The three boys sat cross-legged on the cracked pavement near Ayman’s home, their laughter punctuating the stillness of the Tunisian midnight. The bottle of Celtia sat half-empty between them, its sharp fumes mingling with the faint, salty breeze from the distant sea. Ayman took a swig, his head tilted back, and then handed the bottle to Nadir, who was grinning ear to ear, his words slightly slurred but brimming with excitement.


    “You know,” Nadir began, wiping his mouth, “Ahmed, my neighbor, he made it. He’s in Italy now! He’s staying with my brother. He finally met him!”


    Ayman leaned in, his interest piqued. “Ahmed? Seriously? And your brother? How’s he doing?”


    Nadir puffed out his chest with pride. “He’s doing great! Ahmed told me he’s working at a restaurant, making good money. My brother’s even saving up to open his own place someday.”


    “Lucky bastard,” Ayman muttered, shaking his head. “If I had the money, I’d be on a boat tomorrow. No more of this life.”


    Nadir smirked, taking another sip. “You don’t need that much. I know someone. He can help with the transportation. It’s risky, sure, but it works. I just need to save up, and soon, I’ll be there with my brother.”


    Ayman’s eyes lit up, a glimmer of hope cutting through the haze of alcohol. “Then count me in. I’ll do the same. Italy sounds like the dream. Work hard, make money, send some back to Mama... maybe even start something big here when I return.”


    Sami, who had been listening in silence, suddenly shook his head and spoke firmly. “Not me. I’d rather stay here, keep working, and go abroad legally. I’ll get my experience, then maybe go to France. But not like this, sneaking on a boat.”


    Nadir scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Oh, come on, Sami. Keep working as a medical assistant? And what will you get? A slap to the face when someone’s family attacks you at the hospital because their relative died? Or when they don’t like the test results? That’s your future here.”


    Ayman laughed, patting Sami on the back. “Nadir’s right. You know how it is in the public hospitals. You’ll just end up frustrated, broke, and dealing with everyone’s nonsense.”


    Sami straightened up, his tone unwavering. “I don’t care. I’m determined. I want a good, honest future. I’ve been learning French for years. I’ll go to France and find work there. It’s better than risking my life on some boat.”


    Ayman burst into laughter, throwing his head back dramatically. “France? Are you serious? Man, they don’t want us there. And besides, France sucks. You’ll end up eating croissants alone and paying crazy taxes. Here, let me speak your fancy French.” He exaggeratedly mimicked a French accent. “Oui...baguette...bonjour!”


    Nadir joined in, slapping his knee as he laughed. “Mon ami! Monsieur Sami! Don’t forget your beret!”


    Even Sami couldn’t help but smile at their antics, though he quickly sobered. “Laugh all you want. But the problem isn’t France; it’s us. Our government, our corruption, the way things are run here—that’s why people are stuck. I don’t care about the past. I just want a chance at a good life.”


    Nadir leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “And I’ll get that good life too. Italy is the land of opportunity. I’ll work hard, make money, and come back a king! You’ll see. I’ll buy a football team right here in the city and name it after myself.”


    Ayman raised his bottle in mock toast. “And I’ll be the richest man in the neighborhood. I’ll buy all the houses, fix them up, and sell them. I’ll change this place, man. Help the people here.”


    They laughed together, the dreams spilling from their lips as freely as the Celtia from the bottle. Each of them painted their own version of the future—a fantasy of wealth, escape, and transformation. The night stretched on, their voices echoing in the quiet streets.


    For a moment, the weight of their struggles seemed distant. Under the faint glow of a flickering streetlamp, three young men dreamed, laughed, and drank, their hopes soaring high above the crumbling city they called home.


    The air grew heavier as Sami leaned forward, his gaze steady. The slight slur of his words from the drink didn’t mask the seriousness of his tone. “Nadir has a brother in Italy. What about you, Ayman? How are you going to survive there? And are you really willing to leave your mom behind? Your brother is doing well here. He’s a respected cop in the neighborhood. He found his way, so why can’t you? Why throw all of that away just to chase a dream across the sea?”


    Ayman froze mid-sip, lowering the bottle slowly. His jaw clenched, and the flicker of annoyance in his eyes quickly turned to fury. Slamming the bottle down, he spat out his words with venom. “My brother? My brother?” He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “You think I give a damn about him? He’s not some hero, Sami. He’s just another guy playing by the rules, living in a system that’ll never let us get ahead.”


