Fragile Normalcy

Saturday, May 17, 2014. Morning.

I woke up from the light creak of a cabinet door. Not sharp—barely perceptible, but it was quite enough. That same sound you don't notice until you hear it in peak silence. It was mother, she was looking for something in the top drawer. Most likely, a passport.

I lay staring at the ceiling and listening to the kitchen coming alive: father's footsteps, the boiling kettle, the stream of water from the kitchen tap.

The phone vibrated on the bedside table. I reached out, glanced at the screen—07:15.

Today mother and father were supposed to fly away on a business trip. This time they're flying together. If they're not delayed, they'll return by the end of next week. I'm staying alone and the apartment is at my disposal. Plans include watching "The Maze Runner" with friends. I successfully missed the premiere, which let the others down, as they had to return their tickets because of me. We promised to go all together, but "family matters" didn't allow it. They forgave me long ago, but I definitely need to make quite an effort to compensate for my past screw-up. I should arrange an unforgettable movie night. Father recently bought a new huge TV from a very famous Korean company, so everything should be just right. He's a professor, earns above average. But to imagine myself as something like a professor, a man of science, is honestly difficult. I think he suspects that I won't follow in his footsteps. I hope this doesn't upset him too much or, at least, doesn't hurt his pride.

"Are you getting up?" mother's voice came from the kitchen, interrupting my thoughts.

"Already," I replied, rubbing my eyes. "I'll make it, ma."

After finishing washing up and entering the kitchen, I inhaled the aroma of toast. Father sat with a tablet, scrolling through work documents while sipping coffee. Mother was leaning over a suitcase, taking out now an adapter, now a medical mask, now packets of documents. An open bag hung over her shoulder.

"I left money on the table," she said without looking up from her packing. "We agreed: you don't forget to feed yourself, you clean up, and you don't throw a party with a crowd of your friends."

"First and second received, third didn't catch—entering a tunnel, connection breaking up. Psh-psh."

Father, without raising his head, added:

"And don't forget to go to bed on time, exams are coming up. Especially if you're going to sit up late at the computer."

"Are you suggesting I give up conquering New York's skyscrapers and fighting criminals?"

"I want to say—sleep at night," he answered with slight irritation.

It was a pleasant morning, promising an equally pleasant day.

"We're flying after lunch," ma reminded. "Just in case, don't forget to check the mailbox. And don't forget to lock the stove if you're going to cook."

"Okay," I replied and took my toast from the table.

She finally stopped fussing, looked at me and smiled softly:

"After your graduation, we're moving, you remember. Very little time left."

"I remember," I nodded, trying not to show how awkward these words made me feel inside. I thought I wasn't ready for such changes in life. But I had nothing to object with.

I finished eating, glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes left to school. I slung my backpack over my shoulder, took my headphones and coat.

"Have a good day," said father, not taking his eyes off the tablet screen.

"Likewise," I replied.

I grinned and left, slamming the door behind me.

City center. Time—7:45 AM.

It was fresh outside. Someone was already honking at the intersection. I put in my headphones and turned on the Ramones, their first track from the Acid Eaters album started playing. Coffee shops were already opening along the street. Two guys tumbled out of one—each holding a cardboard cup with aromatic coffee. The air carried the smell of gasoline, cut grass, and dampness from recent rains.

The phone vibrated in my pocket. Message from Al:

"Don't be late today, I'll try too."

I smirked and ironically replied:

"Only if the world doesn't end before I arrive."

My fingers typed the message automatically.

School. Time—08:12 AM.

The corridor was surprisingly quiet. Apparently, half the class decided that Saturday is almost a day off and you can skip, especially in light of the approaching graduation. And exams? Maybe parents sent them to study with tutors? Only a couple of weeks left until the end—then exams, the last bell. And moving.

In the history classroom, as always, there was a waft of Holtzman's tart cologne. He had already written material on the board for the final stage of exam preparation.

Holtzman is quite a good teacher, responsible and tries to convey material to his students, but sometimes he was terribly arrogant, especially towards me. I won't lie that I didn't give him reason.

I tried to enter unnoticed, since I still managed to be late, but the chances of success were zero.

"Hartmann. How nice that you haven't forgotten where the school is."

"I have memory problems, especially when it comes to your lessons, but I'm a diligent student—I try to remind myself," I replied, taking my seat by the window.

Holtzman sighed, but this time without drama. Simply as a person who knows: better to retreat, otherwise it will only get worse. And he was right, sometimes I acted like an ass, but I tried not to get too carried away.

Opening my notebook, I began taking notes. Holtzman was talking about the Cold War, about the confrontation of two systems, about how fear of nuclear war determined the politics of entire generations.

After some time, I caught myself with my gaze fixed out the window. Trees swayed in the intermittent wind, a lone crow walked across the roof of a neighboring building. I literally froze while watching its behavior.

Its movements were focused and measured, even, one might say, somewhat businesslike. At first I thought it was just rummaging in garbage or playing with some bag—it happens. But then, squinting, I realized it wasn't a bag or garbage.

Something gray, maybe a cat. It was hard to make out. The crow bent over this creature and began methodically tugging with its beak—first under the belly, then slightly to the side. Something glinted. It pulled out a thin cord—an intestine, probably—and took a couple of steps back, tugging at it as if it had pulled wire from a broken mechanism.

The creak of the window frame. The breathing of a classmate to my right. Everyone around continued living in routine, while there, outside the window, one was eating another, because that's how it's supposed to be.

