Boarder

Their gold necklace read Mole, pronounced as Molei. Nicknamed ‘skin’, they used to be a known gang member who had a change of heart after an incident that involved a transgender teen, who was killed by a member of the gang they had put together. The teenager was their own sibling. It was determined to be a hate crime against Trans people. They decided to continue their sibling’s transition journey as an homage to their loss. That is why they use the pronoun ‘they’.

They were driving slowly as they had to, everyday, all day long, along the border. It was a very cold, very bright sunny day. Sky was completely blue. Snow had painted everywhere white, like a puffy blanket. It was almost minus forty degrees Celsius. That white blanket was certainly frozen. Yesterday, the temperature was around minus one with snowflakes falling as big as makeup remover cotton-puffs they bought from the pharmacy. But no, they do not identify as female or male, and do not put on makeup for that reason. (Just so you do not assume). As they were driving, an intense reflection blinded them. Their reflex took better of them and they pushed down the break. Something was shining on the side of the road. When they got to it, the little black rectangle was the only color to be seen for some distance. A black thin strap seemed to be keeping it together. It looked like a journal, calendar, or maybe a notebook. It was almost glued to the snow. It took them few tries to finally pull it out. The wind was unbearable, so they just ran back to their car. It looked bloated, like a filled puff pastry. Why had not snow covered it, though? They thought its owner must be hiding somewhere around. But there was no footmark. They pulled back the stretched black elastic band to release it and it burst open showing a pack of cash in the carved out space in the middle of what they then realised was a notebook. All of the pages were carved out except the last page. All pages, even the ones that had been cut out in the middle, had scribbles on them. Their heart was racing. There was so much money, mostly bills of fifty or one hundred. They thought it should probably be around 20,000, more or less. Most of the text on the inside of the cover looked like it was damaged by humidity, maybe rain, snow or who knows what. Name or initials were unreadable. One readable sentence was hardly preserved and read: “If you find me, please do not read me. I am full of personal information to be returned to” and then there was water damage. Then it said: “I wrote in English so no one from my relatives or my co-travellers could read it”. Mole closed the notebook, pulled the strap back on, placed it in the compartment and drove off. Should they give it to their supervisor? Should they look along the border for a sign of the owner? Did it belong to a resident or a refugee? They always helped the refugees. Called in sick and went home to have more time to think about what was needed to be done. Maybe there were more clues inside the notebook. Once home, they were preoccupied by the money inside the notebook. Why not taking the money and giving the notebook to their superior and let them decide? Or maybe if they read the writings, they could somehow find the owner. Mole thought reading the cut-out pages would not be too intrusive as most of the text was no longer there anyway. They thought that could be their middle ground between respecting the owner’s wish written on back of the cover and trying to find usable information to find and give back the notebook to its owner. There were mostly only few words left on each side of the cut-out pages: 5 am, clothes, siren, all alone, home, orphaned, soap, bombs, broken glass, gone, do not trust, 30,000. They thought out loud: that should be the hidden money! Mole continued reading: were pushed down the tower, running shoes, cried, cried, cried, abandoning, my cat Rakhsh, was from the army, blood, hungry, walk faster, beaten, at least sun is warm, night, trees, mud, smell of sweat, killed my brother, little match girl, highway, my mother used to speed up, love in first sight, wine, mountains, they took her away screaming, tears, roses, chocolate, safety, backpack, my notebook, left all behind, faraway, should go, run now, fell, blisters, on my feet, war, freedom, loss, orphaned, silence, mother fuckers, nothing else matters, why though, why, why, why. Mole thought this was not helpful at all. What did all these words mean? Were they orphaned? Had they lost their family? Where did they come from? Mole was not closer to understand more by reading the words. The last page was the only page with full sentences. Mole was really perplexed about what decision to make. They thought what if the owner needed help and this was their only chance? They turned to the last page and started reading:

"I had to come all this way to be safe. I did not know I was not welcome. I never thought being asked where I was from could become such a painful question to answer. I thought I could meet Billie Eilish one day. Listening to her songs on my walkman was the only strength left in me to walk one more day. I never thought the actual event of being born into a place determines so much for one. And I couldn’t save my sister that was dragged into the night, screaming, almost naked. Or my brother whose face was covered of shame when they pushed him down the tower for being in love with another man. This notebook was the only precious thing I was given in my life and I had to carve it out to hide dirty money that doesn’t bring anything than greed. No one really understands what is going on in this world anymore. Maybe we never knew. Religion used to be more fun, or at least my parents said before they were raped and murdered by the religious militants. Why me, though? Why my people? We used to adore tourists. My father brought them home from the market, would feed them, let them stay for free, and showed them around. I guess they are not the same ones who join the war against us. Maybe it was my own people who destroyed everything. Like the airplane that was brought down last january by some Iranian soldier shortly after taking off. Or it's just an speculation. I don’t know anymore. It is snowing like crazy and it's getting dark. Suddenly I have nothing to write about. This is the last page. I have been on the run fearing death. This cold makes me not feel afraid anymore. Maybe I should use my remaining matches to warm myself. My fingers are almost losing their sensitivity and there is nothing to burn around here. Maybe I should burn this notebook. :( I feel like the little match girl. Stranded from the group makes it even less bearable. But they were getting nosy. What if they found out that I was not a real boy? To them it doesn’t matter what I want to be or think I am. People don’t ask where you are from to know about your culture. They ask the question to confirm what they think of you. When I started this journey, I thought they would be publishing my journal one day. I did feel like a victim. I did. I just really felt sad for myself. Because why did I deserve all this? I am not sure if anyone has seen what I have seen or lived. I thought I would become famous. It is so pathetic to burn the most prescious gift you were given to live on. A Moleskin notebook is luxury where I come from. Not many people have the money or the taste to have it. Maybe if they had done something for the climate, it wouldn’t be this freezing this time of the year. I guess I will never be famous. Rakhsh, I love you. I hope you are enjoying running everywhere in complete freedom. After all, you got your wild side from your stray-cat-mother. I am so numb to the pain that maybe I just sit here and wait for the morning. That is the thing about pain. When you have had so much of it, you get to a point that you just can't say if it is painful".