Bassim
VIP Member
- Joined
- Mar 1, 2008
- Member Type
- Student or Learner
- Native Language
- Bosnian
- Home Country
- Bosnia Herzegovina
- Current Location
- Sweden
Would you please correct my mistakes in the twelfth part of my short story?
The young man made some good friends. They were men like himself - calm and quiet people who liked to read books and have long discussions about meaning of life. He started drinking alcohol, although he tried to stay sober. He knew his limits - a few pints of beer or a shot or two of vodka. He watched with disbelief how his friends gulped beer, wine and spirits one after the other, and still were able to stand on their legs. Unlike in his homeland, where people drank in moderation, people in this country used every opportunity to get blind drunk. At weekends, the streets were packed with them, staggering and lying in the streets and clutching cans and bottles as if their lives depended on them.
Student parties were everywhere and often. The young man went there with his friends and had a lot of fun. He watched his fellow students losing their inhibitions and behaving like naughty children, but mostly like fools. A few glasses of an alcoholic drink were able to change completely their personality. He wished he had a camera with him, and could film these future intellectuals, who were lying in their own vomit, or in the urine-stained trousers danced wildly to the techno music. Sometimes, he would bump into them the following day, and he would laugh inside himself. There were no traces of rebellion and defiance on their faces. When the alcohol had worn off, they had reverted to the submissive and obedient citizens as before. You could hardly get a word out of them.
Once he was at the party in a large house outside the town. He had drunk more than usual and felt tipsy. He went upstairs to have some rest, and lay in bed in darkness, listening to the music and hubbub coming from the first floor. The Venetian blind was up, and the bright moonlight spilled across the room. A door opened soundlessly, and he believed he was dreaming when a girl stepped inside. He gasped and his eyes widened. He almost shouted, “Jasmine.” Because of her blond wavy hair and high cheekbones, the girl could have passed as Jasmine’s older sister. She was tall and wore a skimpy white dress, under which bulged out her large breasts. Barefoot, she walked over to the bed and sat on her knees beside the young man. The faint smell of cigarette smoke and perfume drifted up from her. Without saying a word, she unbuckled his belt and unzipped his trousers. Her fingers slid inside his briefs and touched his organ. A voice inside him warned him to do something and stop her. He was committing a sin, a sacrilege against Jasmine. But another voice urged him to enjoy and relax. Her fingers moved deftly along his manhood and made it hard and swollen. Her eyes had a strange sparkle in them – the eyes of a predator, a tiger or a lion ready to pounce on its prey. He would never understand fully what had happened at that night, but he was shocked to see both his trousers and briefs lying on the floor. Before he could put up any resistance, she was riding on him as if he were a horse. Her left hand held her floating hair behind while her right one massaged her breast. Her motions were rhythmic and smooth, and her eyes closed. He did not know if he should hold her in his arms or pressed her towards him, so he held them on the bed on either side of him while his organ was swelling inside her wet, warm opening. As he came, he let out a piercing cry. Later, when he pondered on that night, he would be unable to tell the origin of that cry. Was it a cry of pleasure or an agony? The woman gave him a bright smile and left the room without saying a word. He never saw her again.
He felt dirty and disgusted with himself. He should not have allowed this to happen. The woman had taken advantage of him and left him in agony. His feeling for Jasmine was the most sacred part of his soul – the core of his being, and now it was stained by pure sexual urge. He asked her for forgiveness, and he promised never to do such thing again. But the anguish persisted and his body shook. It was the similar feeling he had experienced in the prison camp, and he jumped off the bed and rushed outside. He had to be with people, even if that meant keeping a poker face. Alone, in that room, he would have gone mad with fear.
He arrived at home at dawn and went straight to shower. The stench of his body lingered in his nostrils, although he did not know if his sense of smell was deceiving him. He squirted a large amount of shower gel on the palm of his hand and scrubbed it over his body. A stream of hot water felt like a balm to his wound. He slumped onto the tiles, and cried for the first time since he had come to this country.
After five years of study, the young man graduated, and immediately found a job. The need for psychologists was great. Despite being one of the richest countries in the world, its inhabitants suffered from depression, burnout, drug and alcohol abuse and many other mental disorders. The young man mostly treated refugees coming from war-torn countries like Iraq, Sudan, Somalia, and Eritrea. His colleagues were neither educated nor prepared for such patients. They were grateful that he took care of the people whose stories and experiences were difficult to listen to and caused their stomachs to knot. The young man was a patient and attentive listener. Nothing could disrupt his calm. The stories he heard were sometimes horrific. They were about torture, endless interrogations, beatings, rapes, executions, prison camps, amputations without anaesthetic and similar cruelties, which no ordinary person could have listened to without feeling sick. But the young man had become hardened after months in the prison camp. He knew how much pain was hidden behind the words, sighs and silence. He had learnt how to ask questions, and how to leave some things unsaid. Because of his humbleness and dedication to his profession, he was loved and respected by both his colleagues and patients.
