Chapter Text
I giggle. How stupid. How utterly absurd! Nonsense! A few more seconds, and I won't be able to hold back hysterical laughter. Or the hysterics themselves. Doubled over, I bury my nose in the blanket on my lap, let go of control over my body, and it goes limp. It's not laughing anymore, at least.
But I do find it funny. And, at the same time, not funny at all.
What kind of situation is this anyway? Should I cry or should I laugh? Neither will really do.
Tears won't help. It would be strange after all, for a grown man to suddenly burst into tears. I've seen war, hunger, sickness, death and didn't cry—and now I'll bawl like a cow?
Laughing isn't much better either. I just checked. My throat feels dry and raw, probably having drunk myself to sleep. Thankfully, there are still those who'll drag me to bed, and even change my clothes and cover me with a blanket. Amazing, isn't it? There's nothing a man won't do for money.
Wars are also because of money. Everything is because of money. Because money is, supposedly, the key to happiness.
Ugh. I'm off-topic again.
Leaning over the edge of the bed, I grope around until I feel the neck of a bottle. No, that one's too light. Empty, then. Must have drunk it yesterday. I find another, lift it, shake it. Wine sloshes around inside. Wonderful. I take a swig and finally calm down.
Damn, when was the last time I had such good wine? Truly, a work of art. And the inner turmoil subsides with each gulp from the bottle.
Brimming with joy, I accidentally giggle and almost choke. I cough viciously. Wine drips down my chin. Awkwardly, I wipe it with my white, pristine sleeve. Ahem. It's high time I pull myself together, it seems.
Though, when did I last wear such luxury?
White is very impractical, that I know. Every little wear and tear is obvious. Like this wine stain. A nasty color, this purplish white, neither one nor the other. Brr.
Just look at the army rags, for example. Much better—all dark. The civil servants wear light ones, yes, unlike soldiers. They're weird guys. Some are scum, some truly couldn't do any better.
Although, towards the end, everyone wore whatever they could get their hands on. It looked funny at times, to see dirty faces dressed in gold-embroidered jackets. Designed for nobles, worn by rats with hollow cheeks that found them in a chest in a stormed shed. They hid it there while fleeing, hoping to once return.
Once again, that wrinkled face flashes before my eyes. Ron. Even delirious thoughts don't distract me enough from that old man.
Though, they never did. They never helped. My thoughts are always unwanted in one way or another, awkward. Whatever I think, I don't like it—and how I think it, I don't like either. Maybe if I hadn't been thinking this much, I wouldn't have suffered. I'd have smiled and gone straight into my death's arms with pants full of happiness. Thinking in battle is generally not advised. Those who think a lot die first.
—and I wouldn't have remembered that face ever again. I wouldn't have remembered anything.
The old man looks at me. I look at him. Well, we're both fools, I guess. But at least he won't ask about anything. He was planning to take his son and leave with that punk anyway. Now I see that even without him, the old man would have left. He has that look.
Hah. How utterly stupid this is. This has to be a dream. A realistic and impossibly dumb one, for sure.
Here I am, speculating about the past— future, while in reality, I'm on my last breath, under a pile of corpses, and I don't have any future. My skin is all burnt, blistering and ugly. It stinks. And, amidst mountains of corpses, the punk is fighting that bastard.
To think, why did everything have to start with him and end with him? It's like the world revolves around him. What a punk. A real blockhead.
Still, it's good I didn't see the old man die. I've only heard the rumor. Though, everyone must have died at some point, to have stopped clinging to the punk. Otherwise, they would have been there with him too.
If I had seen the dead old man's face, I would go mad now. The dead have those grey tongues hanging out of their mouths, and the drool, and the eyes rolled back or narrow like a cat's. Quite a sight. Plus, corpses shit and rot.
The room starts to stink. Here we go. Didn't even get to imagine the old man dead, and it's already begun.
We should open the window. There's no air to breathe.
"Ron—" my tongue barely moves. It's numb. My whole body feels numb and wooden. Am I already stiffening? I shouldn't, I'm still alive... I think. Am I?
Do I look like a corpse? Well, my eyes do, obviously. Even when I was definitely alive, people have told me my eyes were of a dead man. What about the rest?
I nod towards the windows, the old man catches on instantly. He's a good butler. Efficient, smart. Although, how good of a killer he is, given that he allowed himself to be killed, is hard to judge.
...Oh. Wait.
Ha-ha. How wonderful, I completely forgot about this.
As soon as the old man stepped away, I saw a mirror behind him. A large one, around my height, right opposite the bed.
Maybe everything is because of this. They say a mirror facing the bed attracts evil. That it will suck your soul out in your sleep.
The bottle fits in my hand, comforting in its familiar weight. It's still hefty. The glass alone is heavy enough, and I haven't even drunk all the wine. Whatever—it flies directly into the mirror.
