Вера Ефимова
Soulmate

CHAPTER 1

 It was a regular summer evening, and as it was on its way to end, silent little bugs were disrupting serene thinking. Not a single opened store outside, except for convenient ones. Trees were drawn in oblivion of upcoming sleep while all the people were marching home. One of them was Fabian Hawthorne, a tall, unassuming young fellow with green, wide-opened eyes that harbored despair and boredom over the feeling of wasted life in California, which he thought was “too late to change,” avoiding the fact that he didn't seem willing to do some changes. He'd rather hide for some time and come out with the most severe feeling of reluctance he ever had. He was merely sitting at home, asking for plans he wouldn't ever get around to commit and dreaming. Dreaming of a huge future of his, of breaking free. There was something peculiar about this afternoon evening. Deep, dismal thoughts were haunting him for a sustained period of time. He had no idea how to tackle his horrifying issue.

 When he thinks of it, he flows into memories, the most recent ones, which appeared to be his most hated. He tries to remind himself that he didn't choose this kind of life, but is it helpful? Apart from that, however, he is grateful, for it could be way worse of a situation some people find themselves familiar with. A few days ago, on the Sunday night of December, his dad came late in the night from a local casino bar called “A Key to Fortune.” Wasted. Again. Mr. Hawthorne is a police officer, a sturdy one; he raised his son in the most rigorous environment, dreaming about a perfect version of a child he will grow into someday. Something went wrong.

 His father was one of those people who value discipline and hate mess, so he is assured that to maintain discipline and keep the mess away he has to beat the hell out of people. He does it every time he sees something unsuitable or misshapen; then he beats the back, face, and stomach. And views it as a maintaining order.

When you took a look at him and at Fabian, you would be positive that there’s no way these people are related. He had a paunch, of which he was vain and called it “laborious callus” when he was pointed out at it directly. Mr. “Big Bill,” as he was called in the office, also appears to have a chin, almost completely swollen with fat, but which was invariably neatly shaved, so the short beardie did not add unnecessary ugliness to his face. Unlike him, Fabian always had a pretty, smooth like a baby butt face, which was usually hid under his hood or long greasy bangs, so it was rather unnecessary or he hesitated to show his phiz.

 Fabian was hiding under the bed, shaking from every thought of his dad finding him and beating half to death. Again. It was definitely not the first time, but every time feels like the first. His eyes were half closed, though fear of being spotted prevented him from falling asleep. His strong, promising spirit was ruthlessly extinguished by cruelty and violence a long time ago. Mommy was not there. She never was. This woman realized she wasn't ready for family and slipped away as soon as Fabian came out of her. At least, that’s what his dad has been telling him since his early childhood. Perhaps this was the reason dad hates him: the love of his life is not there anymore; he has to roll things by himself. And this boy. He doesn't really fit in.  The guy became an unemployed, always losing, drunken, messed up dad, who never showed any affection to his son, unless it was related to violence. Somehow, he was maintaining his position at work, which always startled Fabian. If all the authorities were like his dad, the world would turn to a giant, abysmal dumpster with no chance of recovery. Unexpectedly, he stands up. Two steps towards the room little boy was hiding in. Three steps closer. Heart pounds relentlessly, hands sweating. Breath is being taken away and turning to a loud gasp, mediocrely giving away Fabian’s presence. Three more steps. He almost reached the room, looking around. Three more steps. Fabian was assured Daddy will look under the bed first thing he gets to it, as this is the place he used to hide in as a kid. He was a bad hide-and-seek player. He covers his mouth with a hand and tries to turn down the sound of sobbing. One more step before dad finds his son. The boy tries hard not to cover room with his scream, leaning flatter to the floor, merging with it, and freezes. The silence was loud. Fabian could hear his own breathing, even though he seemed not to be breathing at all. Oh no. He sneezed. A big, filthy man with a hell of the paunch gets his son from under the bed, pulling him like if he were a rubber. Fabian has lost the game.

"Haven't I told you not to hide from me when I come home?” says Fabian′s dad, with a full face of rage, as if he were waiting until this very moment to burst everything he got out.

“Haven’t I told you not to drink?” responds the kid, ironically.

“How dare you talk to me like that?” Fabian’s dad is clenching his fists, squeezing Fabian in his big, stout arms.

“You deserve to burn in hell, Daddy,” said Fabian, frowning.

“Apologize,” he throws little boy to the wall. Febian is trying his best not to burst in tears and infuriate his dad even more. “Apologize, immediately”

“I'm so sorry,” he goes. “I will make it up to you tomorrow. Just stop.”

“Too late”

The next thing he does is apply his fists. It was inevitable to pray for mercy and actually get one. No. Not in this reality. However, it had the potential to stand up, knock him off, and run away. Getting as far away from him as possible, reaching neighbors, maybe. Then calling the police. But what's the point? He IS the police.

Then his belt comes to a hand. It's getting worse. Two scarlet stripes stay imprints on his skin. He is scared to scream. Two more on the way. He is going to be destroyed. It was not new of his father to harden his son like that, as Fabian was raised in an atmosphere of terrifying tension mingled with constant alcoholism, which was the average state of Mr. Hawthorne’s. The isolation Fabian found himself in brought a great misery to his life.

As time went by, he was wallowing on the floor, not making any move. Not because he was scared to make one. Because he was unable to do anything. His body was deprived of motion, trembling like a leaf. The ultraviolence session is over. He would rather be floundering on the pave floor, somewhere in the filthy puddle with filthy stray dogs and rats. This version, actually, seemed quite tempting. Not a single soul would invade his privacy, leaving himself to his thoughts as they would be his only interlocutors. He never knew other life.

 Big old man goes to his bedroom and locks all the doors. He falls asleep immediately as he reaches the bed. It bent under his massive carcass, making creaking sounds, almost breaking. The TV is still on; you could see glares reflecting on his eyes and the mirror. Fabian wasn’t looking. The average threatening vibe stays in their house as it usually does. Only moths would ruin the silence with the fluttering of their tiny wings. The odor of booze and perspiration fills the house intensively. As always. But this time it was immense; Fabian couldn't even fall asleep with a nauseating stench like this unless he plugs his nose with something dense. He decides to venture out.

Well, now it’s time to pack the stuff. This is his first time running away. Fabian took everything vital: hot dogs, a few spare clothes, a phone and power bank, his last pocket money he found in the nightstand, pepper spray (just in case, you know), and, most importantly, his spirit. His fortitude was vilely leaving him, and inexorable fearfulness built up with a whole new level of intensity. It was the night.

