Autumn

Girl in a dress He walks blindly along the gray and broken pavement, shrouded in the fog of days gone by. Laughter, love and joy-they were left here, on the broken pavement. The remnants of his untouched life. Now all he sees is rubble, and he’ll never hear himself laugh again, or recognize himself in the mirror. How long has it been? Five years? Maybe six? And now he’s back in his native land, but what’s the use? Everything is so blurry here, destroyed, and nothing remains — only the wreckage of destroyed houses from his childhood. How old is he? He looks around. I don’t think he was more than twenty when he left. But now he can’t be twenty-five — he’s all thirty, all forty. In soul he grew old before: in soul he grew old on the battlefields, where the souls of all, old and young, died, and where the bodies of his comrades rest. And he, alive, is now standing here, in front of his house. Never again will he forget the explosions from shells and the blood spilled. His soul is cold, torn and uncouth. The soul of a hermit that lost everyone. And he had no one to go to to calm down — he had lost them all in the fog of death. He goes into the nebula, seeing nothing further, away from his past, which is no longer there. Just like he doesn’t exist. He is calloused and remembers nothing but the water and blood that feeds his soul. He doesn’t remember what his eyes saw. Meadows, sun, flowers, people. They saw life. Corpses, blood, craters, bombs, machine guns. They saw death. Tanks and a pile of ruined pasts lie at his feet. He approaches the house where he used to live. His chocolate-colored eyes stare, and he sadly notes that it’s all over: there won’t be a little boy anymore. Now there is only the gallant officer, his greatcoat, and death standing behind him like an old friend. She’s wearing a knee-length black dress with long sleeves, white lipstick, and short red gloves. She stands and holds his hand. It’s time. And there’s fog all around. A solid fog that makes it impossible to see anything. There are tears in his eyes, and it’s drizzling outside. People are scurrying around and trying to pull someone out from under the rubble of the house, but he knows that this is useless: there will be no one alive. He sniffs and walks away. It’s autumn outside. A cold, dank autumn that hits the heart like a whip. An autumn that will never be forgotten. He walks off into the fog, blowing a bitter tear and holding a gun to his temple. He sees her. He hadn’t miscalculated. He would meet her on the other side. One… two… Shot. Night. Snowfall. Winter. He goes to their meeting point. You can’t be late. This is their personal holiday. She looks gorgeous: a red knee-length dress with open shoulders and a sun skirt, black sandals, white pearl earrings, snow-white starched gloves and black lipstick on her lips. He takes her hand. Snow is falling all around them, but it doesn’t matter to them: they have their own party, their own atmosphere. He takes her hand and kisses it. She giggles, as if embarrassed by such a personal gesture in her direction, but it’s just a mask: she wanted it, and he’s ready to bow down to her. They climb a small staircase to the roof of a stationary train that hasn’t moved in half a century. He takes her by the waist, she puts her hand on his shoulder, and they begin their dance. He spins her around, looking into her white marble eyes, knowing that he is dancing with death, that this is his last night. But he’s happier than ever. He twirls her around, and she laughs; they drift apart, then pull together. This is their magnetism, their special tactics of relationship: it is she who leads, and no one else. Her snow-white hair is strewn with snow, which she shakes off with her hand, and his years fall on his knees in the form of white snow. He doesn’t have to run away from her. Finally, he can only dance with his fate, with his death. It’s beautiful. They circle on the roofs of trains, snow falling on their heads, and the spotlights illuminating the territory do not notice them. She laughs so loudly and so loudly that my heart stops beating. They catch their hands and now spin around like little children, stretching them out. She smiles, letting go in a moment, and he flies into the abyss. The abyss of your despair and your sin. He’s young and beautiful, but too stupid. When he looks into her eyes for the last time, he sees himself and is happy to die today, having danced before he dies. Late spring. The air smells of life, and people are rushing through the streets, who goes where: someone goes to work, someone comes back from the night shift, someone just walks, someone goes to the country. The hum of cars, even through the closed window, could not be drowned out by loud music. He lies on the bed, not himself, and not knowing what to do next. My whole life went down. He was mired in debt, mired in his studies. He had no aspirations, didn’t appreciate anyone who came into his life, and didn’t even remember who he had in this life. Now he has nothing to regret. Memories roll in waves. “What would happen if I did this?” — he is haunted by the same thought, but he realizes that he has no reason to think so, because everything would be in vain. He turns on his side and sees her. She is wearing a white dress, short and very funny, sticking out in different directions, with red lips and black cloth gloves on her hands. She has come and is looking at him. He doesn’t say a word, only realises that he won’t have to do any more shoveling. Now everyone will do everything for him. A weight falls from the soul. She takes his hand and they leave the apartment and start walking down the busy roads. Looking at a stationary car, he feels calm. The only thing he had ever dreamed of in his lifetime had finally come true. He doesn’t care about anything else now. They go on and on until the sun finally sinks below the horizon. They come to the forest and look at the moon for a long time, which is reflected by its disk from her skin. She is so fragile and so small, yet powerful and whole. The forest is so peaceful. He only now realizes that he doesn’t worry about anything anymore. He feels that he has reached universal peace, and at this moment he knows that nowhere, we, people, do not need to rush, do not need to hurry. Everything that happens, everything that is, is a manifestation of the cycle. And nothing lasts forever. Everything is being destroyed and built from scratch. She hugs him tight, and he looks up at the moon and closes his eyes. Now he knew love.