Run

The city was bombarded by the incessant raindrops while people hustled about with their black umbrellas above them and document bags at their side. The insignificant sound of boots splashing in water was the only significant sound one could hear after the thundering of the falling rain. People packed the streets, pushing and shoving their way through the crowd to get where they wanted to without care for courtesy or manners. They just wanted to get to their offices and work. The fragrance of petrichor was nonexistent as only the intoxicating smell of bitumen and petrol wafted through the city air.

One could taste the city dust now and then as the water in the air collected. The streets were narrow with sidewalks being the only place where everyone was civilized, but that too was because they were covered with overhead sheets that protected them from the cold and wet rain.

Alan cut through the bustling crowd on the main street and stood on the doorstep of his house. He fumbled to take out the brass key from his coat pocket as his hands froze in the frigid air and a gust of glacial air slapped his face. His breathing was rapid, and his legs shivered as he tried to filter through the various small articles that weighed down his pocket, one of which was his breather.

Alan was diagnosed with severe asthma from an early age. He found it out the hard way when playing a basketball match for his school. He collapsed right in the middle of the court as he was chasing down an opponent. Being forever bound by the little can of air that he always carried in his pocket he was always reminded of his condition but his spirit on the contrary hated being dependent on anything. Alas! This was unavoidable that continuously loomed on him, chaining him to a harsh reality and a rudimentary experience.

His numb but shaking hand took out the key from the coat but it slipped out of his hand and with it dropped his breather. He quickly scrambled to the ground, heaving heavily, to get his firsthand the little can but it had other plans. The metal can slowly rolled to the edge of a step and stayed there for what seemed like to be an eternity. Alan made a desperate advance to grab it with an arm reaching out but as soon as his fingertips touched the plastic covering on it, it fell over and bounced rapidly down the stairs, each time giving off an echoing cling.

He was a mess now, being wet, cold, breathing rapidly, and on the verge of blowing a vein. With great strain, he stood up and grabbed the railing of the staircase. The air around him grew tumultuous and dense as if he were breathing underwater. His hands grew white, holing the railing because of the fear that his legs would suddenly give way and he would tumble down the stairs. He went down each step sluggishly, pausing at each one to catch his escaping breath. Seeing a grown man being so vulnerable was an utterly pathetic sight. Struggling to win his battle with breath he ploddingly managed to reach the last step.

Bending down proved to be impossible now. After his little adventure down the stairs, he was drained. His muscles felt sore, and his ears throbbed with each pulse. His brain was being deprived of oxygen while his vision turned hazy, and veins appeared on his forehead. Falling through the thick air his red face met the ground with a loud and satisfying thud. He reached for his breather, desperately put one end into his mouth, and pressed down.

Air rushed back into his lungs and muscles as his strength came back to him instantly. His head stopped hurting and the throbbing leisurely came to a halt. His veins disappeared and his skin returned to its normal peach color. His vision cleared and so did his thoughts. Standing up again, he climbed the cement stairs laboriously to his door once again.

He put the key into the lock and twisted it, and what followed was a satisfying metallic click that resonated through his skull. He pushed the door wide open and fell in with exhaustion, landing with a thump following an array of creaks as he collapsed onto wooden flooring. In the consequent waiting silence, all his sensitive ears heard was the thumping of his own heart in his head and the muted pitter-patter of the rain on the windowpane.

The only light that came into the house was through a big window at one end of the Livingroom which now cast comically monumental shadows of the tiny raindrops that rolled down the cool glass surface. The light fell in streaks on his face, some on his eyes, and some elsewhere. He could see the particles of dust floating in the air due to the Tyndall effect, but something was different, and he could feel it.

He had been carrying a little red briefcase along with him on the way home which sat snugly nestled in his palm but now it lay wide open with all its paper contents spread all over the floor. He felt relieved and let out a big sigh, breathing out all his tensions as they assimilated into the air. The world outside was too active and ruthless for him.

