Вера Ефимова – Soulmate (страница 2)

The night was admirable, though. The mild summer wind was blowing his hair, fiddling with it slightly. An old, putrefying oak spread its leaves in the direction of him, as if trying to fence the guy with its gnarled branches. Even old and putrefying, it seemed in the prime of life to him—so gloriously does this feeling transfigure its object. He saw newly sown poppies and couldn’t stop gazing: they were scarlet, as usual, but there was something peculiar in the way they looked.

You could hear owls hoot in the distance, flying from one branch to another, maybe even hunting. People were strolling and muttering something to themselves, if warily observed. A barely audible squeak brought Fabian back to his state of mind. He felt like fainting.

He sighs. “There's no way back." Oh great. Now that we got it out of the way, he better find a shelter. In the middle of the night. Alone. Crows were croaking; all the monsters were already out, which eventually turned out to be just trees covered in dense vegetation, as the town of Riverside was quite an old, moldy place. There was only one subway—near the border in between two towns, which were both tiny and uncanny, letting alone people. All the intelligence departed to bigger cities, bigger opportunities; none a person with a hell of a potential would indelibly waste it in Riverside, rather than going to New York or LA for that matter. Personally, I find it unbelievably ruthless. . Fabian looked veil and saw the suburban station was supposed to be a hostel. The target point is detected.

He takes a quick glance at his phone: 1:42 p.m. A long night before dawn, mysterious, hushed, unexplored. Fabian felt an urge to scream. It would be a long, emaciated scream, caused by a lack of skill and ineptitude, which could lead him to a complete failure. These were only things that dragged him down. God knows for how many years (seventeen, to be less dramatic) he′s been locked out, like a bird in a cage  or an average married woman. Then, for the first time having a chance, he risks losing it. The gruesome starts to blow his mind, outgrowing into a big anxiety and fear. Uncertainty in his face was effortlessly reflected. He didn’t look coarse or appalling; it is more of an alarm. Overcoming such things might be deadly and unattainable.

Surprisingly, he had an idea. A silly one: “Why don't I pass a few more blocks and ask someone local fella for a shelter? That'll do for some time." Why mediocre? A few blocks from home had an array of stores, on the cameras of which he will be caught and delivered home once the police finds out about the son of their “cherished” colleague, who shamelessly ran away. It would be a disaster. But it didn't bother him at all. Nothing bothered him from now on. Fabian finally obtained the sweetness of full freedom. And he’s not going to lose it.

 It seemed a little controversial—running away from your only one parent since Fabian had some king of the affection as a kid. Sort of. Maybe he will miss the days Mr. Hawthorne was a great actual father, very long time ago. He would play with his little son till dusk and continue with the dawn. He cooked the best dinner in the world, which had everyone knocked off. He cared about him like no one ever did, and it will be certainly remembered. It was stellar—living in an ordinary family with an ordinary life. How quickly it altered “It will be never the same." The only thought that crossed his mind was to stop recalling old days and prevent being hurt. It was painful for him to see his father like that after he experienced the other side of his; the family felicity was so short he forgot how it feels to be loved. It was another obstacle that needed to be overcome immediately. Living in the past on a daily basis. Of course, all people love to immerse in the good old days, relive them, and brush up the memory, but not incessantly. The isolation Fabian found himself in brought misery to his life. He wasn't lonely; he was alone.

 It's getting colder, almost freezing. A boy was ravenous, so the hot dogs came in handy. His pants were all covered in blood stains, so it seemed like he had just arrived from a war or boxing club. His socks were ripped, but he didn't seem to care much about it. The crowd was cheering somewhere not far. Some vibrant vision arose: he′s strolling carelessly, sand under his feet, warm, white cost is tempting him to take a swim. He put on the hood, which covered half of his face, darkening it lightly. A flock of birds is flying up in the clear blue sky, and nothing bothers his head. “I need to get out of here.”.

 A single thought of the future was a blur. Too much of a risk; he didn't want to jeopardize himself or anyone else who decides to come along with him. Fabian needed to go as far away as possible. It was not easily reachable—to flung the pall of customary daily life and throw on a new identity. His feet were rubbing from tightness, and so was his mind. Every secret becomes clear someday—this term brought endless horror to him; it felt inevitable. Vulnerability was drenching him in sweat and doubts. Such a risk was unfamiliar to him. There was only one way to get rid of it.