TO BE CONTINUED
The young man made some good friends. They were men like himself - calm and quiet people who liked to read books and have long discussions about meaning of life. He started drinking alcohol, although he tried to stay sober. He knew his limits - a few pints of beer or a shot or two of vodka. He watched with disbelief how his friends gulped beer, wine and spirits one after the other, and still were able to stand on their legs. Unlike in his homeland, where people drank in moderation, people in this country used every opportunity to get blind drunk. At weekends, the streets were packed with them, staggering and lying in the streets and clutching cans and bottles as if their lives depended on them.
Student parties were everywhere and often. The young man went there with his friends and had a lot of fun. He watched his fellow students losing their inhibitions and behaving like naughty children, but mostly like fools. A few glasses of an alcoholic drink were able to change completely their personality. He wished he had a camera with him, and could film these future intellectuals, who were lying in their own vomit, or in the urine-stained trousers danced wildly to the techno music. Sometimes, he would bump into them the following day, and he would laugh inside himself. There were no traces of rebellion and defiance on their faces. When the alcohol had worn off, they had reverted to the submissive and obedient citizens as before. You could hardly get a word out of them.
Once he was at the party in a large house outside the town. He had drunk more than usual and felt tipsy. He went upstairs to have some rest, and lay in bed in darkness, listening to the music and hubbub coming from the first floor. The Venetian blind was up, and the bright moonlight spilled across the room. A door opened soundlessly, and he believed he was dreaming when a girl stepped inside. He gasped and his eyes widened. He almost shouted, “Jasmine.” Because of her blond wavy hair and high cheekbones, the girl could have passed as Jasmine’s older sister. She was tall and wore a skimpy white dress, under which bulged out her large breasts. Barefoot, she walked over to the bed and sat on her knees beside the young man. The faint smell of cigarette smoke and perfume drifted up from her. Without saying a word, she unbuckled his belt and unzipped his trousers. Her fingers slid inside his briefs and touched his organ. A voice inside him warned him to do something and stop her. He was committing a sin, a sacrilege against Jasmine. But another voice urged him to enjoy and relax. Her fingers moved deftly along his manhood and made it hard and swollen. Her eyes had a strange sparkle in them – the eyes of a predator, a tiger or a lion ready to pounce on its prey. He would never understand fully what had happened at that night, but he was shocked to see both his trousers and briefs lying on the floor. Before he could put up any resistance, she was riding on him as if he were a horse. Her left hand held her floating hair behind while her right one massaged her breast. Her motions were rhythmic and smooth, and her eyes closed. He did not know if he should hold her in his arms or pressed her towards him, so he held them on the bed on either side of him while his organ was swelling inside her wet, warm opening. As he came, he let out a piercing cry. Later, when he pondered on that night, he would be unable to tell the origin of that cry. Was it a cry of pleasure or an agony? The woman gave him a bright smile and left the room without saying a word. He never saw her again.
He felt dirty and disgusted with himself. He should not have allowed this to happen. The woman had taken advantage of him and left him in agony. His feeling for Jasmine was the most sacred part of his soul – the core of his being, and now it was stained by pure sexual urge. He asked her for forgiveness, and he promised never to do such thing again. But the anguish persisted and his body shook. It was the similar feeling he had experienced in the prison camp, and he jumped off the bed and rushed outside. He had to be with people, even if that meant keeping a poker face. Alone, in that room, he would have gone mad with fear.
He arrived at home at dawn and went straight to shower. The stench of his body lingered in his nostrils, although he did not know if his sense of smell was deceiving him. He squirted a large amount of shower gel on the palm of his hand and scrubbed it over his body. A stream of hot water felt like a balm to his wound. He slumped onto the tiles, and cried for the first time since he had come to this country.
After five years of study, the young man graduated, and immediately found a job. The need for psychologists was great. Despite being one of the richest countries in the world, its inhabitants suffered from depression, burnout, drug and alcohol abuse and many other mental disorders. The young man mostly treated refugees coming from war-torn countries like Iraq, Sudan, Somalia, and Eritrea. His colleagues were neither educated nor prepared for such patients. They were grateful that he took care of the people whose stories and experiences were difficult to listen to and caused their stomachs to knot. The young man was a patient and attentive listener. Nothing could disrupt his calm. The stories he heard were sometimes horrific. They were about torture, endless interrogations, beatings, rapes, executions, prison camps, amputations without anaesthetic and similar cruelties, which no ordinary person could have listened to without feeling sick. But the young man had become hardened after months in the prison camp. He knew how much pain was hidden behind the words, sighs and silence. He had learnt how to ask questions, and how to leave some things unsaid. Because of his humbleness and dedication to his profession, he was loved and respected by both his colleagues and patients.
TO BE CONTINUED
