Igor Eliseev - One-Two

Did she steal it from Mother? I’d already quit being surprised, but tell me – I have always wanted to know.

“I took her lipstick, too,” you grinned. “Don’t panic, I’ll take care of us. Not a single bitch can hurt us now. Whosoever is hard is going to find it hard to keep his own life. That one especially. I wish he was already dead. The bastard!”

Unfortunately, you were right again. We had no choice but to defend ourselves. Isn’t that what wild animals do? But I am not an animal, though nobody treats me as a human. I’m just a stupid girl: silly, naive, blind. I have been hiding under the blanket for so long that I have finally lost all connection to reality; I flattered the world in hope of flattery in return. Perhaps, it’s just the way I am – I can dispense with everything in this life, but I can never dispense with hope.

Driven by emotional despair, I began to hug you and started crying… and people flashed past us: half-lonely, half-unhappy, half-resigned, half-alive, giving us occasional, stealthy looks, full of pity and contempt.

“Who is that over there?” you blurted out, poking me in the side. “Look.”

Having brushed away my tears and thoughts, I looked in the direction you pointed in and saw someone’s head peeping out from behind a distant column. Having met my eyes, the head hid at once; however, a few moments later, a strange, rounded shadow separated itself cautiously from the wall and started walking away, breaking into a run at the exit of the tunnel.

“I see it for the first time,” I answered quietly.

“So do I.” You shrugged your shoulders. “Probably, our pug-bastard sent someone to kill us . Don’t you think this is strange?”

You’re asking! Actually, everything seemed strange to me that day. How fast-changing is our world! While we holed up at our mother’s, human society, remaining the same in appearance, changed at its core, reminding me of a broken clock which seemed to be still working, but already showed the wrong time. Meanwhile, the same figure approached us from the opposite direction.

“He’s going round in circles!” you exclaimed, putting your hand in your pocket.

Stooping a little and bending his knees, an impossible person, similar to a flat pumpkin rolling along the rough road, came nearer to us. He walked lopsidedly; it seemed as if he might split up and fall over at any moment. He was dressed in an old, well-used suit, very tight trousers and a carelessly knotted tie with dark green threads sticking out from the fabric. A couple of steps from us, he stopped abruptly, doubtful whether he should come closer, silently faltered and then hesitated for a while as if trying to understand his own thoughts. He had a silly, ridiculous look on his face, but for some reason I hoped to hear a revelation from him. A small, bald spot shone on the top of his head, his face-skin was flaking, eyes bulging. He was shaking with fear or shyness. To make matters worse, he had small, babyish fingers with long, dirty nails and his white, lifeless hands looked – especially in the tunnel lighting – as if dusted with flour. I could have counted to one hundred twice before he managed to regain his self-composure. Having moved a little closer, he got up on tiptoe to be on a level with our height, and once he opened his mouth, you lost your temper:

“If you wish to give alms, well, drop it or go away.”

He gave us a surprised look as though he had just remembered where he was, smiled foolishly and finally squeezed out a few words:

“I’m sorry but I’m going to walk away. Don’t take offence, please.”

“We’re not easily offended,” you growled. “So what do you want?”

“You reminded me of the babe I used to know and, so to speak, reopened a wound in my soul…”

His sugary, ingratiating voice enshrouded us like dough.

“Do you wanna blame us for your reopened wound!” you exclaimed with a cold sneer and then whispered to me casually, “This is another insane guy just for us!”

“I am not insane, I’m just deeply unhappy,” he moaned plaintively, hearing your words; meanwhile, the smell of sour flesh coming from his mouth struck our faces. We had to hold our breath and turn away.

“If you could only imagine…” he whimpered, almost sighing, and then faltered again, evidently not knowing how to finish the phrase.

However, we didn’t get to know what would happen if “we could only imagine”.

“Look, can you get us some vodka?” you interrupted him sharply. “I’m terribly thirsty.”

The pumpkin-shaped stranger didn’t pay much attention to your question – at least not right away – and pulled out an infernally dirty, almost stiffened handkerchief from his pocket, and started blowing his nose.

“What a wonderful way to ignore inconvenient questions,” I thought grinning, and at this very moment a wild, inhuman yell sounded nearby.

Having woken up from their daily cares and getting caught up in a faceless stream of strangers behind changing masks, people clumsily hurried in the direction of the shouting. Driven by a weird and inexplicable impulse, we rushed after the passersby, and, having squeezed tightly in between them, froze to the spot. In front of us, lost in unknown reverie, the supervisor was sitting on the dirty floor and blinking much faster than normal. His chest was heaving with rapid breath, his lips were whistling, and were it not for an open wound in his neck, you might think he was resting or playing the fool. I stared at the pug clinging to life and didn’t feel anything: neither hatred, nor pity. Nothing. And his ripped throat kindly smiled at me, drooling bloody saliva and whispering: “Pray, bitches, you will all be punished by death.”

Meanwhile, the gathering crowd was narrowing the circle, gripping us in a huge, unfriendly embrace. Someone was exclaiming loudly, someone was whispering convulsively, but nobody was moving to call an ambulance. And only when the atmosphere was strained to its limit and in many aspects beyond its limit, did the dying man “rescue” us . He moved his shoulders, as if freeing them from an unbearable load, helplessly stretched out his hands for the last time, stopped breathing and went limp. In the depressing silence that followed there was a minute when we could hear a seller of magazines fidgeting at the end of the tunnel. In other words, in the silence there was a decisive moment when the crowd parted, letting through the most respected, trusted and valued member of society. In such cases, a solid citizen coughs with significance once or twice, taking the lead, and then starts reciting pompously: “Life has its end, but death is limitless. We live for a short while and die for ever.” God damn it, that guy is incredible; he definitely isn’t worth his salt! He created the epic scene that was worthy of being put on a big stage by a prominent theatrical director… but somehow nobody stepped forward. Nobody recited. Instead, everyone stood still for some time, shaking their heads, and then the crowd broke up silently. Curiosity satisfied, everybody plunged into selfish indifference again. That was the logical end of the performance. The curtain!

So many striking events in one day, endless, free gifts, but my question remained unanswered. Had the supervisor’s death contributed beneficially to our lives or made our fate worse? Is everyone’s life more valuable than anything in the world or, on the contrary, totally worthless? You probably didn’t think of anything, rejoicing as though the murder that had just occurred was your personal victory.

“For the first time in our life we’ve had the luck to win the game. Don’t you think so?” you asked severely.

Hope, I know, cruelty always gives rise to cruelty, anger begets hatred, but I wonder if you could really wish upon him such a death?