 The heat was cooling down; it's almost two blocks past. Crickets were buzzing, and the crowd seemed to be dispersed. The lights were down low; a dimly lit pathway was leading him to people. Fabian would be definitely caught and sent home. Then beaten to death in the way he has never experienced before. Until he encountered…

Me.

CHAPTER 2

 Well, I think it's time to introduce myself. I'm Vincent Perez. Fabian′s… no. Stalker is not appropriate calling. Potential acquaintance, I′d say. Prepare yourself for a little story.

 Four years ago, when I was 15 and my neighbor, Fabian, was 13, I observed fights with his father every single day. It was a deafening, threatening story. Every day I was tantalized calling the police, Punch this son of a bitch, make him pay. Not Fabian—his father. Although I would most certainly get in trouble because of his father's reputation. I understood it clearly. I was highly concerned about the situation but never had much of a choice to do anything, so I waited. For years. I knew someday he would've run away if he hadn't yet. And I knew I would be always there to lend a hand. No catch, but I would definitely catch him if he falls.

 I once bumped into Bill Hawthorne on the street near his house when I was only 10. I remember him saying hi to me and trying to get to know me as we were neighbors (we just moved in). “What a great father he must be,” I thought. But little did I know how far from the truth I was! We were playing with Fabian in the backyard for several hours in the evening until his dad got home after work. He was clad in a faded green issue sweatshirt and khaki trousers, and his voice had a trace of a Texas accent. Fabian noticed something wrong from the doorway, and Mr. Hawthorne did not have those disposing eyes anymore; you could rather read rage and vileness in them.

 “Come on, hurry!” muttered Fabian, taking my hand and leading me up the stairs.

 We slipped into his room and hid under the bed, seeping deeper inside it. I didn’t realize why and asked, peered at him questionably. The look on his face depicted dread and fearsomeness.

 “Don’t move,” he said quietly. “He will hear.”.

 “Are we still playin’?” I said in a childish Luisiana accent and laughed piercely.

 Confident footsteps were heard on the stairs, and the whipping of the belt can be heard as an echo in my head to this day. I was invigorated; I never had a dad to play hide and seek with me. But Bill Hawthorne wasn’t playing. He puts his hand under the bed and slowly pulls Fabian out of it. I carefully looked up: Bill held his son's shoulders in the air, squeezing them tightly so that Fabian could barely restrain himself from crying. Then I heard the most inexorable yell in my entire ten-year-old life.

 “Stop hiding!” shrieked Major. “I hate it when you’re hiding! I told you to behave, little devil, but you keep messing up! Stand against the wall immediately.”

 Then he starts flogging little Fabian with a belt, each time he swung his arm so that the belt flew off first on his back and then, with incredible speed, on Fabian's back. He screamed so shrilly that I shuddered more and more, and my breathing rate increased with each swing. Never have I ever in my life been chastened the way my friend was, not for nothing indeed. The sounds of the belt touching the skin were heard for a long time until Bill let off all his steam and walked away, pulling his favorite belt back on his pants. Fabian was lying on the floor, almost completely knocked out with the blood welling from his wounds. The tears on my eyes inadvertently started welling up.

 "Fabian.” I said softly.

 “Go home,” he responded with an effort.

 I didn’t find anything left to say, so I slipped through the window and went down the fire escape attached to the side of their house. I never came back.

 I remember we were crossing in high school a couple of times years later. He always looked devastated and talked to people only sometimes, with a detachment peculiar only to him. He only came across cut off of this world, mainly being on his own all the time, hating if someone interrupted. Fabian was that kind of student that was eating alone in a hallway, looking crashed and distraught, and no one would sit next to him, as he seemed pretty much like some sort of an outcast. Except me. I tried to approach him several times—I sat with him at lunch, walked next to him, even tried to talk—but never succeeded. I was desperate to help, as I was the only one who knew his terrifying background. “I'm not in the mood” was his only excuse for everything. I realized he wasn't interested in any social interaction, so I left him and my hope of becoming friends. In vein, I must add.