“At least I have a place to live, thanks to the government,” he comforted himself thinking out loud. “They promised to grant us separate apartments, but I’ve been waiting for that for about twenty years. It’s all right; I don’t want to complain… it is what makes us human.”
Strong affection often grows from dependence, and after all, you and I really depended on him; there’s no reason to deny it. Nevertheless, there was something bigger between us than the usual attachment and gratitude; it was true friendship, though unfortunately very short. I remembered him as an incredibly responsible person, living in strict accordance with his schedule; therefore, when he didn’t appear in the tunnel, we knew the reason right away: the old man’s wait was over. He lived like few people do but died like everybody else.
Meanwhile, the country sank deeper and deeper into an atmosphere painfully reminiscent of our tunnel, where nobody believed in anything and nobody trusted anyone. People traded all they could: veterans sold their awards, actresses adored by millions of fans across the country offered their hungry bodies and even those who did not have anything bartered what remained of their conscience for money.
In our crippled country, we ceased to be cripples.
11. ALIVE_
That year’s “abundant” events agitated the whole country. But also something minor, personal and very amusing happened at an odd moment. We still had to sleep in the abandoned house, which we diligently returned to every evening. One fine evening, tired and exhausted after standing on our feet all day, drenched to the skin and dreaming only of lying down as soon as possible, we got home… and suddenly our routine was interrupted, crushed. As we entered the house, we found uninvited guests sitting near a fire that they had kindled. They were arguing about something, trying to outshout the thunder peals; it was lashing down outside, lightning lit the sky. Nature stormed in its heart. Despite fatigue, we were in an excellent mood; I always loved a thunderstorm, for it washed all my troubles away.
First they didn’t notice us and continued to argue awkwardly. We strained our ears to listen.
“Let’s start!” one of them commanded. “It fell on heads.”
“Why is it heads? Maybe we should… well, flip the coin one more time?”
“We’ve already flipped! I’m starting: first I will stab you, right in the heart, and then myself. Are you backing out?”
“No… I just thought we’d… well, let’s flip it one more time,” and, shivering with fear or with indignation, he picked up the coin from the ground, but never flipped it.
Because we, Faith and Hope, like two ghosts, appeared before them in the doorway like two of nature’s spontaneous apparitions. I had got used to all the weird things mentioned in books and wasn’t surprised at all by absolutely incredible matters, yet those boys shocked us unimaginably at that moment. At first they stared at us with eyes made huge by astonishment, and then in a couple of moments they dashed in opposite directions. One of them stumbled and almost fell into the fire and the other unsuccessfully tried to get out through the window. We never laughed so loudly in all our lives, not anywhere – not even in the tunnel. Our laughter could be heard from afar, too, and helped those unfortunate refugees near us to understand that we were alive. And apparently, we had involuntarily disrupted their plans.
“How did you get here?” you asked, weeping from laughter.
“We’re just… just…Well, you know… sheltering here,” we heard from the window.
“Which paranormal being did you shelter from?” I teased him.
“We’re sheltering here from the rain,” a more confident voice sounded from another corner of the room.
“Did you run away from home?” I stated more than asked.
“No, we’re just… for no reason.”
“We were baking potatoes here,” said a loud voice from the corner and asked, “Do you want some?”
“Come here, caterers. Don’t you be afraid of us; let’s face it, we are fed up with adults, not with kids.”
“We’re not afraid, we just… well, kinda…” the second voice objected, carefully approaching us. “It was just we were stupefied a trifle.”
“That’s what we thought. You chickened out a little bit and made a run partially.” I hardly restrained my laughter. “So what are your names, runners?”
“I am Vital, and he’s Red.” A figure from the far corner started to take shape.
The boys approached the fire with one step, and I could observe them attentively. They were very young, looking no more than thirteen, their faces soiled with soot, and what was most surprising, they both had red hair. That feature made them look even more comic.
“What are you laughing at?” Vital muttered.
“It’s just… kinda… just…” I imitated him. “Why are you called Vital, and he’s Red? You are both red, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m a little bit red,” he pointed his finger at his friend and added, “but he is Red, completely red. So that’s why I am Vital. Would you like some potatoes?”
“Well, cooks, we’re not going to refuse a treat,” we said very friendly and approached the fire.
Those kids dexterously took potatoes out of cinders and honestly divided them equally between everyone. Baked potatoes with ashes on them were incredibly tasty and extremely hot.
“All right, could you be so sweet as to tell us what you were actually doing here?” I asked.
“Wanted to bump each other off,” Red answered defiantly, “but Vital won the coin toss, and this is unfair.”
“If so, why were you baking potatoes?” you inquired.
“Whoever does away with himself on an empty stomach?” Red inquired, indignantly.
“We realized that life is shitty, so we decided it would be better to die, and doing this together is not so scary,” Vital admitted sincerely. “Red gets beaten at school quite often, and my mom and dad bloody well fight with each other nearly every day!”
“Perhaps it sounds trite, but some days are just bad days! However, you’ve got to have more weighty reasons to die, and I think you don’t have any.” For some reason I was amused by their story while at the same time there was nothing amusing in their statements.
“And what are you doing here?” Vital wondered, champing very loudly.
“We live here,” I confessed honestly.
“Wow! Isn’t it scary?” Red got surprised.
“Of course it is. That’s why we are always together,” you broke into laughter, “like teeth and a tongue in the same chamber.”
“It’s rumored that this house is haunted,” Vital stepped right into the conversation. “Have you seen any ghosts here?”
“Sometimes we see them, but we’ve got used to them and even attached to them,” you answered ironically.
At this very moment, somewhere up above, a branch of a tree started knocking on a window frame. Everybody stopped eating potatoes and listened.
“What is it?” Red asked, alarmed.
“Don’t you know? It’s the black hand.” I suddenly remembered a scary story we used to tell in the dark, one we’d heard often enough in the foster home.
“What black hand?” Vital almost squeaked.
“It happened quite recently, or, maybe, long ago. Once upon a time there was a very docile girl; in the evenings, obeying her parents, she always went to bed in her small room until one evening, a branch knocked on the window of her room. She told her father about it; he went to break the branch and got lost. She told her mother about it; her mother went to her room and got lost, too. And then the girl decided to break the branch by herself. Outside the window was a wild downpour. She reached out to open the vent pane; and when the window finally opened, she saw that it was not a branch knocking; it was a pitch-black hand. It seized the girl and choked her, cutting her off just like that. And that’s the whole story. I’m sure you are not scared, are you?”