The crow looked in my direction.

At that moment I lost touch with reality. For an inexplicable reason, anxiety washed over me in a light wave. It was as if I'd been doused with ice water that remained at the bottom of a bucket.

I returned to my notebook.

"Need to focus, exams are coming soon," I reminded myself.

School. History classroom. Time—12:47 PM.

Minutes remained until the end of classes, no one in the class pretended to continue working. Someone was sharing memes in the general chat, someone was already packing their backpack, and two in the back row were enthusiastically arguing about whether you could buy math answers from "normal guys." Holtzman, sensing the general mood and understanding that resistance was futile, waved his hand and buried himself in his papers.

I also closed my notebook and just stared out the window.

The crow on the roof was gone. But something had changed. The sky had become different—heavy, as if before a storm. Although the forecast didn't predict anything like that.

The phone vibrated. Al sent:

"In the evening at the square, remember? Meet at the fountain."

I replied immediately:

"Of course. Can't wait."

The bell rang. Class over. I started packing up after everyone else.

Holtzman approached my desk:

"Hartmann, is everything alright? You look pale."

"Everything's fine," I replied, gathering my things. "Just thinking about the future."

"Don't think too far ahead. Sometimes circumstances themselves arrange the best path."

Home. Time—1:20 PM.

My parents had already left. The apartment greeted me with silence. I walked through the rooms, checking that everything was in place. Then I went to the kitchen, made myself a sandwich and turned on the news. Everything as always: world news, tabloid scandals, economic reports. Nothing special.

I switched the channel and lay on the couch. Time dragged slowly. Several hours remained until meeting Al. I dozed off.

Waking up after several hours, I took a shower, changed clothes, checked my phone. No messages, no missed calls.

Took keys, money, phone. Checked if windows were closed. Turned off the light.

Time to go.

City center. Aurora Square. Time—5:59 PM.

The square was noisy and lively. I stood, scrolling through a track on my player. Al was running a bit late, but I wasn't too surprised. This was the norm. She was always a bit late. And still always appeared—with that smiling look, as if apologizing and simultaneously not considering it a reason for apologies.

I bought a bottle of water and was about to return to the fountain when suddenly I heard:

"Young man, would you like some cotton candy?"

"No, thank you. I only eat sweets on holidays," I replied and smiled modestly.

The saleswoman smiled tightly in response. A moment later I no longer remembered her face.

Time—6:17 PM.

Al still hadn't come. The phone was silent, it was getting much noisier around. The sun gradually descended to the rooftops, animating long shadows from people, kiosks and trees. The fountain gurgled, but the sound of water dissolved in the general bustle.

I stood slightly apart from the center—in the shadow, with a bottle of water in my hands, and just watched.

Suddenly, I noticed him.

A man—tall, in a gray jacket. Looking to be in his forties. Thin face, glasses, dry movements. He was alone. Not talking, just standing and looking around, as if waiting for someone.

At first I didn't pay attention to this. But at some point he turned and looked toward the main street.

Turning, I saw another, clearly standing out from the crowd with his quick step, heading toward the man in glasses.

He was of a completely different type: sturdy, face like from spy movies—cold, collected. He wore a gray shirt, and he moved with that confidence that people accustomed to their high position have. His face showed tension, which he desperately tried to hide, as it seemed to me.

They stopped opposite each other. Everything around was the same: someone was laughing, vigorously discussing something on the phone, taking pictures, but these two seemed to have their own separate silence. I stood several meters away, sipping water. But I no longer wanted to drink.

The one who approached—the sturdy one—spoke first. I didn't hear the words, but he spoke calmly. Restrainedly. In him was felt not only caution, but also some kind of... respect?

The one in glasses at first didn't turn around. He looked at the fountain. Then—still turned his head.

He spoke quietly. Slowly. There was no fear on his face. Only fatigue.

I didn't know what they were talking about. But at some point I caught words—just fragments, on the edge of audibility.

Something about "truth," about "silence"...

About how "they bury everything that doesn't fit."

That "the virus is a reflection."

That he "wanted someone to understand."

A chill ran down my spine.

I saw the one in glasses take a step back. Then—pull something from his pocket.

A small cylinder. Clear glass. Inside—thick dark red liquid.

Sharp movement.

Pop.

The ampoule cracked. I didn't immediately understand what had happened.

Smoke came from the broken ampoule. Red. Thick.

It stretched to the sides, spreading through the air like fog.

I saw a little girl holding a balloon suddenly sink down. Simply—as if switched off.

The balloon burst from her fingers and flew upward.

Next—a woman. Then a man next to her.

I took a step back, then a breath. Something squeezed in my chest. There wasn't enough air, but I was still able to continue breathing.

The noise around quieted. Like underwater. My fingers unclenched, the water bottle fell and rolled somewhere to the side. Space warped. My eyes darkened.

I tried to take a step, but my legs wouldn't obey. Took another—forward or sideways, couldn't tell. I swayed. I leaned on something. And then... Then I fell. The impact was dull. I tried to open my eyes, but everything was swimming.

Glints of light, movement, fragments of voices.

Above my head—shadows. Several blurry black silhouettes.

One of them bent down. Said something, but I couldn't either hear or piece together. As if my ability to properly perceive speech had switched off in me.

An injection. Right in the neck.

For a fraction of a second it became easier. The last thing I felt—weightlessness. Someone lifted me.

I didn't resist. Couldn't.

The world finally melted away.