Going out was not the problem—the doors are usually open. The hardest part was to get over the fear of taking a big step, as it is the only disastrous thing ever done in his life. He never knew how to make a determined decision on his own. He never knew from his father, so it played a certain roll in the task. But, eventually, he had to learn. But how quickly he did it, breathing heavily and jumping out of the window, landing on an in advance-prepared mattress. How relieving and stressful simultaneously. A fleet stroke of freedom passed his figure. It’s finally over.

But, Oh no…

 “I have no idea what to do now,” he must think. “It was quite a time since dad let me outside.”.

The new chapter of his 17-year-old life had begun. Starting with having no clue what to do next and where to go, leaving it to his prejudices to decide. “It is my turn to dictate commands." He was highly reassured that his dad is going to be after him once he realizes he doesn't have anyone to please anymore. Maybe sneaking out was a terrible idea, which would lead him to giant problems, making his life a madness. That would be horrible. At least he had homeschooling paid and a bit of leftover food if Mr. Hawthorne appeared to be in the mood. But that will not happen. Everything to prevent it is to be done.

The night was admirable, though. The mild summer wind was blowing his hair, fiddling with it slightly. An old, putrefying oak spread its leaves in the direction of him, as if trying to fence the guy with its gnarled branches. Even old and putrefying, it seemed in the prime of life to him—so gloriously does this feeling transfigure its object. He saw newly sown poppies and couldn’t stop gazing: they were scarlet, as usual, but there was something peculiar in the way they looked.

You could hear owls hoot in the distance, flying from one branch to another, maybe even hunting. People were strolling and muttering something to themselves, if warily observed. A barely audible squeak brought Fabian back to his state of mind. He felt like fainting.

He sighs. “There's no way back." Oh great. Now that we got it out of the way, he better find a shelter. In the middle of the night. Alone. Crows were croaking; all the monsters were already out, which eventually turned out to be just trees covered in dense vegetation, as the town of Riverside was quite an old, moldy place. There was only one subway—near the border in between two towns, which were both tiny and uncanny, letting alone people. All the intelligence departed to bigger cities, bigger opportunities; none a person with a hell of a potential would indelibly waste it in Riverside, rather than going to New York or LA for that matter. Personally, I find it unbelievably ruthless. . Fabian looked veil and saw the suburban station was supposed to be a hostel. The target point is detected.

He takes a quick glance at his phone: 1:42 p.m. A long night before dawn, mysterious, hushed, unexplored. Fabian felt an urge to scream. It would be a long, emaciated scream, caused by a lack of skill and ineptitude, which could lead him to a complete failure. These were only things that dragged him down. God knows for how many years (seventeen, to be less dramatic) he′s been locked out, like a bird in a cage  or an average married woman. Then, for the first time having a chance, he risks losing it. The gruesome starts to blow his mind, outgrowing into a big anxiety and fear. Uncertainty in his face was effortlessly reflected. He didn’t look coarse or appalling; it is more of an alarm. Overcoming such things might be deadly and unattainable.

Surprisingly, he had an idea. A silly one: “Why don't I pass a few more blocks and ask someone local fella for a shelter? That'll do for some time." Why mediocre? A few blocks from home had an array of stores, on the cameras of which he will be caught and delivered home once the police finds out about the son of their “cherished” colleague, who shamelessly ran away. It would be a disaster. But it didn't bother him at all. Nothing bothered him from now on. Fabian finally obtained the sweetness of full freedom. And he’s not going to lose it.

 It seemed a little controversial—running away from your only one parent since Fabian had some king of the affection as a kid. Sort of. Maybe he will miss the days Mr. Hawthorne was a great actual father, very long time ago. He would play with his little son till dusk and continue with the dawn. He cooked the best dinner in the world, which had everyone knocked off. He cared about him like no one ever did, and it will be certainly remembered. It was stellar—living in an ordinary family with an ordinary life. How quickly it altered “It will be never the same." The only thought that crossed his mind was to stop recalling old days and prevent being hurt. It was painful for him to see his father like that after he experienced the other side of his; the family felicity was so short he forgot how it feels to be loved. It was another obstacle that needed to be overcome immediately. Living in the past on a daily basis. Of course, all people love to immerse in the good old days, relive them, and brush up the memory, but not incessantly. The isolation Fabian found himself in brought misery to his life. He wasn't lonely; he was alone.

 It's getting colder, almost freezing. A boy was ravenous, so the hot dogs came in handy. His pants were all covered in blood stains, so it seemed like he had just arrived from a war or boxing club. His socks were ripped, but he didn't seem to care much about it. The crowd was cheering somewhere not far. Some vibrant vision arose: he′s strolling carelessly, sand under his feet, warm, white cost is tempting him to take a swim. He put on the hood, which covered half of his face, darkening it lightly. A flock of birds is flying up in the clear blue sky, and nothing bothers his head. “I need to get out of here.”.

 A single thought of the future was a blur. Too much of a risk; he didn't want to jeopardize himself or anyone else who decides to come along with him. Fabian needed to go as far away as possible. It was not easily reachable—to flung the pall of customary daily life and throw on a new identity. His feet were rubbing from tightness, and so was his mind. Every secret becomes clear someday—this term brought endless horror to him; it felt inevitable. Vulnerability was drenching him in sweat and doubts. Such a risk was unfamiliar to him. There was only one way to get rid of it.

 The heat was cooling down; it's almost two blocks past. Crickets were buzzing, and the crowd seemed to be dispersed. The lights were down low; a dimly lit pathway was leading him to people. Fabian would be definitely caught and sent home. Then beaten to death in the way he has never experienced before. Until he encountered…

Me.

CHAPTER 2

 Well, I think it's time to introduce myself. I'm Vincent Perez. Fabian′s… no. Stalker is not appropriate calling. Potential acquaintance, I′d say. Prepare yourself for a little story.

 Four years ago, when I was 15 and my neighbor, Fabian, was 13, I observed fights with his father every single day. It was a deafening, threatening story. Every day I was tantalized calling the police, Punch this son of a bitch, make him pay. Not Fabian—his father. Although I would most certainly get in trouble because of his father's reputation. I understood it clearly. I was highly concerned about the situation but never had much of a choice to do anything, so I waited. For years. I knew someday he would've run away if he hadn't yet. And I knew I would be always there to lend a hand. No catch, but I would definitely catch him if he falls.

