Sixty Flashes of Life

Chapter 15

Chapter 15. 

[23:35]

Heavy drops of rain had been restlessly hitting the cold surface of asphalt for nearly two hours as he roamed around the city of his childhood. He was born here, a few blocks from the place he stayed. But nothing looked the same, as he remembered.

Eliot wore a glamorous, spick-and-span raven suit with a tie of the same sable color that merged with it. He looked very stylish, but it was not his choice initially. The seller picked it out for him, made him try it, and basically persuaded him in buying it.

The suit looked gorgeous, but Eliot did not feel safe in it. It could be eye catching and expensive, but it did not feel like home. He would prefer his old, shabby, torn bulletproof vest, but no one wore them those days anymore.

"But what if I put it on one more time, nobody will even notice," he murmured carelessly into the void, but the answer was obvious. The state put a prohibition for using any military equipment in public, and the punishment would not be worth some glimpses of bliss, or would it?

He lazily strolled by a café with another colorless name. I may never wear my uniform and vest again, but I still have got my body and, fortunately, it is as strong and solid as it had never been.

A year had passed since the capital of their former enemy gave in. They managed to capture it without spilling a lot of blood, simply turning the local population against their crazy, lunatic leader, and promising them life instead of destruction.

It may have not been enough at the beginning of the war when they had believed to be some super-race of people; but the closer the end was, the more they started to realize that those hoggish, propagandistic ideas were worth less than their lives.

The war was over at that stage. Only fear kept them struggling.

It did not take a lot of time: two weeks until the last remnants of generals started to put bullets in their heads; three weeks until the last enemy soldier was forced to put his weapons down due to the local's raging, vengeful mood; four weeks until the last defenders of the emperor gave in, letting the ruthless crowd tear the emperor literally apart.

The state did not mind it if they played in fair justice, even though they knew the end of that cruelty from the beginning.

This was needed for them to save the face while the crowd wanted to be vigilantes for some time. So, everyone benefited – except of the emperor himself. He was torn apart right in the middle of his palace, sitting on that golden throne, which looked ridiculously absurd for the twenty-first century they lived in.

These things must have gone into the past; but, Eliot supposed, that the more power you have, the more goods you attempt to accumulate even if they are pointless.

When Eliot turned left at the intersection between two streets named after some unknown politicians that contributed nothing but some articles during the war, he noticed a familiar silhouette trotting away from him towards the bridge that connected the old and new parts of the city.

His life was a borehole full of monotony and despair, and a familiar sight was that drop of golden wine that he had needed down his throat since he had gone out for a stroll.

Eliot raced his pace twice, but the silhouette seemed to float away from him quicker than Eliot's legs managed to catch up. It must have been someone from the army, maybe even the same unit where he was, as he had recognized those broad shoulders, a rocking gait, and black cloak over the silhouette's head.

When Eliot finally started to catch up with the old friend, having drawn closer not more than fifteen meters away from him, he saw the silhouette stop next to the railings right in the middle of the bridge.

It took him a while to realize that there was someone else standing on the edge behind the railings, and the silhouette was constantly saying something to that person, who did not seem eager to respond whatsoever.

Is he trying to save him? A thought rushed through Eliot's mind before he noticed that the person on the bridge, actually, had let go the grip on the railings and now balanced on the verge of concrete and death.

No, he is trying to make him jump! Freaking maniac, why is he doing this?

Eliot changed his walk into a rushing pace in a second, trying to get there as soon as possible. His hurting leg still bothered him, but under a new dose of adrenaline, the pain mostly faded away.

"Hey, you!" he screamed over, not knowing to whom he actually addressed; but who needed to hear it – heard it.

The silhouette raised his heavy head, and darted its gaze at Eliot. A freezing, piercing feeling of cold cut through his veins, which almost stopped him totally – his legs were the most reluctant if compare to his whole body, though; so, they just kept running and running.

By the time when he caught up with a place where the silhouette and the man stood, the silhouette already had disappeared.

"What did he say to you?" He yelled at the person standing behind the railing. And, then, as if having understood the situation better and the position the person behind the rails was in, he repeated in a calmer, more soothing voice, "Did he tell you something bad?"

The person turned around and a pair of lilac eyes fixed on his face. It was not a man afterward, and he was able to get there on time, otherwise she would probably...

He did not want to think about probabilities anymore.

She was there, and that was enough.