    Sami tried to interject, but Ayman cut him off, his voice rising with every word. “I don’t want his life. I don’t want to live in anyone’s shadow, especially not his. Everyone looks at me and says, ‘Oh, that’s Karim’s little brother. He’s good. He’s smart. He’s respectable.’ I’m sick of it! I don’t care about being ‘good.’ Good doesn’t get you respect. Good doesn’t make you rich. And good sure as hell won’t change this shithole we live in!”


    The tension hung thick in the air as Ayman suddenly stood, pacing back and forth. His voice trembled, not just with anger but with the pain buried deep within. “Do you know why I want to go to Italy? Why I need to go? Because my father tried to do the same. He wanted to change our lives. He wanted to escape this mess and give us something better. But he never made it. He drowned, Sami. He drowned when I was just a kid.”


    Ayman’s voice cracked, his fists clenching as he turned to face them. “That’s why he left us. He wasn’t a coward. He wasn’t selfish. He wanted a new life, and if he hadn’t died, maybe—just maybe—I wouldn’t be sitting here right now, drinking Celtia with you two and cursing this damn life!”Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    The words echoed in the stillness of the night, the rawness of Ayman’s pain leaving his friends silent. He grabbed his jacket, his movements jerky, and muttered, “Fuck this. I’m done.” He turned to leave, his anger simmering as he took a step away.


    But Nadir was quick, jumping to his feet and grabbing Ayman by the arm. “Hey, hey, hey! Come on, man. Don’t go like this.” Nadir’s voice was steady, soothing. “We understand. We get it. Rest in peace to your dad, bro. He wanted the best for you. And look, now it’s your turn. You can go to Italy, but this time it’ll be different. You’ll make it safely. You’ll succeed. But for tonight, just stay with us, alright? We’re your brothers too. Sit down.”


    Sami, still shaken, nodded. “I’m sorry for asking, Ayman. I didn’t mean to stir things up. You’re right—you deserve to build your own life, your own way.”


    Ayman hesitated, his chest heaving with the weight of emotions. But after a long pause, he exhaled sharply and sat back down, his anger slowly ebbing. He picked up the bottle, taking a long swig, and then suddenly smirked, breaking the heavy silence.


    “You know,” he said, his tone lighter now, “I’ll have to leave Yassmine behind too. She’s a sweet girl, but I’ll find myself an Italian woman. Big boobs, blonde hair—like the ones in the movies.” He grinned mischievously. “Sad, huh?”


    Nadir barked out a laugh, slapping Ayman on the back. “You? With an Italian model? You’ll need more than money for that, bro.”


    Sami chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, you’d better brush up on your Italian first. What’s that word again? ‘Pizza’? ‘Pasta’?”


    The tension melted away as the three boys erupted into laughter, their camaraderie restoring the warmth of the moment. They leaned back, the alcohol softening the edges of their frustrations, as the conversation turned to lighthearted jokes about Italian women and their imagined lives abroad.


    The bottle of Celtia passed between them until the first light of dawn began to creep over the rooftops. Their dreams, their pain, and their hopes mingled with the rising sun, leaving a bittersweet mark on a night they would remember long after the Celtia’s burn faded.


    The morning air carried the remnants of last night’s cool breeze, but the rising sun threatened to bring the oppressive heat of the day. Ayman walked alone down the quiet streets of his neighborhood, the faint buzz of alcohol still coursing through his veins. The laughter and dreams of the night had faded into a hazy memory, replaced by a dull ache in his head and the heavy fatigue settling into his body.


    It was just past 7 a.m., and the streets, though not bustling, showed signs of life. Ayman rubbed his eyes, scanning the familiar roads with their chipped curbs and scattered bits of trash. The early risers of the neighborhood were already out—men and women dressed in modest clothes, heading to jobs they couldn’t afford to miss, even on a Sunday. He found it strange yet admirable; Sunday was meant to be a day of rest, yet these people were hustling to make ends meet.


    He stumbled slightly, catching his balance before greeting an older man sweeping the front of his small bakery. "Good morning, Uncle Brahim," Ayman called, his voice rough from the night of drinking.


    Uncle Brahim looked up, squinting at him before shaking his head with a chuckle. "Good morning, Ayman. Another long night, eh?"