 I once bumped into Bill Hawthorne on the street near his house when I was only 10. I remember him saying hi to me and trying to get to know me as we were neighbors (we just moved in). “What a great father he must be,” I thought. But little did I know how far from the truth I was! We were playing with Fabian in the backyard for several hours in the evening until his dad got home after work. He was clad in a faded green issue sweatshirt and khaki trousers, and his voice had a trace of a Texas accent. Fabian noticed something wrong from the doorway, and Mr. Hawthorne did not have those disposing eyes anymore; you could rather read rage and vileness in them.

 “Come on, hurry!” muttered Fabian, taking my hand and leading me up the stairs.

 We slipped into his room and hid under the bed, seeping deeper inside it. I didn’t realize why and asked, peered at him questionably. The look on his face depicted dread and fearsomeness.

 “Don’t move,” he said quietly. “He will hear.”.

 “Are we still playin’?” I said in a childish Luisiana accent and laughed piercely.

 Confident footsteps were heard on the stairs, and the whipping of the belt can be heard as an echo in my head to this day. I was invigorated; I never had a dad to play hide and seek with me. But Bill Hawthorne wasn’t playing. He puts his hand under the bed and slowly pulls Fabian out of it. I carefully looked up: Bill held his son's shoulders in the air, squeezing them tightly so that Fabian could barely restrain himself from crying. Then I heard the most inexorable yell in my entire ten-year-old life.

 “Stop hiding!” shrieked Major. “I hate it when you’re hiding! I told you to behave, little devil, but you keep messing up! Stand against the wall immediately.”

 Then he starts flogging little Fabian with a belt, each time he swung his arm so that the belt flew off first on his back and then, with incredible speed, on Fabian's back. He screamed so shrilly that I shuddered more and more, and my breathing rate increased with each swing. Never have I ever in my life been chastened the way my friend was, not for nothing indeed. The sounds of the belt touching the skin were heard for a long time until Bill let off all his steam and walked away, pulling his favorite belt back on his pants. Fabian was lying on the floor, almost completely knocked out with the blood welling from his wounds. The tears on my eyes inadvertently started welling up.

 "Fabian.” I said softly.

 “Go home,” he responded with an effort.

 I didn’t find anything left to say, so I slipped through the window and went down the fire escape attached to the side of their house. I never came back.

 I remember we were crossing in high school a couple of times years later. He always looked devastated and talked to people only sometimes, with a detachment peculiar only to him. He only came across cut off of this world, mainly being on his own all the time, hating if someone interrupted. Fabian was that kind of student that was eating alone in a hallway, looking crashed and distraught, and no one would sit next to him, as he seemed pretty much like some sort of an outcast. Except me. I tried to approach him several times—I sat with him at lunch, walked next to him, even tried to talk—but never succeeded. I was desperate to help, as I was the only one who knew his terrifying background. “I'm not in the mood” was his only excuse for everything. I realized he wasn't interested in any social interaction, so I left him and my hope of becoming friends. In vein, I must add.

 My family moved as soon as the entire neighborhood started complaining about the noise, stemming from Hawthorne′s house, but no one was taking any measures (of course), so everything I had to do was observe quietly. It almost killed me to see Fabian suffering and getting such treatment on a daily basis. One sleepless night after another. All the horror must come to an end someday.

 From now on, I was obligated to take care of Fabian. I wanted to help; after all, he's been gone through. I needed to be around and he needed me to be around. Well, not particularly me, but someone. Furthermore, I was the only one available in such a situation; I′m not sure he has that tight relationship with his friends to let him crash overnight or a few more nights.

 Coming up with the plan is the hardest. You never know what to expect, especially from other people, who conventionally are not willing to follow unless it’s on their own terms. I was prepared to expect Febian to convert my strategy upside down based on his very own opinions, though it is hard for me to embrace other people’s remarks concerning my remarkable work. In the end, if it doesn’t challenge you, it doesn’t change you.

 I realized I have to figure out a way to approach him. Someway carefully, not coming across as a stalking weirdo who already has the whole situation under control. That′s ridiculous. I have to “accidentally” bump into him in the store and offer help. But why would I know he needs help? Stupid. Maybe provoke an accident and then offer help? Sounds fair to me.

 I am perplexed. It happens to be the most doomed situation—I need him. I mean, it’s him who needs me. I’m not inclined to have made a friendship this quick; I have not obtained this kind of skill at all. It’s way easier to connect people at work or school. You have many things in common. Although this time I was a total doommonger, hidden in the circulation of plentiful, exhilarating impasse, entailing the impediment of not getting along with my target, Febian. Life is mediocrity.

 A time was passing by immensely, the way it never was before. I have always lacked an exceptional feature of thinking critically. Or just fast. It was, although uncommon among future detectives as I am. What a lot of issues I have. It would be much easier to approach the target by getting along, which is less dreadful.

l and perilous situation, where you got plenty of chances to succeed, if not once, then twice or more. Now I got them once.

 I knew a flawless approach to him; I just needed to figure it out more clearly, which doesn’t sound so much blur as I think of it. The theory invariably remains theory, while practice takes a long way. But in the end, Febian is merely as carbon-based a life form as I am.

 “You ok?” said some creep behind me while I was squirming and talking to myself, desperately trying to figure out the way to strike up a conversation.

 “Oh, why would you care?” I reply impulsively, as I don’t fancy interrupting me. But wait. I may recognize this voice timbre. I turn around reluctantly.

It’s Febian.

 He looked confused; he didn’t know what to do with his limbs and posture. A little lost kitten stood on my way. He was looking at me with a lack of confidence, almost kneeling to me, begging for help, as he looked a little exhausted and shabby. He had a backpack with him at his back, very stout, filled with the must-have things and a little more. His face expressed turmoil and despair, as if he were out of sleep for a few days. His lips were trembling. Not from cold, from fear. His green eyes were staring at me in perplexity. I was ready to say everything I had to.

 “Oh,” he replied. "Sorry,” he starts to walk away and might be abashed by my asshole attitude.

 He suddenly quits talking for a few moments, recalling something.

 “Wait. I know you.” It stopped him right away. He recognized me also. How many times do I have to tell myself not to be scornful towards strangers? Weirdo.

 He looks over me thoroughly, as if he tries to recall something.