The crash is deafening. The mirror cracks and shatters, shards of black and white glass mixed with silver. They glitter like crystal islands in a red puddle. How beautiful. Mesmerizing even.
Ugh.
It's already too cold outside to leave windows wide open like that. It's autumn, after all. It's autumn, right? Is it?
No. Wait. Not autumn. March—it's March now. First half of it, I think.
Mm. It's a bit embarrassing to admit that I only remember this because the old man leaving without notice once broke little me's heart. I mean, it would have been embarrassing if there was someone to be embarrassed in front of. It's not like I'm not embarrassed in front of myself—I've seen myself in all sorts of states.
Back then, I really was very naive and fragile. I thought the opposite, of course. Everyone does. I thought I was so exceptional, that I had endured so much in life I understood "the true essence of this rotten world". Little me would never accept that he has flaws—in logic, and in general.
If I had opened at least one mere book at that time, I would have understood that all young people suffer from this. Everyone has to go through this phase.
But not through death—no, it seems not everyone does. So, in a way, I am exceptional after all?
—it doesn't matter.
The old man's condescending smile pisses me off. He cleaned everything up so quickly and, satisfied, now watches me, waiting for— for me to say something. Should I? Probably... I can definitely use his expectations, at least.
"What are you looking at?" my voice takes on that nasty, nagging tone. Maybe it seems that way to me because now it's a bit brighter, higher in pitch than it will be in a few years. It's not drastically different, but it still sounds wrong. "Go where you wanted. No, wait! Bring me more of this wine."
The old man smiles and leaves. He'll bring it, I know he will. Good. Something never changes.
He smiled exactly the same when we last met. He was a hero, and I was still the trash of the count's family. He noticed me in the crowd, and smiled—nothing more, nothing less. After the award ceremony, he disappeared with the rest of the heroes.
I don't know what I wanted him to do. To try to meet me, maybe, to talk to me. But what would we talk about? He never sought communication anyway, especially not with me.
I remember at the same time I didn't want to see him, that nasty old man. Yeah, I used to be a stupid child.
Now, my stomach turns at the sight of that signature smile of his.
Oh, how nice I have sent him away—for wine. I didn't think nothing when I was saying it, and it came out quite naturally. Plus, I would never say no to good booze.
I get out of bed. My feet lead me to the broken mirror on their own. In the shards around the edges, there's still a glimpse of my reflection. Though, there's another superstition about this, I think...
Yeah, no, mirrors are truly evil. The rumors are right.
Otherwise, there's no way to explain why my hair is still red— already red?.. Scarlet, like blood—stained with it, actually. I don't remember what color they were before. Over the years, it became covered in an unwashable layer of blood—but before it was different. Must have been. Probably. Looking in the mirror at my red hair now, I'm not sure of anything anymore.
My face is unhealthy and pale, like a ghost's. "Aristocratically" pale, they say. I just have been in the sun only on the way from home to the bar and from one bar to another, coming back home in the dark, and I always kept the curtains drawn because of hangovers.
My eyes are also strange, dull and faded. Maybe there is something corpse-like about them, who knows. I don't see it.
I step back a couple of steps—now I just look sad. The shirt hangs over bare bones. It's almost like She is looking at me. And She's dead.
Okay, fine, now I see. I really do look like a walking corpse. Good thing I can't see it clearly. The mirror is broken, after all— I don't know why I broke it.
But, well, whatever.
I approach the window and yank the curtains apart. I get tangled, stumble, grab onto them and rip them off with the curtain rod. It almost falls on my head. Seems I'm still not entirely in sync with my limbs—
The light is bright. Terribly so. It stings in the corners of my eyes.
And outside it's quiet, as if dead. Or as if time has stopped. Maybe it's me that has finally stopped. There is no screaming, no explosions, no death can be heard.
It's an ordinary garden that surrounds the estate. And, beyond it, the city—clearly visible from the hill, like on the palm of your hand. Lonely, small, and empty. The blinding sun beats down on it.
—again, not the time for poeticisms.
Soon, people will get here because of the noise. I just had to rip off the curtain rod! It must be a sturdy construction, yet I still managed to.
Though the old man would have returned soon anyway. He will—maybe without the wine. That would be a pity.
I swing a leg over the balcony railing. Then the other. I look down. It's not too high, but if one falls headfirst, they'll die—
Or impale themselves on a branch or tools left by the gardeners.
That way I'd die painfully and slowly. They'd find me sooner than I do and pump me so full of potions that there'd be more of it in my blood than the blood itself.
Maybe—if they come late, but not too late to keep me alive—I'll be stuck with crutches for life, like Basen. Or with a non-functional lung. Which means the same thing—a helpless vegetable, a burden.
A cool wind slips under my shirt. Perhaps it really is too thin for early spring. I dangle my legs over the abyss, like a playful child—
and jump.
I hope it won't be a disability. I'll hang myself if it is.