Chapter 5.
He stared out through the window at the sky aflame, as the scarlet Sun almost sat on the horizon. There were much fewer people rushing here and forth on the streets, but few more cars and shop lights that started to turn on their lightning to avoid any unpleasant situations.
Late Fall and darkness, which it always brought with itself, tended to close in much quicker than ever before. Rainy days and chilly winds that seemed to be only fables even a few months ago, now were just a mere given in the reality. Despite all of this, Fall had remained his favorite season of the year since childhood, as it always brought the mysterious atmosphere of upcoming snowy months.
Was it a mere transition? Maybe. However, was our life not a movement through time from birth to death?
As he was deep in his ruminations, even though they were mostly faded due to half a dozen of various shots he had drained before; he noticed not a very legible silhouette flickering by the window and stopping just for a second to look deeply into his eyes.
The silhouette's face was obscure, even though with a few details that immediately rang a bell in his mind. It was Him, there was no other doubt, who had sent the letter this morning. If He was in the city...
"Wait!" He yelled unconsciously loud, but only a few closest visitors actually turned their head in surprise.
A feeling of hatred and fear rose up in him simultaneously, fighting for the right to take the reins of his further actions.
Almost thirty years of running.
Thirty years of being afraid.
He was not the same young boy who had fled away at a mere sign of His silhouette, not anymore. Not noticing anything around, his legs made the body stand up behind the table and sweep across the whole bar to the front door.
His heart was jumping on a trampoline inside the chest, eyes could see only half a foot in front, nothing but haze shrouded him. As he rushed through the front door and wound up in the middle of the crowd, which strolled here and forth, maybe not so intensively, though; it made his head spinning.
He was not around. There were only faceless figures that stared blankly into the void.
"Hey!" A hoarse voice thundered behind, making him snap back to reality and turn.
The same waitress, whom he had molested with his wicked hands all the day, stood there next to a bartender. The second's hands were folded on the chest, with a somber expression on his face and eagle-eyes that seemed to pierce through his soul.
"Wanted to get away without paying, buddy?" The bartender was massive, his stature reminded more a stature of an Olympic champion; in comparison to the bartender, he was a midge to crush against a palm.
"Nay, big fella. I just saw... a friend," his voice, no matter how drunk it was, sounded shaky as if he had seen a ghost, which he actually believed in.
"Every single day, each one of you see either gone friends who had died at war, or cheating wives, though y'all never been married," the bartender shook his head solemnly, and reached out with the hand to seize him.
The bartender looked angry, able to crush the bones if needed; however, he let him take hold of his hand, and followed the bartender back inside the bar, not taking his thoughts from the old ghost.
He even did not resist when the bartender took him with his coarse hands and shook like a puppy until his wallet fall out. There was not a lot of money, all he possessed, though; but the waitress bent stooped down and took all of it as compensation for everything.
They turned around to count the money, idly chatting with each other. The bartender started to throw his cheesy jokes at her, and she, apparently had been cheered up with some free cash, responded vigorously.
"Fucking morons," he whispered to himself, and headed back to his table. There were still two bottles of cheap beer placed on it, waiting for their own to come and grab them. His body sagged down in the end, and he buried his head in the hands, sometimes taking them off just to drain another glass of beer.
***
Two hours later, when the Sun was already below the horizon and the atmosphere started to feel freezing cold of the night, he was totally wasted. The waitresses, though they had taken all his money, maybe up front, did not refuse him with other drinks, but only cheap ones this time.
He did not get handsy anymore, most of the time staying deep in his own rumination and emptying one glass of beer after another one. It came to the point of absurd when everyone around him did not have any clear shape, but were blurred as if his eyesight had dropped at least by four times. It could happen, of course, but the issue was not only in it.
The bartender occasionally cast a look towards his table to take a look at him, which always drove him crazy that some lousy servant has to tell him what is right and wrong.
