It was far too late to sell himself. He sat on the sidewalk, empty of thought and emotion.
At first, in an attempt to escape, he tried to market himself as a Middle Easterner. But they had already filled the quota. He then tried to market himself as a special kind of Middle Easterner, a Lebanese, but that quota had been filled too. Next, he tried as a Shia Muslim, but to no avail. Then, the combination of a Lebanese Shia Muslim, specifically from the Bekaa region, but surprisingly, that quota had been filled as well. He contemplated selling himself as part of the Lebanese Druze community, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to answer the vetting questions.
After not receiving so much as a glance from the guards standing at the top of the walls, he swam through the sea of people who suffocated the evacuation center from all sides, desperate to get in. It was like a bazaar, each shouting the quality upon which they had hoped to be taken: elderly who fought in specific wars and had valuable knowledge, women who had borne children, individuals with specialized skills, kids with certain disabilities; it was an open market.
He burst out of the crowd and saw those who had already lost all hope; they were crying in the distance, staring at the giant waves of bodies surrounding the evacuation center. It stood like a beast, surrounded by high walls, barbed wire, and armed men with weapons the people didn’t even know existed. He sat on the sidewalk as convoys came in, splitting the crowd to make way inside the gates. The chain of armored cars and trucks was endless, filled with plants and cages containing dogs, cats, deer, hyenas, and various birds.
It was then that he had a revelation. He rushed back home, leaving his car behind to save time in traffic. He only had three hours before it was too late.
He ran and kept running, even when he felt his body starting to collapse. It took him 45 minutes to get to his apartment. He opened the door and went directly into the living room. The stuffed wild boar he had hunted back in his motherland stared at him expectantly. Every time he looked at his trophy, he remembered the cold, early mornings when he hid between the bushes, silent and focused, as an apex predator should be.
The boar walked with a herd of twenty; it was a majestic horde. They inched ever closer to where he lay in wait and spread out in different directions, rooting and scavenging. Their grunts pierced the silent darkness, making him swallow his breath along with his saliva.
He slowly lifted his rifle. They were about 50 meters away; he couldn’t remember the last time he had allowed air into his lungs.
The choice was random – just a clueless boar digging the ground with its nose in a spot that was convenient for his shot. He felt the trigger’s resistance. One breath out, and in the middle of it, a bang that lit up the entire forest. Birds, boars, and critters all fled from a sphere with him at its center. He even felt the plants and trees swaying away from him, held down only by their roots. The prey fell. A brown boar. Mundane if it weren’t for the bullet inside it.
It sat in the living room for five years as a full-body mount, spectating his comings and goings. If it weren’t for the taxidermy, he thought that boar would have been smiling at how the tables had turned. Not for long.
He went to the kitchen and grabbed the biggest knife he could find. Shaking, he approached the stiffened boar, sliced it open at the stomach and emptied it of all the stuffing, throwing it around the living room haphazardly, like a reverse Frankenstein. The shell was ready.
He started from the top of his chest, slicing himself open all the way down to his stomach. At times, he had to hack for a bit, but the knife was just sharp enough to do the job. He was a blooming flower, skin and muscle peeling off the bones as he kneeled in front of the empty carcass. He felt excessive. If he wanted to fit inside, he had to be less. He discarded the esophagus, stomach, intestines, liver and pancreas. He only needed one lung, he thought, and threw the other one away as well. Anything internal that was doubled was thrown away; it was surplus. They were placed in a mushy pile where the boar used to be displayed. He was able to fold himself into half his size. When inside the womb of the beast, he used a needle and thread and shut himself inside by sewing it back together.
It was a bit uncomfortable at first, but he got used to walking on all fours quickly. He practiced his grunts and snorts all the way to the evacuation center.
As the unusual, lonely boar walked toward the gate, people made way for it, splitting themselves in the middle. They looked in amazement at how calm it was, how holy, how serenely it walked, about to be whisked away from the consequences of minds it didn’t fathom.
It stood patiently in front of the gate. Silence engulfed the entire premises as everyone froze, awaiting what would happen next. It let out a snort that cut through the stillness like Israfil’s trumpet. People murmured, and as they did, the gates opened, and a cautious man stood to the side, ushering it in with his hand.
The gates closed behind it and never reopened. In the distance, the sirens sounded, blending with the wailing of forgotten faces. The sky rumbled with the roar of great engines.
