Eduard Dinikin - Summer. Day. Butterfly. Stories

“Lowermost,” the girl said.

“Really? “He was confused.

“There are a lot of parks here,” the girl laughed. And added seriously, “Infinite number. Everybody gets what they deserve.”

“And what’s that?” he asked, seeing a strange objects behind the trees.

“Our toys. We will play. We will laugh. But not you.”

He heard the answer and trembled.

The girl looked at him so hard that fear came over him. Instead of a baby face he saw a bloody, rotting snout with fangs. The tongue of the monster fell out of the maw and wriggled like a snake reaching for him.

“There are a lot of torture machines here,” said the monster hoarsely. “And a lot of children you killed. We’ll hurt you and tear you apart.”

He was frozen with horror. He knew he had made a mistake somewhere. A fatal mistake.

“But I had killed them before,” he said like it was an indulgence.

“But you had been killed already too,” said the “girl” with a sinister smile on the appeared face

Then children came from all sides of the park. A lot of children. He tried to escape from the “girl” but was grabbed by children’s hands. Ruthless, strong, cold, slimy. And he realized he had no chance to get away.

Suddenly something lifted him up. The sky became dark. Instead of children’s faces only snarling snouts flashed in front of him now. It smelled unpleasant, disgusting, and scary. The black wings flapped behind the demons that lifted him up in the air. Looking down he saw an infinite number of parks with torture machines. And he understood he was in hell.

Then he was lowered down. His hands and his feet were attached to the terrible mechanism. And when the first time he was slowly torn to pieces, when his consciousness was filled with excruciating pain, he knew he would stay forever in Lowermost park among torture machines, demons and monsters tearing his flesh cruelly and it will NEVER

end.

It was wonderful summer morning: the park was full of sunlight; the birds chirped cheerfully; the air was filled with the smell of lilac. “Maybe the same in paradise.” thought Gennady Vladimirovich. He looked of the alley as if he was searching or waiting for someone…

He came out of the basement some time ago. He couldn’t tell how long ago. He didn’t even seem to remember why he was in the basement. He felt fine. Even though he had another heart attack. But now his heart didn’t hurt. It just waited somebody.

And finally they appeared: a beautiful blonde with a little girl in pink dress. They waved to him happily. Gennady Vladimirovich smiled and hurried to meet them and he knew now there is

The clouds over Paris darkened, gathered and headed to south-west, emitting a guttural rumble of the future storm.

The rays of the sun fell to the bottom of my eyes and then flowed into the cellars of the subconscious, where until the end of my days they are destined to dimly illuminate what is better to forget like pretentious and meaningless phrase, a shameful act or a shameful lack of it, original sin, mass solipsism, my first assignment, other people’s empty lives, cowardice and betrayal.

The footprints on the dusty sidewalk, slightly sprinkled with the beginning rain, looked like a pattern of interwoven worms. One of them almost crawled to the entrance of the house, to which I was going. It’s better not to do the job than to do it halfway. I entered this house only with one purpose – to complete the mission entrusted to me and to complete it perfectly as always…

The “object” – brown-haired, grey-eyed bon vivant lived in the apartment on the third floor. Clark Delaunay In reality he looked even better than in the photo. Everything in him: his elegant manners, confident voice and charming smile made profound effect.

“Mademoiselle Benoit? S’il vous plait,” he said, opening the door, and I entered the apartment. He helped me to take off my jacket, and then we went to a large room with the bookshelves along one of the walls. A round table, a red couch, a couple of chairs, a Persian rug, a bust of Seneca, a full bar, a big mirror – this is what immediately caught my eye. Several heavy books lay on the table. I identified only one of them – “Experiments” Montaigne.

“I usually work in the morning,” he said, scrutinizing me, “the agency told me you are their best typist. Take in mind, Clarisse, I dictate fast.”

“I’m sure I can handle it, Monsieur Delaunay,” I smiled.

“Well, just call me Clark,” he said. “No need to be so formal… By the way, don’t you find that similarity of our names is not occasional?”

“Oh, it’s funny but I don’t think so,” I said, probably more flirtatious than I should, and to correct my mistake I looked with interest at the picture on the wall.

It was made in bright colors and surreal manner. In the center of the desert landscape a futurist construction stood, on its stairs was a man in a spacesuit who addressed his speech to a crowd of naked beauties, standing on the orange grass. There was a mountain range in the background. Two suns shone under it in the lilac sky.

“It looks like another planet. Did your paint this picture?”

“I’ve studied painting once, but haven’t achieved any success in it. Recently I saw a strange dream. It so excited me that I decided to fix it. Now you can see the result.”

“Wonderful! And what name did you give to the picture?”

“I didn’t come up with a name. May be you will help me?

I wondered, my eyes fell on the bust of Seneca.

“Through the thorns to the stars.”

“Per aspera ad Astra. Great! It’s surprise that I myself didn’t think of this name.” laughed Delaunay. “By the way, do you know what van Gogh wrote in a letter to his brother?

I looked at him inquiringly.

“Just as we take a train to get to Tarascon or Rouen, also we die to get to the stars”

“It’s a deep thought,” I nodded

Delaunay approached the bar.

“Do you want to drink? Oh yes,” he seemed to remember something, “if I’m not mistaken, you completed the bartending course, so you can make a couple of cocktails in case of my friends or companions come to me?”

“Sure. What do you prefer?”

“Well, I have pretty simple taste in this area of human passions. Mix gin, vermouth and vodka in a ratio of one-one-two and don’t shake.”

Preparing his cocktail, I looked in the mirror. Delaunay sat on the couch, his gaze traveled down my body. Oh, I remembered the same gaze of an important official in the Department of justice before he shot himself as it was said in the newspapers. Actually I killed that jerk. It was my job to make it look like a suicide. Finally the scandal was hushed up, and the unknown fatal beauty was never found.

“Is your hair naturally blond, Clarisse?” he asked suddenly. I poured myself a glass of wine. Drinking alcohol together facilitated my task.

“Yes, as natural as everything else,” I said, staring longingly into his eyes and feeling the incredible excitation all over my body.

Being an experienced male, he understood everything. He got up, came closer to me and gently lifted my chin by his fingers.

“What a lovely dimple,” he said, “you are devilishly beautiful, Clarisse. And you know that,” he ran his index finger over my lips. “Yes,” I smiled and licked it. Then I took his finger in my mouth and began to suck it, while his other hand softy squeezed my breasts.

I felt the heat underbelly when he pressed me against him and kissed deeply. My desire became unbearable. Not stopping to caress me he removed all my clothing fairly quickly. What he never should have found was hidden in my clutch…