The envelope lay open on the table, its bits torn and scattered all over the table. There was indeed a letter inside, but now it was placed next to the last glass of whiskey, which he had managed to begged as the last one before he departs.
His eyes were blank, staring straight at the letter. A few minutes ago, they were probably all dripping wet because there were many drops of dried tears on the letter's paper.
He sat there for twenty minutes glaring straight into the letter, not a muscle had moved; the bartender even sent the waitress to check on him, but no matter how she asked, her simply ignored her with those hollow eyes and burning hot temperature skin.
They already wanted either to call the police or ambulance, as his behavior became rather weird than laughable as before.
People around started to disperse, leaving more and more free table after them, until only five or six tables were occupied by mostly young lovers, who used the dark ambience of the bar to their own advantage.
He stood up from the table with a glass in one of his hands, and the letter in another. Sweat ran down his face and whole body as if he had some serious fever, having his body trembling and swinging from side to side.
There was a voice in his head, and the voice was there since he had opened the envelope and started to read.
It was not a good voice, but who cared? Did he care when he murdered his little sister when she was not even ten years old? Did the police care to investigate the case instead of writing it off as a common suicide? A ten-year-old child fell off a bridge, and they said it was a suicide? There was nothing inside of him, that's why his eyes expressed only emptiness, but anger actually had crept in his mind and settled there down for good.
He started to head from his table to the exit of the bar, his gait moved as if during a gale, and hands seized everything on their way not to tumble. He even pushed someone, but had no notion of it.
When he was already with his foot in the door, a familiar voice reached him from behind. It was the bartender's voice again.
"Yo, brat! You gonna pay for the rest of your drinks, or I shall call the police?" The bartender growled with his voice full of mockery. The waitress and a few customers giggled, and started to stare at him with contempt.
The voice in his head kept telling him to kill them. Every single one of them.
"You deaf or what? Cough up your cash, or that watch of yours, for the drinks you had!" The bartender raised his voice and started to yell this time.
The man looked fiercely at him and hurled the glass from his hand at the bartender with all his power.
Alas, to him, he was neither a good boozer nor a good shooter whatsoever. The glass smashed against the blank wall a few centimeters away from the bartender's head, and only pieces of glass cut his cheek slightly. Blood sprung up from those small cuts, dripping slowly down his chin.
In an instant, the waitress, who stood before the counter, exclaimed a scaring gasp, which turned into a short scream of fright. She covered her mouth with the palms, and turned her head towards the barmen.
He was all right except of a few cuts and fiery eyes that glared at the wrongdoer.
She did not have even a chance to tell him anything, as he hopped over the counter with one big leap and started yelling so loud that even people outside seemed to hear it, and curiously peered through the windows.
"WHAT THE FUCK YOU DOING, YOU WRETCHED PIECE OF CUNT?" COME 'ERE, I SHOVE IT UP YOUR BUTT," he cried, spitting saliva all over the tables on his way. In his right hand was a bat, which he had grabbed behind the counter right before jumping over it.
The bat was brand-new, somehow sparkling as if polished not so long a time ago. He twirled the bat in his hand maliciously, getting closer to the customer who had not moved away, or even twitched his eyebrows because of being nervous.
The bartender came close enough for him to wave his bat and hit the man's head like a ball, but he chose to poke him with a tip of it instead.
"Take off your pants, fag. Imma teach you the life," he blurted at him, sticking the bat lower this time – in the area of the man's groin. "Shit your pants, fag?"
A few other moments occurred so quick that no one in the bar happened to notice what had happened. The man dived towards the legs of the barmen, grabbed behind his kneecaps and flung his body against the wall as easily as an avalanche knocks astray skiers off their legs.
The shadow of the man headed away from the barmen, whose fading gaze could see only the man's boots before everything around seized to exist.
People behind screamed to call the police, but he had already stepped into a bleak evening street, and a cool flow of wind repulse against the coldness of his pitch-dark eyes.
And only a hand-written letter twirled hectically in his hand.