 “I might know you too. You’re the guy from my school. I think you moved in the ninth grade. What’s your name?” I’m astonished. He has a hood memory, to my surprise. However, not too good to reminisce about our childhood friendship.    “Vincent. Vincent Perez. And you’re right—I moved to Washington four years ago.” I was settling in for college attending purposes, as Washington University was my behold dream.

 “I’m Febian. It was nice to meet you, Vincent,” he changed. He changed a lot. I don’t remember him saying my name until now. He seems more mature compared to him in middle school. “I need to go now. It was nice talking to you. Bye.”

 Grr, so cold. Not everything changed though. I had to convince him I was on his side and knew more details. I’m afraid he refuses to share such delicate information; he surely will refuse—he just found out my name. I’ve got a shitload of work to do.

 I remembered one time I was writing an essay. The topic was “how hard it is to convey our feelings to other people." This situation suited me unconditionally. I know how to do it in my head, but it’s challenging to implement. In the class, I was talking about the hardships of life and finding out an approach to other people, but not in the way we want it to. “We don’t know how actually different we are, but we know that this difference defines who we are." It undoubtedly irritated me right this instant. Why can’t people just cut me some slack? It’s horrible. We realized the way to communicate with each other, however, missed the step of understanding. It had me knocked off. I can’t always dodge a bullet if people are going to shoot repetitively. It feels like no one is on my side.

 It never felt like someone shared my point of view. I felt rather… spurned. I always felt left out, not in the sense of being a loser, but for the person with innovative, distinguished, misunderstood, genius matter. In middle school, I created a 3-D combinational puzzle with a six-colored cube that includes nine squares and can be rotated separately, and I named it Vincent Puzzle. It turned out that I invented Rubik’s cube. Ah, this is such a torment to get along with this world!

 “Wait!” Well, that was instant. I’m still figuring out the way to get him on my side. “I know what trouble you’re in. I can help.”

 “What?” That didn’t sound good. “How do you know? Does anyone else know?”

 “No, just me. I walked past your house while visiting my aunt. She lives across the street.” I just dodged a bullet.

 Febian looked confused. On his face, you could read a few different emotions: doubt, anxiety, mistrust, unwillingness, and exhaustion. The most prominent was uncertainness. Uncertainty whether to believe me or not. It was impossible to predict the odds of him making the choice in my favor since we just fucking met. I could say he’s going to punch me in the face and run.

 “How exactly do you want to help?” I didn’t reflect on that.

 "II will offer you a place to crash for a while, until we figure out what to do next.” This was definitely the most rational step for him to take. He had nowhere to go and no one to trust. Beside me, of course. In spite of my incompetence as a detective in process, I had a vast interest in bringing bad people to justice and exposing them in the most insufferable way. An acute wave of vulnerability crossed his face.

 “No, thanks. I will find another way. Thank you for help.

 What. What just happened? He refuses the offer of having a roof above his head and unconditional help. And also, a circumspect plan? I’m shocked. This can’t be true. He ain’t got nothing to do but fall for me. Besides, leaving him alone would be a crime. The dude has severe trust issues.

 “Well, what are you going to do then?” I didn’t hesitate to ask, still stricken by his ludicrousness of assertion. Febian Hawthorne isn’t going to make it without me. I was his one and only lifesaver. I should’ve been wiser to think of the plan, though. He is stubborn and drawn to the point of thinking he can do everything himself without a side hustle. Gotta change that.

 “I will…,” He was intervened by the siren of a police car. Wait. The police car?!

CHAPTER 3

 We started to run immediately, knowing approximately no road to follow. Both of us are on the edge, intimidated by police cars chasing us, and uncertain what to do. This hits differently. I run with him after me. Knowing our chances of getting away are approximately 0.00000003, I have the only idea in my mind: lead him to my house. Not the one across the road, the one I currently live in—in Washington. We could catch a taxi down the road if we weren’t chased. Oh yeah, we are.

 A stroke of uncertainness strikes me down. They are onto both of us; they’ve seen us, probably. I don’t know where to run. Suddenly, I notice a dark, empty alley in between the street and two other buildings. Let’s go there. Febian seems most terrified—he’s trembling in fear, as if it’s a matter of his life and death. The inexorable, sweet moment of seized liberty pierced him invincibly. There’s no more joy than feeling numb and agile simultaneously, I bet.

 His dad is a monster, no doubt. I wonder if he was a hostage or a regular son of a hophead. I have so many questions to ask.

 “Follow me,” I led Febian through the alley that got us to another impasse. “Shit”.

 What a lot of trouble it is. How do criminals manage it?

 I was adamant and unwilling to give up that easy. All I had to do was get him out of here and get to the station. Easier said than done.

 “There,” he noticed a little hole in the fence; we got through it. It led us to an unknown area we had no idea about. His face reflected perplexity and fear. “How about giving up?” Funny.

 I grabbed his hand and pulled us out of an uncommon area. We ran towards the subway station. A stroke of hope pierced my body.

 “No one’s giving up. You follow me.” I got tired of the getaway. There was one bus that could take us to Washington, where we would be safe. All we needed was to wait for it to arrive and hope for the best until we were caught. Besides, the whole town is most likely aware of the occasion and already on their way to find and return little cop’s son home and get a smooth remuneration. Febian better not come back.

 “Give me your phone,” he said, taking it out of the bag and handing it over. I immediately threw it away somewhere out. “I’ll give you a disposable as soon as we get to my place.”

 “How can I be sure you’re on my side?” He asked timidly, like a little child asks his mom to buy candy in an excessively crowded store.

 “We just ran away from police. What else do you need?” He was so unwilling to trust me I couldn’t bear it. How are we going to be in the future?

 “Why are you helping me?” The train stopped by. I caught a sight of police officers going downstairs to the station. We are extremely lucky to get on the bus before they saw us.

 “No more talking.”

 I paid for both of us, and we sat on opposite seats and didn’t make eye contact all the way to Washington. It was a long and peaceful trip. I was about to fall asleep, and I would if the burden of fear didn’t bother me.

 Cops don’t know me, do they? If so, they won’t be able to find us if we’ll be miles away from Riverside. The only way to track us would be Febian’s phone, which I threw away at the station. Oh my god. His scent.

 “Come here,” I called him right away and took the perfume out of my bag. It might help for a while to lead police dogs astray. I sprayed his clothes with this perfume and told him to cover his face with a. We cannot afford to risk.