    "Ah, you know how it is," Ayman replied, shrugging. "Just catching up with the guys. How’s business?"


    "Same as always," Brahim replied, leaning on his broom. "No rest for the wicked, huh?"


    Ayman laughed dryly, nodding. "Yeah, no rest for us either."


    As he continued walking, he passed a young woman carrying a basket of bread, her pace hurried as she made her way toward the bus stop. She glanced at him briefly, and he offered a small wave. "Morning, Zahra. How’s life treating you?"


    "Morning, Ayman. Same old, same old. Just trying to get through the day," she replied, her tone polite but distant.


    "Take care," Ayman said, watching her rush away. He thought briefly about her life, waking up early to make deliveries and help her family. It wasn’t so different from his own struggles, yet he couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy at her sense of purpose.


    Further down the street, Ayman stopped to chat with a small group of laborers gathered near a construction site. They looked tired, their faces lined with the weight of their work. He leaned against a lamppost, listening to their complaints about the rising cost of living and the lack of decent jobs.


    "One day, we’ll all leave this place," Ayman said, his words slurring slightly. "Find something better. Italy, France, wherever. Just... not here."


    The men nodded, some muttering agreements before heading off to start their day. Ayman watched them go, their silhouettes framed by the pale light of the morning sun. His own exhaustion was starting to catch up with him, but he pressed on, determined to grab a pack of cigarettes before heading home.


    Finally, he reached the small grocery store near his house. The metal shutters were halfway open, and the shopkeeper, a wiry man in his fifties, was busy arranging crates of fresh produce outside.


    "Morning, Ayman," the man said without looking up. "You’re up early. Or maybe you’re just not in bed yet, huh?"


    "Something like that," Ayman replied with a weak smile. "Just need a pack of Marlboros, Haji."


    The shopkeeper nodded, grabbing a pack from the shelf behind him and placing it on the counter. "That’ll be five dinars. You should get some rest, boy. You look like a ghost."


    Ayman handed over the money, pocketing the cigarettes and giving the man a small nod. "Thanks, Haji. Take it easy."


    With the cigarettes in hand, Ayman began the short walk back to his house. The streets were quieter now, the early workers having dispersed to their jobs. The faint hum of a radio playing Arabic music drifted from a nearby window, mingling with the distant sound of a rooster crowing.


    By the time Ayman reached the main house, the weight of the night had fully settled on him. His head throbbed, his legs felt heavy, and the slight spinning of the world made everything seem more surreal. The sun was rising higher, its pale light casting long shadows along the worn staircase leading to the upper floor.


    He opened the main door, stepping inside the shared entryway. Just as he approached his own door, he glanced up and froze. His sister-in-law, Karim’s wife, was standing at the top of the stairs, a bucket and rag in hand, cleaning the dusty doorsteps outside her home. Her movements were sharp and purposeful, her expression hard as she glanced down and noticed him.


    Ayman tilted his head back, the alcohol still buzzing in his system. He forced a grin, though it came out crooked and tired. "Good night," he said, his voice slurring slightly. Then, as he glanced around and registered the growing daylight, he laughed softly to himself and corrected, "I mean... good morning. I hope... you will have day, good."


    His words tumbled out in a disjointed mess, his exhaustion and inebriation making it hard to string together a coherent sentence. She didn’t respond. Instead, she gave him a withering glare—a look that held nothing but disdain—and without a word, turned back into her apartment. The door slammed shut behind her with a loud thud.


    Ayman watched her go, the corner of his mouth twitching in frustration. "Whatever, bitch," he muttered under his breath, loud enough for her to hear on the other side of the door. He stumbled into his own small apartment, letting the door creak shut behind him, the last shred of energy draining from his body.


    Upstairs, she heard the insult through the closed door, and anger boiled within her as she set the bucket down harder than she intended. Her hands trembled as she began preparing the morning coffee for Karim, the bitterness in her chest only adding to her resentment.


    Downstairs, Ayman collapsed onto his bed without bothering to take off his clothes, the old mattress groaning under his weight. His mind replayed the encounter briefly, but he dismissed it as unimportant, letting the dark tide of sleep pull him under.


    The faint smell of coffee brewing wafted through the house as the morning fully settled in, but for Ayman, the world was already fading into the stillness of his drunken slumber.