Nearby the River (short story)

Pixabay

The fog was all over the river. Up there, above the small quay, the city was slowly waking up. People were already in such a rush, going to their jobs. They circulated in a hurry through the streets. Their heads were bent inside of the collars of their coats, their hands were deep inside of their pockets, hiding from the cold or from the eyes of others. And, down, nearby the river, one man sat on a old, wooden bench. He didn't hurry to meet the new day, all those things and obligations he have already seen and done so meny times. The moisture entered into his bones. He felt in his own core something like a secret worm. That larva was sleeping for so long and now it was the time for it to start its digging through his nervs.

The man was sitting beside a female silhouette, wrapped in black scarf. Irritated by the smell of water, he was looking somewhere throuh the fog. The other shore was hidden, far away and unreal. He couldn't see the river but he could hear the whisper of the water. It was tickling deep inside of his ears together with the voice of a woman in black. Suddenly he turned his head toward his accompaniment.

― Yes, my dear, I am a writer. I do not know can I actually call myself a writer, when I think once again. I'm writing, that's true. Therefore, I would like to say that I am a writer. That's my call. I am invited to write... By whom, you are asking me! Well, it's just like that, I have to write, I'm invited to write... Maybe nobody invited me to do so, perhaps this water or this fog above us did it... Maybe all that was just an illusion of my insane brain. I just put an idea into my head! He is living in an illusion and he thinks he is writer!

He jumped a little bit from his spot with the last pronunced words. Then he suddenly laughed as he had discovered something extraordinary. As he was ashamed, he looked around and hid his face under collar of his coat. The silence was all around him. In his nervs everything was ready for the storm.

― Do you know, my dear, this fog is killing us, its eating us from the inside! And this water makes our bones so weak. They can crush so easly. I am thinking about them as the flowerpots full of soil and worms, the food for plants and worms! It's the same for everyone. Oh, so many people rushing for the job. But they don't know that they are going to the same place! All of them!Phi! Hi-hi-hi

He tried to laugh but the rustle inside of his lungs stoped him. He was quiet for couple of moments. His lips were constantly moving under the mustache as he was mumbling and thinking at loud.

―They know, they know. Everybody knows! With this knowledge we are all born. From the moment when we open our eyes, we know that we will end up in the embrace of the millipedes and ants. We just forget that for a while, pretend it's far away from us. Something could change, because ― life is so long!

He was almost yelling his last words, but suddenly he started to laugh. Once again he wanted to go from the bench, but then he sit down again. He bent his head inside of his dirty coat.

― I didn't forget. For me it's not allowed to forget. I have a pact with eternal truth. That means being a writer. Even when I am making things up, I'm telling the truth.

The last words were spoken slowly. He turned his head and look at face of the woman. He didn't find anything there. If he would close his eyes, that face would be gone from his memory. But there would be something left in the mind that would remind him of her permanent presence. Just like after long, terrible dream with silhouettes without faces, which marks appear later on a day light but they are still disturbing. He didn't look at her again. He knew ― he would not see her again. And he also knew he cannot run away from her.