That guy, again
Drawing the cold
The evening is just a yellowed piece of paper desperately trying to picture a cold town. How do you illustrate a cold sensation? Maybe with leaves flying around, people passing by wrapped in their coats and colours. Cold colours, maybe blue amongst them.
No, it’s better not to mention blue or the cold will pass through the bones up to the soft pillow of blood which pump and suffer inside this man with pointy moustaches. From outside you can see far away the river of cars in the city, as a neon light getting stronger and stronger as the sun fade away. It reminds a shop at closing time, with someone coming back home and keeping words and smiles in a safe until tomorrow. Others are simply going to meet some friends, and they will spend some time around a table with golden bubbles and chats.
So, everyone have one thing in common: they know at this stage where they are going. A small group is the one that still doesn’t know where is going to finish this day, and in this last group we can put S., now watching outside the balcony of a bar with a blue light saying
Blue bar, river view
It wouldn’t be more reasonable to call the police? Those uniforms would know what to do, that’s for sure. But-but-but. How’s going to explain to the law enforcement about all that mess of his father’s corpse with a dark soul, or the cropped finger? Or even worse, what police would say about the white soul of that guy, stolen from a minor without any right to do so? That would be his end.
The blue crystals of the table nearby crumble apart the few light remained, making reflections glaring over the shoes. Over me. So I’m changing from dark brown to almost light blue in seconds.
M., from distance
Out there, under the stone stairs, a hotel abandoned even from the god of neglected. Finding the woman wasn’t difficult at least, and now he can see her figure through the window. She has semi- closed eyes. The sunset sun is something really strong and shield S. He can watch her a bit more, more than he has ever did before. She’s beautiful, even thought that cold air makes her unreachable. She decided to put one white cloth over her face, to disappear from life and the city, to find her own place here, in the hinterland of forgotten hotels.
Your bill
Says a voice behind, making him startled and almost letting him go down the balcony. That would be a glorious death, with a coroner less than thirty steps away, ready to examine him. Cause of death: sudden idiocy.
Sure, sure. Do you accept cards?
No
Hinterland
As you can expect, we are in the hinterland. That fairy tale the adults tell the children in the cities, before the same children grow up and meet hairy arms, guns and charming woman with some more hairs over the lips. There are no money- spitting machines around those empty small streets. It’s just a matter of time, since he will find himself completely out of pieces of paper. Wait a minute, someone is approaching the hotel. Is the guy!
That guy, again
The huge guy walks carrying his potato- nose as it was a backpack over his ears. He’s walking straight to the motel, fast on the jasmine’s climb. With that nose he will be woozy by that smell. I can recognize him by his shoes, the same model of which are here describing the whole story of this dealer. M. is still there watching out of the window, unaware, with her usual sad expression in her face. S. would probably just whistle, or maybe shout from the bar, he could tell her to escape now. But who’s him for her, if not another untrustworthy stalker?
A voice
Then, something suddenly change in her expression, as she’s listening to someone inside the room. She run toward the bed, put two t-shirts inside the backpack and run through the window. Just in time, because then the potato- nose start banging on the door. A banging that, even from distance, reminds of that of a huge chimpanzee on a glass. Under the chimpanzee pressure, the door finally opens. The guy run to the window, in his eyes the blind anger of whom cannot understand, the shark smelling the blood.
Hate
Looking up his eyes stop on S. for a minute. Small drops of cold sweat pass behind his ears and through the neck. No they cannot see each other, the sun is too strong behind S., and still his eyes are set on him. Even though the huge guy cannot see him, S. can feel all the hate coming through those black eyes. How he would possibly find M.? Probably he just followed him at the morgue, and then he understood everything. Yes, it’s the only explanation, but how he couldn’t understand he was followed before? And what’s the next step, now?
M.’s feet touch the ground and start running through the Blue Hotel. She needs the car’s keys and S. has to help her, his feet already small drums down the stairs.
— And next week… Waiters! —
La storia sarà pubblicata una volta a settimana e tutti i diritti della storia e relative traduzioni sono riservati a Flyingstories.org e nella persona di Daniele Frau.
Tutte le grafiche sono fatte a mano, realizzate con tecniche differenti da Gabriele Manca, DMQproductions, che ne detiene i diritti.
All English articles published in Souls (alive) proofread by Elisabeth Corcoran