 The bus was almost empty inside. The situation was escalating every moment, as I was too afraid of being captured every damn second. Febian was calm and quiet, as he usually is. A slight breeze gave me goosebumps. I was startled by Febian’s calmness and unassumingness. It would fill me with just insane running away for myself. I couldn’t probably pluck up my courage and not be so worked up about it. Perhaps, it just me.

I couldn’t sit still and wait, so I decided to turn the TV on to distract my busy mind and discard any negative thoughts.

 “And now, word to Major Hawthorne.”

 Oh my God.

 “Tonight was the most desperate night in my life. My beloved son Febian ran away from home. I don’t know what circumstances could cause such an event, but I’m going to do everything to bring my son back. Police won’t rest until they find my son. This horrible nightmare should be put to an end once and for all. If you have any information concerning Febian Hawthorne, please report to the police. ”

 It was quite expectable that Major Hawthorne would contribute to his son’s search. The situation will become more intense from now on. We need to be more careful. Something bizarre happened while I was speculating about our next step.

 “What’s happening?” I could hear anxiety in his muffled voice.

 The train had stopped suddenly, leaving us at a crossroads. We were only passengers today. There must be some gas leak or other malfunction. We’re on our very own now. I noticed how struggling Fabian was with his fearsomeness; this is something completely new for him, but also, he’s got a whole lot of packages behind his back. There is a lot to figure out and tailor.

 “We’re out of light. There must be some accident.”

 “What do we do?”

 “Wait a little, teenage mutant ninja turtles are on their way to help us.” The joke was a little irrelevant. All my jokes were a little irrelevant most of the time.

 “You’re delirious,” ok, not a little.

 “I am. But it’s going to be fine; we just wait here.”

 I wasn’t sure what to do either. This is the first time the station was down. I don’t know how long it takes to repair it, probably till the dawn, but we can’t wait such a long time. Kyla is going to kill me.

 “Hey mate, I think we should get to be going.”

 “Where?”

 “Out of here.”

 “But how are we going to get to Washington? It’s a shitload of miles from here,” he was right. And it is dangerous up there anyway, but I’m afraid we have no other chance but to leave.

 “Just go”

 And now it’s been hours since our leaving. We were eager to finally get to surface, but to no avail. Darkness was increasing gradually, as was our possibility of getting lost for a sustained period of time. Our feet are dumped from the slob and mud of such a place, and we were cold to death. It was exactly the opposite of how I imagined the “running away together” feeling.  My goal was to survive this night.

 “So you like The Beatles?” I initiated the conversation.

 “Why would I?” he responded unwillingly.

 “You have a picture of John Lennon on your shirt.”

 “Oh, well, it’s just the shirt,” just like I guessed.

 “What music are you into then?” I was eager to hear some rock group or heavy metal out of his mouth.

 “It’s one direction mostly,” oh my god. He doesn’t look like a directioner at all. He’s all depressed and somber and never thrilled. But okay, now I don’t judge a book by its cover. I was a directioner once myself, for it was the “in” thing among teenagers back in the days; however, it’s not anymore. Paramore would be another good example of time-changing, though it is one of those rock bands from the 2000s that may keep their flexibility throughout 20+ years.

 We were walking straight for an hour, if not more, through the filthiest sewer in the entire world. We went slowly and steadily, as if we were strolling down the seaside on the verge of the sunset in the most marvelous evening in Washington; sand would clinging to our nine-our-walk feet, lingering as if we were standing still, experiencing the pressure of waves underneath them sometimes. The wind blowing carelessly, making us both rue not worshipping invaluable times like this, which happen only once in the very blue moon. A sonorous squeak would

distract us from our innermost thoughts, which are meant to be never shared. A light-headed mind of ours would be no longer loaded with unflattering solicitudes, which made our everyday life so miserable no one ever could escape. The idea of a utopian world always seemed so tempting and soothing; with such a carefree carbon-based life form, I would undoubtedly be on top of the entire world. I would make this universe knee in front of my gorgeous goddess-kind frame, the supremacy of which no one was allowed to doubt.

 This is the life of my dream.

 In reality, it was quite the opposite: it was unendurable to avoid the smell of sewer-dwelling rats, which appeared to be semi-degradable in a place like this. No offense, Master Splinter. I genuinely expected us to encounter a lost-hope light penetration, leading to the surface a long time ago. Sometimes Febian would stop for a break, staring at my eyes like there was something besides the iris and corneas. I did the exact same thing to him.

 We were still marching through the sewer, and it seemed enormous, making it impossible to escape. While we were passing it, I’ve noticed some significant features: the walls were unreal to discern as they were dark as the black hole, but a slight stroke of light penetrated from somewhere above, demonstrating the view of it’s shining. The floor we were standing on was made of stone and bleached to make it less rough; the ceiling was not possible to see, but I could say it was the same substance as the floor, however, neither bleached nor rough. Tiled structure could be felt underfoot, highlighting stripes of glue. The most significant part was the smell of it. Ugh! I’ve never felt this revolt before. The stench caused me immediate nausea on the spot, but I could endure it.

 “Vincent, look!” said Fabian, in excitement. I looked right in the direction he was pointing, and oh God! We finally found the exit. It was a door, scornfully constructed in the end of the hall; it was so old it had mold all over it, but I couldn’t care less at the moment. We tried to open it manually, and it opened, welcoming us to exit. I haven't felt a breeze in my hear like this for a sustained period of time.

CHAPTER 4

 The wind subsided, and a and a black, obscure sky piously hung above us, almost merging with the end of the horizon, making us not able to see anything, for our eyes are not used to dark yet. It became easier to be with every single breath of fresh air, with every single shine of night sky, and with every single realization of finally breaking free. My comrade’s inexperience was showing so easily I found it a bit unjust to perceive him as if he were a puppy—a tiny, frightened little puppy who is afraid to pluck up his own courage and follow his heart.

 We were getting weaker step by step, stopping from time to time to sit on the bench without any willingness to stride any further. One thing was clear: we needed some place to crash and some food to eat. I caught myself pondering about completely unnecessary things, about the environment I’m surrounded by. I forgot about the actual thing—our well-being. Fabian was walking silently, afraid to utter the wrong word, because with every endeavor to speak, it seemed like, due to the lack of rest, his words were slipping away from him. A muffled groan of some beast was heard from afar, diluting the somber atmosphere of the night with incoherent noise. The rustling of leaves was especially audible, suppressing the background of silence.

