Part 2

"It was 11:31 P.M., I and Ahmed, the cameraman, had only thirty seconds until we go live. I adjusted the microphone and faced the camera.

"Yes, yes, I can hear you well. Today, the protestors are showing exquisite actions compared with the past weeks. As you can see around me, hopes of freedom and prosperous dreams arise, as the people's anger fades, and the wounds, old and novel, are cured with love. Seldom did a wounded person die of maltreatment, and most returned safely to their homes. Families and friends have made their tents, announcing that they are leaving soon, as they finally have their rights. We are trying to interview some people in the square…"

People sang their pain out, and food was shared with each other. It was a moment when your brain would confuse what you see and smell. In the blood-decorated streets, people laughed, while the smell of sweat and hardships crammed the air with humidity.

The camera had to cut out the answers that urged violence, which were most of them. Nevertheless, most people had nothing more to lose. The live show ended, and mindfully, I allowed myself to remove the fake mask of sugar."

"The fake mask of sugar?" Raising her eyebrow, Sarah asked.

He smiled with an exhale, "They call sugar the white poison for a reason."

"I looked around, amidst all this sugar-coated chaos, and allowed the films of the rebellion to run in my mind, the fires were at their highest. I jerk to a hand big enough to clutch my arm like a light post. The hand belonged to a white-bearded little man, with little things, sitting on a plastic box that used to be filled with soda bottles. Urging me to sit for a moment, he brewed what looked like tea on a fire."

11:47 P.M.

"I sipped the drink he offered impatiently, as I realized that he was just telling his own life story. As a reporter, I get in such accounts frequently. In the early years of my career, I would sympathize and try to help as much as I possibly can, but as time went on in my profession, I realized that it made no use.

I mastered the technique of giving false impressions of interest until my plan was interrupted by a football hitting the once-lit fireplace. Boha, the old man, stood with outrage and threatened the kids playing. I fetched the ball and gave it back to the kids and made my effort to calm Boha. Turning to sit back, the ball hits Boha's back. The kids run with laughter, as he chases them around, cursing their mothers.

Except for one kid, whose hair and skin contrasted in color. The wind hugged him from all sides, for there was nothing around him to stop it. I walked my feet until I made it to the pavement the boy sat on. Sitting down was the easiest, for what follows was not."