Soulmate

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.