumb fucks are my blood, bitch! I’m the dumb fuck for being a fool for a whore who doesn’t kiss me at my doorstep.
Leila
Hush, cunt. The crown upon your dirty head, I am! You’re embarrassing us in the neighborhood! People are waking up to go to work, and you’re being loud outside as if you were still a teenager who had his first ever shot!
Atef
I’m doing what?
Leila
Em-ba-rra-ssing us.
Atef
So I’m a source of shame now, huh? A source of embarrassment?
Leila
With such repetitive behaviour-
She didn’t even manage to finish her sentence before Atef’s right hand found its way to her cheek.
Atef
You know what? I’m done. I’ll sleep in the car. Don’t even dare to follow me. I won’t embarrass you in our bedroom or on the street. Night.
Act 4
(five hours later)
Leila
You thought the conversation was over, coward?
Atef opened the door of his place to a smoldering Leila on the living room’s sofa, eye makeup all smudged, in the same night gown. She didn’t leave the sofa since she got slapped; she’s been waiting for him. The ashtray was full of butts from the same cigarette brand they shared on the bar of their first encounter.
Atef
What conversation? What conversation is to have when you’re constantly abusing me mentally with your complaints?
Leila
I wouldn’t have complained if you were better with your tongue than your fist, bastard. I would have never complained if you had filled our bed more than the seats of every bar in Lebanon. I would never have complained if you had spent more time with me than your dumb colleagues.
Atef
Oh! So that’s how you pay back my loyalty?
Leila
What is loyalty without presence?
Atef
What presence can I have with a woman who kept on comparing me to every other man she had or didn’t have? What presence can I have with a woman who’d only see me charming when she ovulates, but keeps on instrumentalizing every flaw I didn’t choose and had within me until they became insecurities? At this point, I’m not even sure I married the same woman…You’re lucky I even married you and brought you to Beirut from your mountainous shithole when girls like you get played for years, wishing for half a proposal. As a matter of fact, you should be grateful that my only source of enjoyment is the time I spend with the boys at the bar, because I have deprived myself of everything else for your joy: I haven’t talked to women ever since my lips kissed yours for the first time, I stopped going to stadiums because you overly feared I’d get hit by hooligans, I hit the gym that one time because you wished I were as hot as Michele Morrone then stopped once you got paranoid by the idea of women looking at the slightest bit of my muscles. Any other man would leave at the first bit of comparison, any other man would pack his things and go once they hear that they have the same hair as their lady’s ex-boyfriend. How can I be present in an environment in which I’d be seen as insecure just for worrying a bit about places you’d be in or content you consume? Can you blame me for spending my Sunday nights with my guys instead of a place where the night swings between sex and arguments?
Leila, throwing the ashtray,
It’s been my biggest mistake to follow my lust because it led me to such a gay ass crybaby like you, an abusive gay crybaby who touches his guys more than he touches me. I wish I had heard your whispering against my neck more than your loud screaming when you’re drunk. I wish your hands had caressed my hair more than they pulled it whenever I mentioned the least dissatisfaction. I wish you loved yourself enough that you’d never get triggered by any remark I made. You know what? I actually wish I had stayed in my father’s café instead of following you to Beirut.
Atef, walking fast towards Leila, then grabbing her neck,
Did you just call me gay? Did you just dare to insult my masculinity?
Leila, scratching his face, then pushing him,
As long as you embarrass us and lay your hands on me, you’ll never be a man.
Atef felt blood running down his left cheek, but the wound wasn’t deeper than the months of verbal abuse he had faced through his marriage with Leila. He left her smoking in the bedroom as he went to check on his face.
Leila was exhausted with remorse, she never expected to hear such an explosion from Atef, as if he put a mirror in front of months of her behavior. The mass of the words she heard was too much, she had to smoke and cry it out. Most importantly, she felt like she needed to leave a house that she felt like she wrecked.
Meanwhile, Abu Suleiman was trying to compose a new piece on his piano during his musical residency in Beirut. The notes were flowing smoothly until the shocking sound of the ashtray breaking stopped his music.
Act 5
(April 2026, two months after the fight)
“The house of Saade is saddened to announce the death of Antoine Elias Saade, husband of Susanne Haddad-Saade, father of John and Pierre Antoine Saade, brother of Mary Elias Saade-Achkar, and uncle of Fadi, Imad, and Atef Joseph Achkar. The funeral and the burial will take place next Sunday in St. Dimitrios cemetery in Ashrafiyeh.”
Atef’s uncle had passed away on a Friday. His entire family was deeply saddened, for Antoine was the joy of the house, but Atef was the most shocked because it felt like losing a father one more time. Atef’s father passed away when he was still a third grader, so Antoine stood by his sister and helped his nephews with everything they needed, especially Atef, who was the youngest. Atef, despite his career in the police, was also an artist; Antoine was his first inspiration, teaching him Oud, poetry, and literature.
Leila wasn’t the type to interact much with her husband’s family; she only met them in religious gatherings, keeping a safe distance from any potential drama. Mary wasn’t bothered much by that, as long as her son was happy and kept on visiting her as often as he did, it was fine if she didn’t.
Still, Leila teared up when she came across the obituary post about Antoine on Facebook. She remembered how nice he was to her at family gatherings, and how he led the dabké at the small wedding. She remembered him teaching Oum Kelthoum songs to Elia, Atef’s nephew, and shamelessly making jokes about the political situation of the Middle East next to his bottle of Arak. Then, she didn’t care about Atef as much; she had to show up for the memory of Antoine.
“May he rest in peace. He was a good man.” Atef accepted the classical sentence of condolences from multiple mourners until he spotted her coming from the back of the service.
The scars were still looking fresh a whole winter after their fight. Her presence, though? It felt like it reopened the unhealed wounds. Her face among the masses? As distinguishable as a wolf among sheep.
