Prologue: https://steemit.com/story/@writerbro/short-story-the-clouds-above-the-mist-prologue
Chapter 1: https://steemit.com/writing/@writerbro/short-story-the-clouds-above-the-mist-chapter-1
My skin burns. Boiling hot water rains down from the shower-head. I sit cross-legged with my back against the blue tiled wall. I let the water burn the skin on my legs, thighs. Numb. To my left, i look at the glass partitioning the washroom, and notice a name written on it. I put my palm on the moist glass, and wipe it out unsuccessfully. It remains etched inside the surface, stuck, permanent, a palpable scar, eternal.
The squared room is filled with steam from the hot water. I like it this way. I look at my arms, steam emanating as if they’re on fire, ablaze inside. It’s 3 pm on a Friday, and I’m just getting ready for another day, another cup of tea, another run, awaiting calls from clients, who want their products delivered to them by Monday morning. “Time is like an enemy..” sings a woman, pain in her voice coming out from the red portable speaker I placed on the counter encircling the sink earlier.
I get up, dry my hands off the towel, and light up a cigarette, crouching down back under the steady hot, thin stream massaging my neck, back. My arm is straightened out, out of the line of fire, holding the cigarette, avoiding direct contact with the water. I stay, until I can feel the water cooling down, no longer burning me away.
I dress up in my favorite denims, a black t-shirt, and a blue jacket. It makes me feel good. Confident. Gives purpose to the day. I walk down the stairs, anticipating the usual questions from the great man, always probing me, testing me, making me doubt myself, making me want to do more about everything in life. It has always been an uphill task to fill his shoes. Then I remember, he’s not in the city. I breathe a sigh of relief. I don’t have patience anymore.
I look at the man sitting in the TV lounge instead, watching an old cricket match. He stands up, smiling, asking me how I am, and If I want anything for breakfast, lunch; a mischievous, mocking glint in his eyes. It doesn’t help. He’s been with the family since the last 12 years, his loyalty, total, his work ethic, admirable. Whatever he is, I respect him, for he’s been loyal to my parents.
Of late, i have lost my appetite for food. I drink my morning cup of tea, and look at the to-do tasks on my phone. I have to get the punctured tire on my car fixed, I remember. And, I have to take out beer-man for coffee, and thank him for saving my life.
Goddamn tire. The man at the petrol pump shows eight punctured spots on the front right tire of my car, my baby; and 6 other areas that need to be patched up. I wait; a lit cigarette in my hand, sitting on a broken chair besides a bunch of old used tires stacked on top of each other in the corner of the premises.
Maybe it is time to invest in new wheels, i think, looking at the man laboring away in the cold busy November afternoon. I’ll wait for my client to send me the money he owes.
An hour passes. I look at the man re-attach the tire through my sunglasses. It’s easier this way. People don’t see me. I can’t look at anyone in the eyes directly, not anymore. Social anxiety. I don’t feel comfortable around anyone. Not even my own reflection. Unwanted, incapable, invisible. God, if there is one, knows why.
I pay a hefty amount, emptying my wallet, and drive towards the coffee shop where I’m meeting Mexicano beer-man the life saver.
‘Brother’ he looks up, getting up from the couch in the basement of the coffee shop as I head down the stairs.
“How are you my friend?” He says, with a welcoming hug.
“Good”, i smile back. Not mentioning the constant ache in my lower back, and the frequent pinching in my throat.
“Ahh, i thought you were a goner the other day, thank the Lord you had your seat belt.”
Curse the Lord, for keeping me alive, i think, for i had hoped this would be the merciful end.
We order two caramel lattes, a slice of cheesecake, and a walnut brownie.
It has been 3 years since I met the man sitting in front of me, before he saved my life that is. His wrinkled face, grey silvery hair, strong jaw line, and a nose that looks broken right in the middle, shows he hasn’t lived in comfort. He takes big gulps of his coffee, making shooshing slurping sounds, unaware of the people in his surroundings.
I love that about some people. How they can just be their goddamned selves, without a care about social ettiquetes, norms, and expectations. Zero shits given. Focus only on their own desires. They have it easier, than people like me, who have to always make others feel comfortable. It’s a curse.
Between the big gulps, and the loud chewing sounds emanating from his mouth, beer man tells me how he came back to the city only a year back to work for someone he met in Barcelona, someone rich; searching for justice, and a new life. Justice is still work in progress. A new life is him selling drugs, alcohol, and weapons, to the rich and elite.
“Brother, this is my address”, he says, handing me a card.
“If you ever need anything to get your mind off of life, off someone, off yourself, you just come to me.” He says, blackened lips twitching.
I take the card, thank him again for pulling me out of the car, and for calling the ambulance on time.
“Anytime brother, anytime. I still remember you from that beach, and because you were humble enough to talk to me, when most ignored me; it was my duty” he replies, finishing his cup and putting it on the table a little too forcefully. From the murky madness in his eyes, I suspect he is either high from the local weed, or drunk from the local alcohol. To each his own. I’m no one to judge since I’m half-drunk by the time the sun sets these days.
I get up to leave and walk outside to the parking lot with beer man. Perfunctory farewell. He bends inside his Toyota sedan, and pulls out a bundle of cloth and hands it to me.
“This is for you” he says, handing me the blue bundle.
I take it, weighing it, feeling it. It’s heavy. A box with something inside, wrapped in an old blue shirt.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Brother just put it in the car, see it when you’re home, you will love it” He whispers in my ear. Another hug. Unnecessary this time.
Too tired to make more conversation, I thank him, after promising that I’ll come to his party the next day. God knows what kind of crowd that will have, and drive back home, eager for a healthy run outside on the road.
A warm cup of tea, and a cigarette between my lips, I stand on the terrace, looking at the cars making their way below. Curious about the bundle, I unwrap the bundle, and open the box.
Shining under the escaping sunlight is a grey and black revolver, with a box of 9mm bullets.
SOURCE: Images my own.
