Schizophrenic Messiah

Copyright © 2012 by Marcos Lerma.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2012905898

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4691-9314-4

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4691-9313-7

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4691-9315-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

For my mother and father who taught me

to be a good person, to follow my dreams,

and to never judge a book by its cover.

Chapter One

Iraq, 1983, a woman screams out in the night, shrieks of agony echo through the streets accompanied by the cheers of a mob. The streets are lined in cobblestones, and they shine black in the night, under sheets of rain. The woman tries to run, but she is dizzy and exhausted. The muscles in her legs burn, and the throbbing pain in her head is unbearable. She stumbles around the corner when she sees him.

She sees him standing there with a stone in his hand. His eyes are filled with rage, and the veins in his neck swell with blood.

Please, she screams, her arms stretched out reaching for him.

He pulls his arm back, clutching the stone in his palm. His eyes fill with tears, his arm trembles, and he drops the rock. She looks up at him with her amber-colored almond-shaped eyes. Her long black hair is twisted and matted with blood. She manages a faint smile; her white teeth are exaggerated by her dark skin.

Suddenly, two men run up from behind her and grab the man. They struggle but finally manage to pull him down on the street. He shouts at them as they hold him down. The woman turns to face the crowd; she lifts her hand and says something in Arabic to the leader of the mob. He nods yes and motions over to the man on the floor. She walks over to him, kneels down, and kisses him on the forehead.

It’s okay, you could not have known. I forgive you, I love you, and I will see you again, Jarad, she says.

She turns to face the crowd; she looks up to heavens and cries out, My child is innocent!

Then the stones fly, first one by one, then by the dozens. She falls to the floor, like a tattered and torn doll. The man on the floor struggles, trying to get to his feet to help her, but the men holding him down are too strong. He screams out for them to let her go, but his words fall on deaf ears.

Thunder rolls loud, and lightning illuminates the sky; rains pours down upon her face, and the blood from her head streams down to the street. The mob surrounds her, and again, the stones fly, each of them hitting her.

Each stone lands harder than the one before. This will go on for several minutes before she finally succumbs to her injuries. The last few stones make a thud as they hit. It is as if they are no longer hitting a person, just meat. All the life that once emanated from her was gone; a lifeless body was all that remained.

As the mob turned to leave, the two men holding Jarad finally release him.

Jarad kneels before her, sobbing wildly. I am sorry, he says. I am sorry. The man’s face is filled with guilt as he holds her body up to his own, rocking her back and forth as he sobs. What have I done? he cries. He rocks her back and forth, brushing the muddy red strands of hair out from her eyes. I’m so sorry, my love, I did not know.

He pulls out his knife and flips the blade open. He takes a long hard look at the knife in his hand, then he looks down at her beautiful… lifeless face. He kisses her on the forehead, and with his hand grasping the hilt of the dagger, he plunges the blade into his heart with one hard and deliberate motion. Both bodies slump to the floor, the dead man still embracing the woman he loved.

The rain stops, and there is silence in the night. The sky is so clear now. No more clouds, a billion stars overhead, one shone brighter than the rest… much brighter.

The silence is abruptly interrupted by screams in the night; far off in the darkness, a baby cries. A woman carrying the child tries to comfort him, but the baby continues to cry.

The woman holding the baby is identical to the woman who was just stoned to death. She walks off in the night and disappears into the darkness with the child in her arms. Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen with tears. Her nose was dripping steadily as she continually sniffs back the mucus in hard reverse breaths. She comes to a modest apartment building at the end of the alley. She stops and checks to make sure she has not been followed before she walks in. She takes the baby into a small room and lays him on a bed.

It’s going to be all right, she says. I promised your mother I would take good care of you.

A short thin man walks in; he is visibly shaken and frantic. His skin is very dark, and his eyes are hazel. He has a thick mustache and is in bad need of a shave.

What are you doing with that child? he screams.

You know that baby belongs with Jarad’s family! They will kill the child! she responds. None of them believed her in the first place, and that bastard had my sister killed!

Of course, they didn’t believe her. Are we to believe that she had a divine birth? he retorts.

My sister asked me to protect her child, and that is what I intend to do, the woman boldly remarks.

Fatima, you cannot bring this upon us! the man pleads.

I am not bringing this upon us, she says. She was my sister, and I’m bringing this upon myself. I alone can see to this child’s fate.

What are you saying? says the man in a vague tone.

I am leaving, says Fatima. I will return when I know it is safe. My sister left instructions. I am to take the boy to America.

AMERICA! Fatima, it would take weeks and a fortune to get you to America, he shouts.

My sister had been planning this for months, and she was to leave tomorrow morning. I have her passport. I have to use it before her death is reported. I need you to bury my sister properly. Please don’t leave her in the street like that. I can’t bear the thought of her lying there broken. I cannot stay, it’s far too dangerous now, Fatima says as she struggles to fight back the tears.

I love you, Fatima, the man says. I will bury your sister, and I will join you in America when it is safe for me to go.

This would be the last time she would ever see him. When Fatima arrived in New York with the baby, she had three hundred dollars and one suitcase that was tearing at the seams. She sat outside the airport with the child trying to figure out her next move when she was approached by a cabdriver.

He was a very chubby man, with a dark complexion. His bulbous nose poked out over his thick ungroomed mustache.

Do you need a ride? he asked in a thick accent.

How much would that cost? Fatima quickly asked.

He recognized her accent immediately. You’re from Iraq? he asked.

Yes, I am from the Anbar province, she responded with a smile.

I have been here for almost ten years now. You are going to love New York, he said in a raised and excited tone.Where are you staying? he asked her.

Fatima looked up at him and started to cry. I don’t know where we are going to stay, she said. Her words were heavy with shame. We just arrived, and I don’t have much money. I had to come because the child was in danger.

Don’t cry, he said, comforting her, I know you are scared, but you will see that everything will be all right. We have a small community of people from back home. We all help each other out here. I have a place that will put you up for the night, and I will make sure they give you a good price. Don’t worry, by this time next week, you will have an apartment, a job, and some new friends.

He helped her into the cab and loaded her bag. What a good-looking boy you have there. What is his name?

Jacob, she said. I think I will call him Jacob… and I am Fatima, she softly replied. Thank you for your kindness. I would have been lost had you not found us.

No need to thank me. I am happy to help. My name is Mohamed, he said with a smile.

With Mohamed’s help, Fatima found work in a restaurant and moved into a small basement apartment in Queens. The apartment was small and dirty, but it was cheap, and it was available. Mohamed checked in on Fatima and Jacob those first few months to make sure they were getting along well in the city.

Fatima thought of him as a godsend, and she became extremely close with him and his family. She was a hard worker, and eventually, she was able to make an arrangement with the building manager. She helped him clean the apartments after residents moved out, and in return, he took a few bucks off her rent, and he let her keep whatever the former tenants left behind. After that first year, she had painted the walls and had completely furnished the apartment by mixing and matching leftover furniture. It took some time, but she had finally managed to make it feel like a proper home for Jacob. She worked hard at the restaurant; she wanted to provide a good life for the boy, and she wanted to honor her beloved sister.

Five years had passed, and Fatima was now very comfortable in the city. She knew her way around and was able to provide young Jacob with a good home. She loved him very much. He