TRIGGER WARNING: Description of self-harm.
 
White Nights by Fyodor Dostoevsky triggered what felt like my last day on this earth.

In an old, barely working car, under the noon sun burning through the rusty metal roof, I was sitting in the back seat with Sarah, my best friend, and an old man with a stinky smell. All three of us were tired and drained after a long day either in college or work.

The ride from the north to the south is only an hour, but it is never just an hour. It is the journey between the farthest two points in Gaza. And even though Gaza is tiny, whenever we head to the north, we pack our belongings as if we are traveling to the other side of the world. Maybe because we never got the chance to travel outside this well closed box; controlled by them and a countless number of checkpoints.
 
That day was long, humid, and carried the smell of misery. I smell it from afar. That damn aroma often finds its way towards my nose. He’ll kill it though. I wonder who will slaughter the other first?
 
I took the book out of my bag. White Nights, a short novella. I had forgotten the rule: don’t judge a book by its cover. White is supposed to be light, gentle, promising something soft. I thought it would be an easy read.
 
Sarah looked at me. “White Nights, ya Lama?”

“Girl, you read love stories? Are you in love?”

“No, I’m not.”

It’s just my habit. I buy books without knowing anything about them. I let them surprise me. I let characters reveal themselves to me. I don’t wait for people to experience something first and then tell me what to think of it. What I might detest, others might love; and the same with books. That’s why I don’t trust good reads reviews or even have a cursory look at them.
 
“I forgot my wallet in the library,” she said.

“I’ll handle it. Don’t worry.”
 
I knew she hadn’t forgotten her wallet. I also knew she couldn’t afford the ride. She knew I knew. But that’s how we moved through life; each one helping the other with whatever she could offer.
 
“Today is my cousin’s henna,” she continued. “I don’t want to go but Mama is forcing me”
 
“Oppp. Stop. Don’t change the topic,” she cut herself off.

“Why did you even buy White Nights by Dostoevsky?”
 
“I liked the cover,” I said.
 
“You liked the cover? How silly!” She slapped my back and burst into loud laughter.
 
“Shut up. I’ll read it. And then you’ll know the story — from me. Don’t spoil it.”
 
“It’s a love story between two lonely people and it ends in…’’
 
“Shut up, Sarah. I want to read it.”
 
A donkey cart crashed with the broken car. I panicked as if someone threw a bucket of freezing water over my head. The driver got out of the car and started cursing the universe “A donkey driving a donkey,” he said.

A young lady with ozon holes beneath her beautiful brown eyes was by me. With torn out slipper and pale scarf, sitting still, gave no reaction, neither to the accident nor the shouting nor the 500 meter away explosion, staring at nothing, or who knows, maybe gazing at everything.
 
Where is Sarah? Did they kill her? No. Maybe she missed her little girl. She called her Dusty for it turns everyplace she enters to a pile of dust. But Dusty cleans Sarah’s heart as she often says. They killed Dusty. I’m sure of that. But Sarah killed herself for she couldn’t find food to feed Dusty. She slit her wrist to make him drink her blood.