Sixty Flashes of Life

Chapter 11

Chapter 11. 

[23:28]

There was a dream.

The kind of dream no one would ever forget.

He lay on a lounge chair right in front of a huge mass of raving oceanic water. The Sun scorched heavily that day, but the shadows of a nearby beach umbrella gave him a perfect cover, letting him unwind after the hardest year of his life.

It took him one year. A year of sweat, blood, and tears – sometimes even literally when he flew off the handle over another not-working chapter of his novel. All in all, the last stroke of his fountain pen was put next to a long, italic, THE END.

On time.

The project was finished on time, which set him off to go for a trip to the ocean, as they had planned a long time ago.

He loved his novel – truly, with the deepest parts of his heart; however, like a huge mass of water devours surfers and does not let them out until it sucks out all their energy, the first giant projects always do the same. He would begin to write a new one soon, but now rest.

A hand tapped him on the right shoulder. His head reclined back on the top of the lounge chair, and faced a girl. She was there, stooping over him, a huge grin on her face. Happy grin.

This was the same girl that he had met under the weirdest circumstances ten years ago. A story that even a scriptwriter would have troubles to come up with.

Her body made men's heads swirl in her direction every time she passed by, despite being in the seventh month of pregnancy. Some women only ripen after getting pregnant, and Eliot was elated to see her to be this kind of woman; more important – she was by his side.

But...

Someone was screaming... Who?

They came from the seashore, against which the waves crushed mercilessly.

He leaped up to his feet and faced the source of commotion in a second. An incredibly gigantic wave rushed straight into their direction right out of the ocean. The wave which would not be ridden even by the most reckless, craziest of surfers.

Someone tapped him on his shoulder again, but he did not want to avert his eyes. The wave was magnetizing; it seemed it wanted all eyes to be turned in its direction.

Eventually, tapping became shaking, and his body started to ache. He—

A phone rang, and was instantly picked up. His hand reacted quicker than his still dreaming mind. The mist of slumber began to disperse. A troubled, nervous voice of his girlfriend sounded through the speaker, and deep frustration over the realization that she was not pregnant afterward hit him stronger than that wave could.

She did not speak, though. Her voice thundered through the speaker like an avalanche downfall.

"Wake up! Get up, gather your things right away! Documents on the first place." There were hectic noises in the background, as if someone darted through the room, packing stuff up in a rush.

He was still drowsy, occupied with the thoughts of the prior dream, but her frightened voice could only mean that something terrible had happened before he woke up.

"What's going on?"

"He... This old, stinking, rotten, disgusting son-of-a-bitch started the war. Airports are being bombed now. They, those fucking animals, are invading our country"

Eliot raised himself up to a seated position. War? In the 21st century? Either I am still sleeping or...

"Everything good, honey. Calm down, take your stuff into an emergency backpack, and get ready to move at the drop of a hat. Don't worry, we'll stick it out," he said, his voice did not even tremble for a second, and he remained calm himself. For her, I should not scare her even more.

At the same time his headache was about to kill him; heart had a sack race against his pulse; two parties of his mind fought against each other: the stoic and panic, and he was afraid the second one started to take control of the situation.

He did basically almost everything that he had told her, except of not worrying. This Summer they were supposed to go to the beach he had a dream about, the paradise city, but supposed to did not mean will anymore.

A strange feeling appeared in his chest: a hollow, whining moan; this time it was not the pain, it was something that he had not experienced since his father beat him or his mother up.

He was not cold, despite the fact that it was still winter outside. His room was well heated, a blanket was atop his legs, but he could not wrap his mind about that tremble he was going through.

Suddenly, a deafening, tearing-eardrums-apart blast went off behind his back.

He happened to lie on a floor a couple of meters away, unable to understand how he turned out to be there. Yesterday's dinner came to the top of his throat, a second later, and it splashed onto the marble floor of his room.

The cold, dark days of Winter were almost over; but his Winter was only about to start off.