 His deep voice interrupted me from my thoughts.

 “What’s next?” he asked timidly.

 “I have no idea.”

 “What do you mean you have no idea?” his voice started to rise. I could see he was a little irritated. “You said you'd help me to run away, but we ended up in the middle of nowhere. You said you had a plan!”

 “For a start, calm down. I promised you to run away, as we successfully accomplished. And yeah, I got a plan, and right now we are following it. Yes, certain circumstances got us up guard, but…

 “I shouldn’t mess with it in the first place,” he responded quickly, not letting me finish my excuse. I instantly realized how messed up my initial idea was to take the goddamn subway and not think of any contingency plan. I fully understand his disappointment.

 “Don’t worry. We’ll come up with something. I know a hostel nearby. We can crash there for some time.” There was certainly no use of my unwarranted excuses; he is not stupid.

 “Just leave me alone.”

 “Leave you… What? No. You can’t be on your own.”

 “Why are you doing this? I don’t know you, so why should I trust you? I shouldn’t have trusted you in the first place. You said you had a plan, and now we’re in the middle of nowhere.”

 “Maybe you shouldn’t. Now it’s too late to turn back; you have only one choice.” I was getting angry by the tension between us. Too late for him to start regretting.

 “I choose to go on my own.”

 “Fine. But remember: I still have your personal information, and police are on every corner.”

 We were looking at each other in silence for a few minutes. He angrily frowns, showing how resentful he is, rubbing his icy nose. I was thinking if I had anything else to say and wondering if Fabian had anything else to say. The silence was deafening. I was startled with his fortitude on going out on his own when being forged to these kinds of circumstances. Not only that, but Febian Hawthorne was as stubborn as rock when it comes to decisions. I was sneering at his tendency to do so.

 “I see you on the other side.” I ain’t got nothing to lose or gain in this situation, so I turned around and went against his direction somewhere in the fading darkness. I was eager to try his independence.

 “You’re bluffing,” he cried.

 “Well, maybe I am.” Some conniving laugh of a villain would be a perfect match for me. “Your complacency knows no limits,” he grinned.

 I was moving away from him, and the farther I went, the more miserable Febian seemed, alone in the middle of the square, completely clueless. My disrespect to “the lonely wolf” increased so much, as he thought he would manage getting away with what he has done. Remarkably pretentious of him to show such immaturity.

 I was walking past police headquarters, making sure there’s no leaked information about location. Luckily, police had more important things to do than chase two escaped teens. Local beggars started robbing their favorite donut shops. Something was whispering to me that Febian went directly towards darker areas, where all the vagrants gathered. In this case, his chances of success are reducible to zero. Vibrant, distinct colors showed up around the corner he entered. I followed him.

 “Not a minute for seclusion,” I thought. “He must’ve bumped into a group of bad people." My level of anxiety started to grow. It was very possible he was going to get himself into trouble.” However… The sun’s coming up. No need to hide anymore. Moreover, he can come back any minute. I wouldn’t mind.

 My phone started ringing. I reluctantly picked up.

 “How’s everything going?” said the voice on the other end of the phone.

 “Meagerly,” I replied, scratching the top of my head and picking at the stone under my feet with the end of my worn-out shoe.

 “When are you going to arrive? Everything is set. You should’ve arrived a few hours ago. You can’t delay it.”

 “Relax, I got it. We will be home soon. Just one more night, he is tired.” I actually felt like I had a little brother, whom I was walking home late at night under mom’s angry voice.

 “What?! Vincent, you’ll be caught!” She screamed desperately, trying to convince me I was failing. I hang up.

I hastily turned around and went in the opposite direction to the central area. The morning wind wasn’t blowing; silence could be heard from anywhere. It was half past seven. Near the coast I was standing on, it smelled like mud. The sun, rising from far away, was covering everything in morning light. I felt enlightened too. I’m afraid to look past me because I can still see Fabian desperately trying to be on his own. A completely new, gratifying feeling pierced me from head to toe when I went to grab some snacks at the nearest convenience store; I realized the existence of other interests besides my very own. Significantly different, maybe. That’s why Fabian wanted to split up; he had his own perspective of living outside of his father’s house. I didn’t realize that, since I was solely putting my strategy forward, leaving his ideas behind. And that’s my retribution for everything.

 Life in this place was still average: same people, same streets, same grocery store shopping. With only one feature—in this city there are two guys who escaped from the police, looking for a place to spend the night and regale, and thinking that they can get away with it without any serious complications, coming out of the water dry. Nothing in this city has changed except for people's conversations, which were usually about the weather and life; now they were about these two guys.

 I walked into the store and headed to the hotdog stand. Small, local grocery store with a few features that distinguish it from Target. Suddenly, I witnessed a little chat between a stranger and a local sheriff.

 “Have you heard about news from Riverside?.” A man with black greasy hair and a striped tweed jacket stroked up a conversation with the same greasy-haired man.

 “About Major’s kid? Oh, definitely. In fact, living under such pressure of having a cop dad prevents having all the fun for a teenager; that’s why he left. Now he’s causing such problems for his poor dad.”

 “If they only knew.” I thought to myself, picking out jelly jars.

 “Yeah, a kid like this would be a pain in the ass. Maybe it’s a good thing he’s gone. If he were my son, I’d rather.”

 At this moment, I started to lose patience. My knuckles turned white and sturdy, my eyes were ready to jump out of eye sockets, and my body was drenched in sweat. I felt obligated not to let these people talk about my pal like that. I will teach them a quick lesson before they open their dirty mouth again. I turned around and looked aggressively in the man’s eyes and punched him right in the

face, feeling a sharp rush of adrenaline coming from my lower body all the way to my head. I was leaning into an agitating moment of ruining someone’s face. I felt like I needed such a charge. I would not atone it for all the treasures in the world. There’s nothing to atone, actually.

 “What the heck are you doing, kid?” he yelled in the pouring rage coming to him starting with this instant. However, I didn't have to wait long for a retaliatory strike.

 “You know, being an old fuck says it all.” A stroke of injustice poured out of me like a river.

 “I don’t know who you are, but I know you asked for it.” He starts rolling up his sleeves, staring at me angrily. I punch first.

