"What do they do with the remains of an exploded car?" My son once asked me.
I always knew that it was the right time for me to be terrified. I had just realized all of those fathers were merely milk teeth. Soon they will replaced by their youthful sons taking their place in the mouth of the family. The sons will absorb all the hatred calcium needed to grow on the side like eternal molars.
That always scared me before I realized that I had died and that was no longer my problem. I quickly recognized that man they call death walking around stacking dead bodies in his bag. We were surrounding that car whose driver ran away seconds before it exploded. We all tried to flee home and see our families, at least one last time. But we all couldn't move an inch, not until death picked us up before it started flying.
Up from above we could see our country below, a map of a misshapen land, with veins separating its borders. Those black and red dots must have been our cities and towns. All looking like the traces of Godly injections on the arm of a drug junkie.
Halfway through our ascension death felt tired and bored, it was a long trip. He sat on a cloud dangling his feet to light a cigarette. The bag opened a little bit from the top, and for those few moments we escaped, and for those few moments, our loved ones felt our presence. But those moments didn't last very long as we saw the world turn dark again when death picked up his bag.
Ascending to heaven, we could all the iron and steel getting knocked. We then quickly realized that heaven was nothing but a recycling factory. Death opened and we saw the burnt car causing our death put in front of us, dismantled into little pieces, each became a vessel for us to live in forever.
That's when we learned what they do with the remainder of an exploded car, son. They are dismantled then recycled into everyday objects.
Ahmed's vessel became a screw for a nob his daughter uses to open and close her makeup kit to cover another abuse caused by her abusive husband, the one she was forced into marrying so she wouldn't die starving like her mother.
Hassan's vessel became a trigger for his son to shoot innocent people.
Alaa's vessel became a cheap ring put around his widow's finger when forced to become an ISIL bride, and so on, son.
I was lucky, though. The angels took pity on me after they saw that I lived terrified, tired, and sad my entire life. So the angels agreed to bring me back to life.
"What a poor man!" They said "Let's give him another life, far away from this country that caused him all of this pain"
"And let's make him a dog this time" They added "One of those cute little dogs rich people buy, so they would spoil him"
Now, there's nothing wrong with me. I am happy with this gentle, kind family. I don't bark at anyone and no one chases me anymore. I am not in charge of guarding anything, I just sit with this good family in the living room, feeling warm and full.
The only problem is, sometimes, suddenly, I would see the country I used to live in on the T.V during a news segment. Then I start to howl like a wounded wolf and cause everyone to panic.