All he had as a companion were the books that filled his house. Not any wall was left unfilled with shelves of countless books ranging across different genres all lined up neatly. It was some obsession that he had with reading. It was like a drug that he kept coming back to and the hunger for which could never be extinguished or satisfied. Although he never did anything out of the ordinary, he had a special ability that separated him from everyone else and he used it to his advantage.

What he did was a mystery to everyone that knew him. He had told them he was a proofreader for a publication house, but the reality was all too different. He used to vanish quickly from one place and spring up in the other without anyone’s knowledge and when asked where he had gone, he would give the same reply every time,

“Oh, I had just gone to get some books from the head office.”

But usually, that was not the case. He habitually used to come back with fine grey dust on his clothes and an aura of death while having a strong smell of gunpowder on him. It was a queer way to make a living for sure, proofreading books at the time and not enough knew what it was to appreciate it.

His breathing slowed down, and his perspiration dried. The only sign he was alive was the subtle movements of his chest as his lungs expanded to make room for the air. The room had a rustic fragrance that smelled like a mixture of old and new pages but oddly also had a hint of cologne. Cologne. That was not supposed to be there.

He put his feet underneath him, shook his boots, troubled the papers into their respective places, put aside the bag next to his applewood shoe rack, and hung his coat on the black coat hanger in one corner of the living room. He wiped his glasses and adjusted his blue sweater as he looked around the room for anything out of the ordinary.

He paced around the whole apartment and carefully scanned each corner of his house. Nothing was out of place. The mahogany brown wooden flooring creaked under his weight as he stepped into his kitchen. That was odd too. His floorboards never creaked. The house is showing its age now. He thought to himself, but the cologne still hung in the now more timid and humid air. It was stronger now as if it emanated from the kitchen itself.

Something was off. He was not satisfied or feeling relaxed like usual. First the cologne, then the floorboards. Someone was here or wait! Is still here!

A quick sound of metal slicing through the air emerged from behind and he instinctively ducked. Someone is here. He swiftly turned around to get a view of the person behind him, but his face was covered in a mask and in his hand was, from what he could make out a Japanese Katana.

He had been trained for situations like these. It was a part of his basic training back at camp. He stuck out his leg and twirled around, in hope of falling the man but luck was not on his side, and he missed. The assassin jumped into the air, evading his attack, and landed on his toes, as balanced like a cat.

Alan quickly ran his hand through his left pocket and pulled out a ring. He flipped the ring into the air and ran towards the assassin with all his might, hitting him with considerable force. He had not a big body, but it was enough to put the intruder off-balance for a few seconds and that bought him some time to run back into the kitchen. He fluttered through the drawers, rapidly opening, and closing them like a madman, in search of the right one.

His forehead had started to perspire again, and his breathing quickened. The sound of metal slicing through the air came from behind him as his hand fell into the leather holster of his Beretta 92. The cold touch of the metal sent shivers through his arm as he braced his other for impact. He pressed his eyes shut, swiftly swung the pistol, and squeezed the trigger.

What came after was a jerk from the recoil hitting his shoulder and a loud bang accompanied by a smell of burning metal. The metallic shudder from the gun resonated in his ears for a while and sent his vision spiraling as the sound slowly faded away from his world and finally subsided completely, leaving only a tinny high-frequency ring that seemed to stay.

He adjusted his spectacles and took in a deep breath. Alan was greeted with a gruesome sight as he let light into his pupils and tried to take a step back, but his movement was restricted by the drawers behind. The atmosphere around him now reeked of death as he caught his breath, gathered himself, and stood up.

Blood was splattered across his face and the gun barrel steamed from the heat after firing the bullet. He still firmly held his Baretta in his hands and had his other fist still clenched, as if he were anticipating yet another strike. He stayed there frozen in time, but nothing came his way except the smell of blood and the sound of the red liquid oozing out of a puncture.

He looked down at the pool of crimson at his feet that now touched his boots and saw that his bullet had pierced through the assailant’s neck cleanly. He picked up the casing and put it in his pocket, went to his coat, and took out his breather. Out came a sharp hiss of air that opened his lungs and his mind.

This place was not safe anymore.

He had to run.