 He knocks me down the second I punched. Now I’m lying on the floor with a bearded man over me, nearly destroying my face. We were beating each other, shouting “asshole” and “jackass” sometimes. It wasn’t the ideal way of getting revenge for putting down all the noble things I have done for Fabian, but it was worth trying. The whole store looked at the security guard separating two bleeding men in amazement. I ended up kicked out of the store. I looked at the man one last time. It wasn’t the end.

 I ran away looking for Fabian everywhere. The man just threw a fist at me, indistinctly yelling something. The moral of the story was the frightening fact that some people knew about Fabian here; we needed to head out immediately. Oh, why, indeed, did I let him go?

 I saw a desperate figure covered in baggy clothes, looking around in confusion. In a long hoodie the size of himself, with a hunched back and in the hood that covered his entire face, Fabian was moving in a direction he didn’t know. Didn’t take a second to guess. I grab his arm, making him look at me.

 “We need to go. Now.” I say, gaspingly.

 He looked at me with an obvious disgust, barely looking at me at all.

 “Look, I know you don’t trust me and think you can go on your own. But I promise I figured it out; moreover, we are in big trouble right now; many people in this place recognize you.” I tried my best to sound persuasive.

 A stunted old man looked at us in astonishment, pointing at us with his finger.

 “It’s them! Bill Hawthorn’s son and his associate!” he yelled at the crowd. It wasn’t even listening anyway.

 “Will you go now?” I asked one last time.

 “Yeah”

 It reminded me of the night we escaped police. Same rush, same nervousness, same path. Scared of the possibility of being caught. But this time, the police were not chasing us, surrounding us on each side. In fact, no police were around. But it could if we stayed for a couple of days.

 I was walking away so fast I forgot how tired I was. My eyes were closing on their own, lingering for a few seconds sometimes; my breath was taken away, so it was impossible to run any further. I’m only human, after all.

 “I can’t go any further,” cried Fabian with his fading voice. “We need a place to crush.”.

 I was more than satisfied after hearing “we” again. An instant feeling of reunion overflowed my already cloudy mind. The point stayed, however. After being scared of our own prejudices, Fabian and I calmed down and made an arrangement, laying down some rules. First, we stick together. Second, in case we split, we will have a walkie-talkie, which I will buy on the way. Finally, I persuaded my so-called comrade to trust me unconditionally, proving that I’m unrelated to his father’s police squad and I’m not luring him straight to the secret base, where he will be ruthlessly punished for not obeying his imperious daddy. It took a while for me to slow down the pace and conventionally talk to him in peace. I realized I knew nothing about a guy I was voluntarily cooperating with.

 Sun shone in the last moments of existence in this day, being already at sunset, vigorously trying to point out our way. The hostel was nearby, luckily, so we designated our stop. The designation area was the cheapest place in the state; the hostel looked so rashly and somber it seemed to be haunted. But for two desperate guys, it appeared well and even tantalizing. We were elating deep inside, obscuring it under semi-killed faces ready to zonk out any minute.

 “Hustle there.” I told Fabian, being only a few feet ahead of him.

 “You got any money?”

 “Of course,” I replied with enthusiasm. “Just follow me and don’t fall behind.”

 He hurried and entered the building. The inside of it was looking more promising: The Art Nouveau walls were decorated with antique paintings by Aivazovsky and Kuindzhi. The reception was decorated with flowers and Jolie Ranchers candies placed in a small saucer, somewhat resembling a fish head. The staff wore plain red uniforms with ties and white shirts with badges on them. The floor was parquet, so our footprints remained dirty spots on it. I caught sight of one table with money on it, as if the hotel were completely empty. “What a ludicrous move,” I thought. As we got closer, I noticed it was fake. “What a genius move,” I thought again.

 “Good evening, how may I help you?” The lady at the reception asked us, smiling.    “How long are you planning to stay?”

 “One night. Two beds, please.” I was so exhausted I forgot about my manners. “Good evening though.”

 “Room 12, first floor,” she giggled.

 “Thank you.” I love ladies.

 We entered the room. It was light and lurid simultaneously, if that makes sense. Magenta carpet was negligently tossed on the floor. Some mauve, florid lace depicted unbridled pathos; it was not compatible with the dark, scarlet lantern that stood on the square-shaped table with poppies. What an architectural disaster this room was.

 “Do you want any food? They serve rooms,” I said, looking briefly at the wallpapers.

“Yes, it would be a pleasure,” responded Fabian indifferently.

“Have you ever been at the hostel?”

“No”

I made my bed and ordered food in the room. The tawdryness of this room still amazed me. I looked at Fabian; he was downright exhausted. I put his dirty clothes in the washing machine with mine and handed over the robe. I noticed how reluctantly he was approaching things when they were caused by me. I decided that we reached a certain point of partnership, so I left him alone for a while. I felt exhausted too: taking care of myself for the first time in my life seriously worn me out. My repressiveness oscillated; fortitude was blown away. I spread myself too thin lately. However, fear was thriving. I absolutely hated today’s dive into the unknown. We were closer to the destination point, at least.

The food came in thirty minutes. We sat at the table in silence until Fabian started speaking.

“Thanks for food and for help,” he goes. “I’m sorry for my latest behavior; I was just scared. New things confuse me.”

I was not expecting that.

“Of course. Feel free to do anything you want. I am always on your side.”

“Thanks”

The rest of the dinner was peaceful and casual. Our chat was the most friendly after we ran away together. I felt like the stone was lifted off my shoulders. Behind every stern thing that we experienced, there was something ecstatic in his presence. I was lacking a man in the smocking, tickling the ivories in the back. I would prolong our conversation, but there was no need.

“Where are we going?” asked Fabian, curiously, not looking at me in silent anticipation, like usually I do.

“To Washington. My apartment is there, and my cousin is going to help us.”.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“You didn’t ask.”

We started making our beds, as it was twilight. I lay in my bed, which was opposite to Fabians, and started thinking profoundly. My fear of being captured

started to abate since we got here; we were really far away from Riverside. I was abetting Fabian all the way; however, I didn’t realize it was him who was abetting me. I was abbot in finding a solution through so many ways, but sometimes it’s beyond my control, which is hard for anyone with a leader tendency to accept. I want things to go my way. Only mine. I won’t ever say how strongly it destroys my ego when things, which were figured out my way, go wrong. And how lyrical it is when they do. I just need an adhesive to glue my resplendent plan and Fabian’s hesitation altogether. However, sometimes it takes two different minds to keep the team complete. A good leader understands it. A good brother accepts it. We were going ambled, but on the on the right path towards our victory. And I would never turn off the path. Oh, I can assure you: under no circumstances are we bound to fail. Not this time. Everything will be accomplished my way.

