“You have to run away from here,” a barely audible, unfamiliar voice rustled somewhere nearby.
Turning, we saw a skinny, almost invisible, armless little man. Resembling a broom or a mop, he stood as if glued to the nearby dirty wall.
Having spat out blood, you said loudly, “I won’t go anywhere.” And I nodded curtly, “We don’t have anywhere to go.” So we approached the mop “neighbor” to hear him better.
“He will either cripple you with his own hands or hire someone else to cripple you,” the armless man said, and suddenly burst out laughing heartrendingly. His laughter was so bewitching that I didn’t get all his irony immediately. To cripple the cripples, that was really ridiculous.
“I’ve been standing here for a long time, much longer than you,” his voice sounded conspiratorial, “and realized years ago that they beat the armless people not because we are repulsive freaks but because we can’t hit back,” and again, he couldn’t stop his feverish laughter mixed equally with despair and rage. “If both of you only knew how I hate them. I hate them all. Those who pass by, those who donate alms, those who take away the earnings – I hate you all!” he almost barked out the last words, not talking to us anymore. “A-ah, let it all go to hell. Come on, move on your way,” he addressed the passersby. “Keep on ignoring me. Of course, you are right. I’m a nonentity. Yes, I can lick your shoes, but you are still going to step on my arms. Oh, and by the way, I don’t have any arms. See?” and, having waved his invisible arms, he broke into uncontrollable shrieks of laughter yet again. “And if I only had them, I would strangle all of you; each and every one of you.”
“The armless tsar,” I thought to myself. However, if he really had arms and power, or just the arms, most probably he would have spoken differently!
The poor guy continued to express his thoughts aloud to the passersby, but we didn’t hear him anymore; only chaotic roars scattered along the tunnel. I stood thinking. Was the absence of arms the true reason for his hatred or was it hatred itself dwelling in his heart inherently and giving sense to his life? He seemed to cherish the hate as a source of strength to live on forever.
“I wish he would die, nitwit,” in tune with the armless, you hissed discontentedly. “I won’t let him even lay a finger on us.”
“What finger? He has no arms at all.” I was puzzled, but I immediately realized what the issue was.
“I’m not talking about this gimpy one. I’m talking about the pug who decided to teach us a lesson. Clear? He won’t take me unawares again.”
And, frowning angrily, you snatched a screwdriver from your pocket, drawing it forth like a sword from a sheath.
“Have you really lost your mind? Where did you get that from?” I could hardly breathe. Astonishment stopped my breath.
“We need it more than she does,” you snarled, “and don’t give me that look! You know who I’m talking about.”
Did she steal it from Mother? I’d already quit being surprised, but tell me – I have always wanted to know.
“I took her lipstick, too,” you grinned. “Don’t panic, I’ll take care of us. Not a single bitch can hurt us now. Whosoever is hard is going to find it hard to keep his own life. That one especially. I wish he was already dead. The bastard!”
Unfortunately, you were right again. We had no choice but to defend ourselves. Isn’t that what wild animals do? But I am not an animal, though nobody treats me as a human. I’m just a stupid girclass="underline" silly, naive, blind. I have been hiding under the blanket for so long that I have finally lost all connection to reality; I flattered the world in hope of flattery in return. Perhaps, it’s just the way I am – I can dispense with everything in this life, but I can never dispense with hope.
Driven by emotional despair, I began to hug you and started crying… and people flashed past us: half-lonely, half-unhappy, half-resigned, half-alive, giving us occasional, stealthy looks, full of pity and contempt.
“Who is that over there?” you blurted out, poking me in the side. “Look.”
Having brushed away my tears and thoughts, I looked in the direction you pointed in and saw someone’s head peeping out from behind a distant column. Having met my eyes, the head hid at once; however, a few moments later, a strange, rounded shadow separated itself cautiously from the wall and started walking away, breaking into a run at the exit of the tunnel.
“I see it for the first time,” I answered quietly.
“So do I.” You shrugged your shoulders. “Probably, our pug-bastard sent someone to kill us. Don’t you think this is strange?”
You’re asking! Actually, everything seemed strange to me that day. How fast-changing is our world! While we holed up at our mother’s, human society, remaining the same in appearance, changed at its core, reminding me of a broken clock which seemed to be still working, but already showed the wrong time. Meanwhile, the same figure approached us from the opposite direction.
“He’s going round in circles!” you exclaimed, putting your hand in your pocket.
Stooping a little and bending his knees, an impossible person, similar to a flat pumpkin rolling along the rough road, came nearer to us. He walked lopsidedly; it seemed as if he might split up and fall over at any moment. He was dressed in an old, well-used suit, very tight trousers and a carelessly knotted tie with dark green threads sticking out from the fabric. A couple of steps from us, he stopped abruptly, doubtful whether he should come closer, silently faltered and then hesitated for a while as if trying to understand his own thoughts. He had a silly, ridiculous look on his face, but for some reason I hoped to hear a revelation from him. A small, bald spot shone on the top of his head, his face-skin was flaking, eyes bulging. He was shaking with fear or shyness. To make matters worse, he had small, babyish fingers with long, dirty nails and his white, lifeless hands looked – especially in the tunnel lighting – as if dusted with flour. I could have counted to one hundred twice before he managed to regain his self-composure. Having moved a little closer, he got up on tiptoe to be on a level with our height, and once he opened his mouth, you lost your temper:
“If you wish to give alms, well, drop it or go away.”
He gave us a surprised look as though he had just remembered where he was, smiled foolishly and finally squeezed out a few words:
“I’m sorry but I’m going to walk away. Don’t take offence, please.”
“We’re not easily offended,” you growled. “So what do you want?”
“You reminded me of the babe I used to know and, so to speak, reopened a wound in my soul…”
His sugary, ingratiating voice enshrouded us like dough.
“Do you wanna blame us for your reopened wound!” you exclaimed with a cold sneer and then whispered to me casually, “This is another insane guy just for us!”
“I am not insane, I’m just deeply unhappy,” he moaned plaintively, hearing your words; meanwhile, the smell of sour flesh coming from his mouth struck our faces. We had to hold our breath and turn away.
“If you could only imagine…” he whimpered, almost sighing, and then faltered again, evidently not knowing how to finish the phrase.
However, we didn’t get to know what would happen if “we could only imagine”.
“Look, can you get us some vodka?” you interrupted him sharply. “I’m terribly thirsty.”
The pumpkin-shaped stranger didn’t pay much attention to your question – at least not right away – and pulled out an infernally dirty, almost stiffened handkerchief from his pocket, and started blowing his nose.