Василиса Чмелева – The Universal Passenger. Book 2. The Straw City (страница 2)
From that moment on, I never again doubted what I wanted to do. I had always wanted to paint. And when I returned home, not a single day passed when I abandoned that dream. I became a fanatic of my own craft.
The painting hung in my room, later moving with me to my studio. It became my "safe island"—a touchstone to return to for peace and a reminder of why I did this. On particularly hard days, when sales of my work slumped, I would step closer to it, inhale the scent of paint and fabric, close my eyes, and imagine the sun-weathered artist, his dry hand sketching that boat as if, upon finishing, he could board it and sail into the unknown.
It didn’t matter if it was winter or autumn outside, if rain poured or snow fell. Near that painting, it was always summer. My own little world, carefully built from sensations and emotions. Turns out, orange is the hit of any season.
I shook off the wandering thoughts and returned to searching for a bus stop.
Turning off the highway onto a two-lane speedway, I scanned the area. The midday heat was oppressive, and the lifeless steppes had taken on orange-beige tones. It was strange to think the lake was so close yet there wasn’t a hint of green here.
Across the road, running parallel to the highway, stretched a double wire fence—flimsy as if it could ever stop a speeding car.
Speaking of cars, there were none in sight. Not surprising.
A small, gray metal plaque was welded to the side of the bus stop, its surface worn and dusty with age, displaying the faded schedule of routes.
I sat on the flimsy bench beneath the shelter’s overhang and strained my ears, hoping to pick out the familiar rattle of an engine amid the sounds of nature. But only the wind hummed along the deserted highway. Nearby, a crumpled, empty soda can rolled by—bright red, the only splash of color in this bleached-out landscape, something for tired eyes to latch onto.
I had no belongings with me. When I’d stormed out of the house (while the kid was still hurling curses from his room), I’d only managed to grab a gray flannel shirt from the trunk to throw over my shoulders—protection against sunburn, if nothing else.
Right then, I wished I had my headphones. Some music would’ve been good—something to drown out the tension of waiting.
I closed my eyes and started humming hoarsely, trying to recall a favorite song:
"I’m hundreds of miles away… And there’s no place I’d rather be…"
I got so lost in my imaginary concert that I didn’t notice the arrival of company.
"Did you always hate waiting, or is that an age thing?"
I startled, instinctively scooting away as I shot the kid a glare. There he was, perched beside me, adjusting a small hiking backpack on his shoulders and flashing that familiar gap-toothed grin.
"And are you always this annoying, like a mosquito?"
"Brought you water," he said, shrugging. "But if you don’t want it…" He stood up and began walking off.
"Where are you going?"
"Home. Since you’re clearly fine here alone."
A pang of guilt hit me. With still no sign of any bus in the distance, I sighed and called after him. "Kid—" I waved him back. "Just… hold up a second."
I grabbed the hem of his brown overalls, tugging lightly.
"What?" he grumbled.
"Sit down. Since you’re already here."
The boy grinned and hopped nimbly onto the bench, dropping his black backpack onto his lap.
"So what’s in there?" I asked, nodding at it.
"Some snacks. Buses only come once an hour here, so we might as well kill time…" The boy rummaged in his backpack and pulled out sandwiches. "With these, for example."
I took one from him and bit off a sizable chunk. Only then did I realize how hungry I'd been as the flavors hit me—thin slices of meat, fresh tomatoes, and crisp lettuce with what tasted like cheese sauce, all neatly stacked between two soft bread slices.
"Chicken. Just how I like it."
"Thought so," the kid nodded, taking a massive bite of his own.
His mouth was so full he could barely chew, cheeks bulging comically. I laughed and handed him a napkin sticking out from the backpack's side pocket.
"You eat like a wild animal, kid. Slow down before you choke."
"I bite exactly as much as I can handle," he mumbled through the food, wiping sauce from his chin with the napkin.
"I'll take your word for it."
"What's your name, kid?" I asked, realizing I'd never bothered to find out earlier.
"Karl," he answered matter-of-factly, still chewing like a starved raccoon.
"Seriously?" I snorted.
"Well, if you really were a zombie, I'd definitely be Karl," he burst out laughing—then immediately started coughing.
"There we go! Told you you'd choke!" I scolded, thumping the wheezing brat on the back.
When the kid finally stopped making those disgusting choking sounds, he sighed and lightly punched me in the chest. I gave him a suspicious look, checking if he'd wiped his slobbery hand on me after coughing.
"My name's Oscar," the brat finally introduced himself.
"Then I'll call you Ozzy—like an itch in my crotch," I nodded.
"Hey!" he yelped and punched me again, this time harder, right in the shoulder. "Not funny."
"I think it's hilarious," I grinned, then pointed at his feet. "Hey, do you always wear those rubber boots?"
"Mostly when I go out," he said, finishing the last of his sandwich.
"Aren't you hot in them?"
"Nope. Why?"
"Just saying, kids your age usually prefer something more comfortable. Sneakers, for example."
"Since when are sneakers 'comfortable'?" Oscar scoffed. "Your feet sweat even faster in those. But in my boots? No puddle stands a chance. Watch!"
He ran over to a small stagnant puddle by the roadside and jumped into it with full force. Water splashed everywhere—some of it splattering onto the road, where it immediately began evaporating in the heat, the rest soaking into his brown overalls. The kid just shrugged, as if that had been the plan all along.
"Yeah, yeah," I rolled my eyes. "Point taken."
I glanced around again and noticed a crow. It was flying frantically toward us before landing on the road, one wing held awkwardly close to its body.
Stepping to the edge of the highway, I stood next to the kid to get a better look.
"Poor thing," he murmured. "Must’ve hurt itself mid-flight, or maybe some jerks took a shot at it."
"People are weak and stupid," I said bitterly. "When they can’t be better versions of themselves, all they can do is hurt others—especially those weaker than them."
"Flaws get mistaken for weakness too," the kid shrugged. "When a crow’s wing is hurt, it leaves the flock. Flies alone awkwardly so it doesn’t show vulnerability."
"Hard to live when you’re not like everyone else. When you’re… broken," I said, rubbing the scar running along my wrist.
"Everyone’s got their own idea of what’s broken," Oscar replied. "What happened to your arm?"
"When I was around your age, I played basketball," I said, still watching the crow, its beady blue eyes glinting as if listening. "I was good at it—team player, coach’s favorite. Naturally, not everyone liked that. One day after practice, walking home along a road like this, three guys from the team caught up to me. We fought, and in the scuffle, one of them pulled out a pocketknife. Sliced right through the muscle here."
"Yikes," Oscar grimaced.
"Took forever to heal. Couldn’t play for months. By then, they’d replaced me, and one by one, the team forgot I ever existed," I sighed.