It's all about the letter

Chapter 7

Chapter 7.

He faced a fresh blow of wind once his legs had reluctantly dragged him out of an alley in which he had woken up lying half an hour before. It was great to feel chilly wind shrouding his rosy cheeks from each side. The only thing that spoiled atmosphere was his spinning head and a strong feeling of nausea in the back of his throat.

The street turned out to be dedicated to the famous sailor, Jackson Ronald, whom he had heard of many times in his past life. His life now was more of an existence than an actual living: trying to survive through that unendurable headache and blurred mind.

"I know what you have done," a voice in his head whispered from everywhere, making him turn around in a panic.

A bunch of teenagers passed by, discussing the latest changes in next-gen industry. They were not alone, though; the whole street was swamped with a heap of people, some of whom were dressed in Halloween costumes.

"There is nowhere to hide," the same voice drilled in his mind, making him put the palms on his ears in a desperate attempt to muffle it.

"Quiet! Quiet!" He grumbled with his head facing downwards. "Just fucking SHUT UP!"

Many turned their heads, concerned. They could only see a disreputable man in his middle-age, who had, apparently, a few psychological issues. Who did not, though? There was an increasing scale of mental illnesses those days, including a bunch of suicidal kids who created special groups to look for others alike.

They thought the man, who was on his knees hitting his head against a cold concrete, lost his mind; although, he was not aware of anyone around him, but the same thought crept into his mind where the voice started to mock him before moving away up the street.

Someone grabbed him by his right armpit. His body was slowly dragged away from the middle of the pavement closer to one of the decorated shops, but only to a blank façade of it.

"Get up, mate. Who are you to lie on the ground in October? Aren't you afraid of those steel balls underneath? Care of your coming offspring!" The man's accent, which cried to him both from distance and at point-blank range, sounded posh and elegant.

An old-aged man with stunning brown hair that hung over a pair of delicate glasses stared directly at him. In the refection of the glasses, he managed to take a glimpse of himself: all muddy; face covered with blood, but why? Was it actually him?

"I did get on feet much larger pals than you are. Ohh. I remember that baster in a plain sight; what was his name? Stephen, indeed," he talked to the man on the floor in a way as if they had a conversation, but there was only one man speaking.

His long cloak fluttered in the wind, as he stood there, hands folded behind his back, telling a story.

"Stephen was his name. That wicked piece of meat was thrice bigger than you are, and you know who made him stay without swaying? Mister Sjurd himself, but you can call me Sigurd for your own sake. Sic! No dallying on my watch! Chop-chop!"

It took great efforts to make himself stand up and not let those weak feet bring him down. His head was spinning like a helicopter during a crash, and two figures of the same man sprang up before him. They looked directly at him, perplexed and with a funny smile on their faces – perhaps, it was Sjurd's way of coping stress or worry.

"You feeling better, mate?" Sigurd asked.

"Yeah... Th-thanks, much better now," he heard himself murmuring, but did not feel that his lips moved whatsoever – perhaps, he just imagined that they did. He dusted off his cloak with the preposterous movements of someone who tried to drive mosquitos away. Dizziness in his head somehow started to mix up with unbearable pain.