 I look at Fabian, and it immediately makes me wonder, “What is going on inside his teenage head?”. Perhaps someone sees an average teenage guy on his way of becoming a young man, ready to start a new life at college and overcome all the obstacles; others see in him pure expression of originality. But when I first saw him struggling with his unflattering violent situation, I could only think about one thing: strength. Having spent so many years under the roof with the most notorious hypocrite and still having the audacity to confront him, run away from him, making a brute pathetic without his punching bag. It drained all his muscle resistance in one night. Nobody is getting beaten. Nobody but himself, very soon. It is so easy, naturally being an authoritative old cop, taking moving up the ladder as belligerence, taking own son as the spawn of revenge for a broken heart, knowing no clemency, no kindness. Formally, he was following a codex for people’s protection but never for his own son’s. It wasn’t just the way he was ambiguous, but the way powerful and dominant he thought he was. Such complacency always startled me. “What an adamant son of a bitch” always came to mind. Exposure—that’s what he fears. I can’t wait to make justice prevail; it will make the major writhe. A bit of painstaking work to make Mr. Hawthorne go insane in jail, when his comrades will shame him just the way he did to Fabian. What a bit of effort it takes to make one pay. Vindictive vehemence to upturn one vicious presence to a living hell overwhelmed my soul with anticipation. Maybe someday he will get out of prison, look at the sky for the first time after staying in the coldest and most merciless place in his foolish life, and sink in torment of atonement for what was done, wasted, and wrecked. This sort of pain, the pain that makes you pay all the bills, is unhealable. Then he is trudging to his son’s rich house, full of joy and purity, hoping to atone for the guilt, obtrusively. But there won’t be such a thing. The door is shut; the past is forgotten. He unwillingly pulls out a gun, hits the trigger, and leaves his breathless body on the doorstep of the house. Yeah, that’s how I viewed it.

CHAPTER 5

 I fell asleep the second I finished reflecting my innermost thoughts. My dream was not very different, though. Smoldering vegetation was seen out of the window on the sunny day of July. I was flattered by the beginning of the day. The birds chirped against the background of the rising sun; the air was almost clear, with moderate humidity. From under the old gnarled branches of the tree standing under the window, newly appeared leaves could be seen, slightly green, not much different from green caterpillars. Other than that, I’ve noticed one peculiar thing: Fabian talks while asleep, and he usually does it with his eyes and mouth wide-open. You should’ve seen me witnessing this picture at four in the morning. I opened my eyes, awakened from barely heard whispering coming from his side of the room. Once I opened my eyes, I was profoundly startled; he was gazing at me with his mouth open, sometimes pursing his lips in an attempt to mutter something illegible. I almost shouted. And if I did, I would have other people startled or alarmed by such a grotesque picture. Anyway, this night was calm, and I had nothing to complain about (other than that incident). I found it soothing that we found common ground with my roommate and had no biggie fights by far. I was hoping we would reach an agreement on trust all along. I was right, I suppose. However, I always keep in mind that there’s always a room for ducking from my plan. I mean, mine and my partner’s-in-crime plan, which Fabian had to strictly stick to. I was always earnest about my own inventions, making them the only thing that had to be put forward. The one thing that appeared unsteady conventionally was bound to be eliminated, but I can’t apply

practice on Fabian, so there might be deviations, which I am certainly prepared for.

 In thirty minutes or so, I saw Fabian making his bad and heading to the bathroom. I needed to figure out our next move, which would lead us to the designated area, which happened to be my apartment in Washington. For this matter, all the possible outputs must be predicted and avoided, the leading path paved. My thoughts have been interrupted by Fabian Hawthorne’s inquisitive voice.

 “What’s for breakfast?” he asked unobtrusively.

 “A truculent desire of vindicative justification,” I responded, almost automatically. He looked at me uncomprehendingly, as if I said something that needed professional treatment. “Just kidding, I’ll order two plates of lasagna with chicken tenders and coffee.”

 “I hate coffee.”

 “Orange juice, so be it.” I responded with an unencumbered facial expression, heading to the door. Fabian was looking at the floor and dawdling, as if he wanted to add something else.

 “You’ve been acting bizarre all morning,” he said, with a note of concern. How lovely.

 “I just woke up; don’t expect much,” I replied, trying to keep my annoyed face away from his, as I was, alike Fabian, haggardly tired from our elongated trip and eager to get to the target point. Again, I hate when things deviate from the way they’re supposed to be. “Don’t you want to go get ready for our mutual breakfast?”

 “You’re talking like a 19th-century English aristocrat who is trying to make a particular impression.” Well, that’s quite a compliment. Nobody has ever told me that.

 “If you want to use the benefits of civilization, you’ve got to behave in a civil manner.”

 “Wow,” he said, perplexed. “I don’t find anything to say.”

 “Well then,” I waited a little pause. “I guess our little morning chat is over.”

 Someone knocked at the door—it was food. I welcomed the maid in with her tabletop on little wheels, which gave off a fragrant smell of freshly cooked eggs and chicken; the most awakening one was coffee; it never fails to spruce up my pallid old mornings.

 Fabian didn’t look much excited, like we weren’t starving for the last twenty-four hours. In fact, he only looks mistrustful and sad. I know I can’t blame him for anything; I’m only an intermediary for him, who is going to fix his poor, malignant life. He’s been a victim for too long; he’s been praying enough. The best thing for him now is to be oblivious, not thinking about his fa-

 “The Major Hawthorne’s son, Fabian Hawthorne, has been gone for three days now. The police department claims that search will continue outside of California, encompassing the nearest areas, which are Bynum, Anniston, and Los Angeles. If you have any information about Fabian Hawthorne, please contact the police station. And now a word to a local citizen of Anniston, California.”

 “I think I saw that kid near the antique store a couple of days ago or so. He was running past it with another boy that day.”

 “Do you think it was a person who helped him run away from the police? Or the person whose influence he was under?”

 “Yeah, I don’t know.“

 I turned the news channel off. “That hobo,” I muttered. The number of troubles keeps rising. The next stop is Washington.

 “That kid of Hawthorne’s is wild,” the maid said, unexpectedly. “So stupid to turn away from your own family, especially if it’s your old man who’s in charge of the police department,” she added.

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