She came for the memory of Antoine, but one would be foolish to think that she wouldn’t find him there. For the days before the funeral, she’s been convincing herself with the idea of only leaving flowers near his casket, pay her commiseration to his family, and avoid any interaction with Atef beyond sympathy for the loss. She was even firm with herself that she wouldn’t even look him in the eyes while expressing her sympathy, and make it all about Antoine.
Then she saw his sadness from afar. His anger was a thing she fiercely loathed, but his sadness was her biggest weakness.
She couldn’t resist running to him. He couldn’t withstand running away from her.
He dribbled the crowd vulnerably in black, in his blue coat, and she still pursued him with the heat of profound love, matching the red shade of her dress. The smoke of his Marlboro and temper escaped through his lips, the way he ran away through the narrow alleys; her eyes were still fixed on the man who meant life to her, and her feet surrendered only to the pace of her pursuit.
He knew he was still being followed, so he stopped to catch a breath; enough breath to not catch a fight through a question. She saw him stop, so she stood at a short distance behind him. Would he turn back, she’d hear whatever he’d mouth, would he get closer for a kiss, she wouldn’t resist that embrace, would he keep on walking away, she’d keep on walking to him. She wouldn’t try to stop him unless he stopped her, and she’d keep the same distance…or so her ego dictated.
He carried on his escape, and she threw her arms to catch him when their eyes finally met. Oh, eyes, they’d make the most rigid egos yield, and kingdoms crumble. Her eyes were a hell he feared returning to; his eyes were a flame she’d cling to the way a candle depends on a match for purpose. Her arms couldn’t stay still without trying to stop him, but his heart drove his feet on an infinite flee, doesn’t matter if they’d get wet crossing the Mediterranean to Cyprus if it keeps him away from falling into the hands that scarred him.
Meanwhile, Abu Suleiman was taking a nap near his Piano. Maybe that would inspire a new song. Most of his inspiration comes from his dreams, stories he’d invent during tipsy moments of sonder, or the poems of his friends.
Act 6
“Don’t interrupt me when I’m talking.”
Said Leila, gently, while leaning for a kiss.
“Hush, not here…” Replied Atef.
How did we reach this place? Wasn’t he avoiding her throughout the day? Well, yes, but their eyes met again, and again, and again, until he decided to do a front flip to the hell he tried to escape.
Let’s rewind for a bit.
Atef was still on the run, hoping that Leila would give up chasing him; he ran through the alleys, he ran down the stairs, with the speed of an employee in Silicon Valley running affairs - she still caught him.
“What do you want from me? Why are you following me?”
“I miss you. I hate to admit it, I even detest feeling it, but I miss you.”
“Go miss somebody who isn’t a stupid gay crybaby.”
He looked at her with a sarcastic pity, then carried on his walk. For some reason, she still followed him until they reached an abandoned construction site near the port.
Atef
Now what?
Leila
Can we try one last time? I mean, we’re still not divorced; we were just separated.
Atef
You wanna try again with an abusive, gay, stupid crybaby? Despite the months of abuse?
Leila
You’re none of that…well, you’ve been abusive indeed, and that’s on you, but we can find a solution-
Atef
Habibi, you’re the solution to my flaws.
Leila, giggling,
Don’t interrupt me when I’m talking! I sacrificed many things for our marriage; it’s only fair if we find a solution on my own terms.
Atef
Are we back to arguments again? God, that’s exactly why I’ve been running away for miles!
Leila
Sorry, love, I was kidding…
Atef, amused,
Don’t interrupt me when I’m talking! I’ve been running away for miles just to see if you’d care enough to follow me.
Leila
You’re still the Atef I knew at the café. Such a big old flirt.
She gets closer.
Leila
Hey, all these months of argument were necessary evil, though. Look at it, making us fools for each other again.
Atef
Honey, no. I’ll be honest with you; I couldn’t sleep these past few months of you deserting every corner of our nest. I could’ve easily gone to get a cream for the scars that you left on my cheek, but I left it on my face so it would be the last trace of you, the consequence of projecting all of my traumas on you in the form of physical abuse, a trace to remind me of my regrets, so I’d be a safer person for you. These months felt like a huge waste, a wide gap, no cigarettes, beers, or wine could’ve filled the spots your smile and kisses were filling. Honey, our abuse was unnecessary evil; we were doing better before letting toxicity get the worst of us.
Hearing these words, Leila couldn’t hold her tears.
You were in my thoughts all the time, yourself. Indeed, I resented you for all the hits you projected at me on your drunken nights, and all the nights in which you were absent…I would never justify your violence. I’d pray it changes because I want you back so bad…But I was as abusive, and I have to take accountability and apologize…
Atef
Do you need my coat? Your tone changes whenever you get cold.
Leila
How’d you know I needed it?
Atef
You don’t even understand yourself as well as I do.
He throws his blue coat into her hands.
By the way, we don’t have to argue all the time…
Leila
And you don’t have to throw your hands in anger all the time…
Atef, getting closer,
Well, you should control that sweet, sharp tongue of yours whenever you address me.
Leila, leaning for a kiss,
Don’t interrupt me when I’m talking.
Atef, flushed,
Hey…not here…we have a love nest nearby…
(an hour later)
Atef, smoking,
If only we were a little patient, we wouldn’t have missed such passion for months.
Meanwhile, Abu Suleiman was freshly awakened from his nap with a new symphony. He got awakened by how loudly the door of his upper neighbours closed, and other noises of rekindled romance heard through the thin floor that separates their two apartments. His Eureka moment, though, was the last sentence Leila said in the bathroom.
“If only we were a little patient…”
He kept repeating to himself, before his fingers started waltzing on his piano.
Fin.