Igor Eliseev - One-Two

First they didn’t notice us and continued to argue awkwardly. We strained our ears to listen.

“Let’s start!” one of them commanded. “It fell on heads.”

“Why is it heads? Maybe we should… well, flip the coin one more time?”

“We’ve already flipped! I’m starting: first I will stab you, right in the heart, and then myself. Are you backing out?”

“No… I just thought we’d… well, let’s flip it one more time,” and, shivering with fear or with indignation, he picked up the coin from the ground, but never flipped it.

Because we, Faith and Hope, like two ghosts, appeared before them in the doorway like two of nature’s spontaneous apparitions. I had got used to all the weird things mentioned in books and wasn’t surprised at all by absolutely incredible matters, yet those boys shocked us unimaginably at that moment. At first they stared at us with eyes made huge by astonishment, and then in a couple of moments they dashed in opposite directions. One of them stumbled and almost fell into the fire and the other unsuccessfully tried to get out through the window. We never laughed so loudly in all our lives, not anywhere – not even in the tunnel. Our laughter could be heard from afar, too, and helped those unfortunate refugees near us to understand that we were alive. And apparently, we had involuntarily disrupted their plans.

“How did you get here?” you asked, weeping from laughter.

“We’re just… just…Well, you know… sheltering here,” we heard from the window.

“Which paranormal being did you shelter from?” I teased him.

“We’re sheltering here from the rain,” a more confident voice sounded from another corner of the room.

“Did you run away from home?” I stated more than asked.

“No, we’re just… for no reason.”

“We were baking potatoes here,” said a loud voice from the corner and asked, “Do you want some?”

“Come here, caterers. Don’t you be afraid of us; let’s face it, we are fed up with adults, not with kids.”

“We’re not afraid, we just… well, kinda…” the second voice objected, carefully approaching us. “It was just we were stupefied a trifle.”

“That’s what we thought. You chickened out a little bit and made a run partially.” I hardly restrained my laughter. “So what are your names, runners?”

“I am Vital, and he’s Red.” A figure from the far corner started to take shape.

The boys approached the fire with one step, and I could observe them attentively. They were very young, looking no more than thirteen, their faces soiled with soot, and what was most surprising, they both had red hair. That feature made them look even more comic.

“What are you laughing at?” Vital muttered.

“It’s just… kinda… just…” I imitated him. “Why are you called Vital, and he’s Red? You are both red, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m a little bit red,” he pointed his finger at his friend and added, “but he is Red, completely red. So that’s why I am Vital. Would you like some potatoes?”

“Well, cooks, we’re not going to refuse a treat,” we said very friendly and approached the fire.

Those kids dexterously took potatoes out of cinders and honestly divided them equally between everyone. Baked potatoes with ashes on them were incredibly tasty and extremely hot.

“All right, could you be so sweet as to tell us what you were actually doing here?” I asked.

“Wanted to bump each other off,” Red answered defiantly, “but Vital won the coin toss, and this is unfair.”

“If so, why were you baking potatoes?” you inquired.

“Whoever does away with himself on an empty stomach?” Red inquired, indignantly.

“We realized that life is shitty, so we decided it would be better to die, and doing this together is not so scary,” Vital admitted sincerely. “Red gets beaten at school quite often, and my mom and dad bloody well fight with each other nearly every day!”

“Perhaps it sounds trite, but some days are just bad days! However, you’ve got to have more weighty reasons to die, and I think you don’t have any.” For some reason I was amused by their story while at the same time there was nothing amusing in their statements.

“And what are you doing here?” Vital wondered, champing very loudly.

“We live here,” I confessed honestly.

“Wow! Isn’t it scary?” Red got surprised.

“Of course it is. That’s why we are always together,” you broke into laughter, “like teeth and a tongue in the same chamber.”

“It’s rumored that this house is haunted,” Vital stepped right into the conversation. “Have you seen any ghosts here?”

“Sometimes we see them, but we’ve got used to them and even attached to them,” you answered ironically.

At this very moment, somewhere up above, a branch of a tree started knocking on a window frame. Everybody stopped eating potatoes and listened.

“What is it?” Red asked, alarmed.

“Don’t you know? It’s the black hand.” I suddenly remembered a scary story we used to tell in the dark, one we’d heard often enough in the foster home.

“What black hand?” Vital almost squeaked.

“It happened quite recently, or, maybe, long ago. Once upon a time there was a very docile girl; in the evenings, obeying her parents, she always went to bed in her small room until one evening, a branch knocked on the window of her room. She told her father about it; he went to break the branch and got lost. She told her mother about it; her mother went to her room and got lost, too. And then the girl decided to break the branch by herself. Outside the window was a wild downpour. She reached out to open the vent pane; and when the window finally opened, she saw that it was not a branch knocking; it was a pitch-black hand. It seized the girl and choked her, cutting her off just like that. And that’s the whole story. I’m sure you are not scared, are you?”

“Not at all, those are tales for children, and we are grown-ups,” Vital defied.

“Actually, I gotta go home,” Red began to hurry, peering at the window. “And the rain has just stopped.”

“Mom’s going to be mad if I come home late. Well, I should probably go, too.”

“So you were scared, anyway,” you concluded sneeringly.

“We were not, it’s just my father and he’s going to beat me up.” Vital voiced his thoughts aloud. “I swear we are not afraid of anything.”

“If it really matters, you run.” I smiled amiably.

“But if you suddenly get bored and wish to try that again, you’re welcome,” you chopped in.

“Only one thing I beg of you,” I said. “Don’t approach the window.”

“Especially at night,” you added, “when it’s raining.”

But they weren’t listening. They’d already jumped up, off like two bullets.

We haven’t seen them since then.

After they left we sat at the smouldering fire for a long time, drying our wet clothes. Looking at the fire, I thought how often luck depends on chance. And is it fair that a small incident can totally change a person’s destiny? Eventually we got up and went to our bedroom, back to old ghosts and imaginary fears.

Our life was going imperceptibly by when the last day of April came. Twilight fell over the city as we were slowly walking in the innocent rain. Our loyal blanket got soaked in cool water, but I didn’t notice, hurrying to breathe in the spring and let my soul green out. While the rain was pouring down, we, inconspicuous like everyone else around us, merged with a harmonious picture of the world hidden under raincoats, jackets, covers and umbrellas. Trying to outshout the noisy rain, you unexpectedly brought up an uncomfortable topic I didn’t want to discuss.