Igor Eliseev - One-Two

“Let’s get out of here,” you said dispiritedly. “It’s no use searching in a place where there is nothing.”

And the pain of frustrated hope and broken faith sounded so clearly and openly in your words that all those who were present, including G. K. K., felt uncomfortable and fell silent.

“Come now, please,” you repeated, feeling that your dreams were the opposite of reality.

As we approached the door, we stopped and looked back. Neighbors, who had assembled like relatives ready to shoot a family portrait, watched us closely, with great concentration, but we didn’t care anymore. We stepped across the threshold, determined never to return. The door-lock clicked behind our backs and echoed, bouncing off the walls, doubled, then trebled that sound as though all the doors of the world were closing one by one, and the unflattering truth was eventually showing itself. “From here on you go alone, forever forsaken, forever alone.”

Strange thoughts visit me sometimes. Was it exactly as I remember, or did you see everything in a different light? And can it be that I greatly exaggerate all human imperfections, highlighting our ugly duckling burdens? Hardened in heart and having no other weapon but my own suffering, could I exhort others to do things they otherwise would not do? What if I were secretly in love with my failures and wished them to continue forever?

All the way “home” I was looking for an opportunity to discuss the Mother story with you, but you just kept wincing and turning away, awkwardly stumbling now and again. Try as I might, I couldn’t find the right words to talk about the incident. We eventually arrived at our abandoned house. I felt more unwanted than unhappy, as if we had been brought into the world and then expelled from it. I held no grudge against my mother. I forgave her. But was my forgiveness sincere? Is it possible to forgive a traitor without perceiving the true reasons for his or her treachery? Is it another lie intended to justify all previous lies? I would really like to know what you think about the bullshit, this bullshit, my bullshit. However, I often seem to understand you better when you are asleep!

The following day, driven by necessity (“We have to go back,” you agreed, “or else we’ll kick the bucket…”), we returned to the tunnel. However, even the obvious need for money faded by comparison with our growing impatience to plunge into the living, swarming mass again, to disappear completely. It was irresistible, like the urge to sneeze. I couldn’t live anymore without this chaotic, overflowing stream sliding through the tunnel like a well-trained but confused animal. I thought if we disappeared at least for a moment, so that nobody would notice us, pointing their fingers and making fun of us, I would not go crazy. Attention of any kind was also better than no attention at all. And at the same time the tunnel was the best place on earth for us to hide, to take a breather. You see how confused I felt!

Life in the tunnel hadn’t changed; everything remained in the right place. Same as before, all the sundry people hurried somewhere, indifferently, listlessly, same as before. We were met with “open arms”, so to speak.

“Well, look who decided to show up!” the supervisor shouted gleefully. “Hydra returned, by itself, on its own four feet.”

“Is our spot still waiting for us?” you inquired in a matter-of-fact way.

“You don’t even know what is waiting for you, two-headed freak,” the pug muttered with muffled rage. “I will cure you of your habit of leaving without permission.”

After that he grabbed you, seized you by the throat and shook you with such force that even my teeth clanked, and the last coins fell out of our pockets.

“Take your hands off me, jackass,” you croaked, barely able to catch your breath.

It happened in a flash. Next moment the pug hit you with all his strength. Suddenly the earth turned upside down; both of us dropped on the floor and all the noises around us quieted down. In the dead silence, somewhere far away, I heard his voice:

“Pray, bitch!” and he gobbed generous spittle on us, completing our humiliation.

Who could think that the ceiling and the walls of the tunnel could look so alike! I lay motionless, feeling neither pain, nor fear, most probably just the fear of pain. “I’d better not rise; it is safer,” I thought with bitter pleasure.

“I will pray for the repose of his soul,” you hissed, choking with fury now. “Let him burn in hell!”

And while we were slowly getting up, rubbing our hurt sides and hands, you repeated many times: “I wish him dead, scumbag. I wish him dead”.

“You have to run away from here,” a barely audible, unfamiliar voice rustled somewhere nearby.

Turning, we saw a skinny, almost invisible, armless little man. Resembling a broom or a mop, he stood as if glued to the nearby dirty wall.

Having spat out blood, you said loudly, “I won’t go anywhere.” And I nodded curtly, “We don’t have anywhere to go.” So we approached the mop “neighbor” to hear him better.

“He will either cripple you with his own hands or hire someone else to cripple you,” the armless man said, and suddenly burst out laughing heartrendingly. His laughter was so bewitching that I didn’t get all his irony immediately. To cripple the cripples , that was really ridiculous.

“I’ve been standing here for a long time, much longer than you,” his voice sounded conspiratorial, “and realized years ago that they beat the armless people not because we are repulsive freaks but because we can’t hit back,” and again, he couldn’t stop his feverish laughter mixed equally with despair and rage. “If both of you only knew how I hate them. I hate them all. Those who pass by, those who donate alms, those who take away the earnings – I hate you all! ” he almost barked out the last words, not talking to us anymore. “A-ah, let it all go to hell. Come on, move on your way,” he addressed the passersby. “Keep on ignoring me. Of course, you are right. I’m a nonentity. Yes, I can lick your shoes, but you are still going to step on my arms. Oh, and by the way, I don’t have any arms. See?” and, having waved his invisible arms, he broke into uncontrollable shrieks of laughter yet again. “And if I only had them, I would strangle all of you; each and every one of you.”

“The armless tsar,” I thought to myself. However, if he really had arms and power, or just the arms, most probably he would have spoken differently!

The poor guy continued to express his thoughts aloud to the passersby, but we didn’t hear him anymore; only chaotic roars scattered along the tunnel. I stood thinking. Was the absence of arms the true reason for his hatred or was it hatred itself dwelling in his heart inherently and giving sense to his life? He seemed to cherish the hate as a source of strength to live on forever.

“I wish he would die, nitwit,” in tune with the armless, you hissed discontentedly. “I won’t let him even lay a finger on us.”

“What finger? He has no arms at all.” I was puzzled, but I immediately realized what the issue was.

“I’m not talking about this gimpy one. I’m talking about the pug who decided to teach us a lesson. Clear? He won’t take me unawares again.”

And, frowning angrily, you snatched a screwdriver from your pocket, drawing it forth like a sword from a sheath.

“Have you really lost your mind? Where did you get that from?” I could hardly breathe. Astonishment stopped my breath.

“We need it more than she does,” you snarled, “and don’t give me that look! You know who I’m talking about.”