#continuum2012

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In the middle of the night, you woke up to a scream next to you and spent a long time trying to figure out if it was a dream. The light from a yellow streetlight filtered through the window. It was better than sleeping in complete darkness, at least you could see the outline of the room you were in. The window was slightly ajar, and the curtains swayed in the gentle breeze, allowing a hint of cold air to seep in. The room had a distinct smell of wet asphalt, a common occurrence in wet weather. The recent rain had left puddles of water reflecting the glowing orange streetlights. The black, wet pavement was dotted with rainbow-colored splashes of spilled gasoline. The residential street led down to the waterfront, where massive ships bobbed in the cold water, filled to the brim with colorful steel containers.

In a daze, you lowered your legs from the bed, feeling the cool carpet beneath your feet as you automatically walked over to the window and closed it. Then you returned to the bed and were about to fall asleep when you heard a faint, painful moan. You were about to ignore the sound when you heard another one, so pitiful, like a dying man moaning as he approached his end. You turned towards the source of the sound, and a flash of memory came to your sleep-addled mind. Julian, his wounded mother, the torture, the rain, and the gun to his head. When he called you, barely remembering your number and fumbling with the phone buttons, you were surprised by his sudden appearance. Thirty minutes later, when you arrived at the designated location and met him, you noticed his trembling hands and soaking wet clothes. "I have no one else to turn to, I'm sorry," he said, shamefully looking down. By then, you had already forgotten what he really looked like. It wasn't a monster, it was just an 18-year-old boy, abandoned in a strange place.

And now you're watching his head tossing around on the pillow, ruffling his hair. You wanted to wake him up, but he woke up on his own. He sat up with a cry, looking around in confusion, not understanding where he was. It's likely that his brain was accustomed to the prison cell, and the unfamiliar surroundings were causing him to feel disoriented. He covered his mouth with his hand, as if on autopilot, forcing himself to remain silent, and bent over in pain.

– Breathe, baby, just like that. – He heard this phrase through a haze in his ears. But he still couldn't breathe. His stomach was contracting, his ribs were hurting.

He was slowly coming back to reality. His rapid breaths were accompanied by hysterical sobs, and tears were streaming down his cheeks. You didn't know what to do, and you sat there, stupidly staring at his hunched, shivering figure in the darkness, like a cow caught off guard by a thunderclap. Can dreams really affect people that much? Or maybe you just didn't notice how much he's been suffering since he almost died. Although, when would you have noticed? The echoes of the past will haunt him for a long time, until his brain becomes worn out and old enough to forget the past, forget the feelings, or smooth out the edges. But it will take decades for that to happen. Grief sleeps, but it doesn't die until the mourner himself dies. The only question is, is Julian strong enough to handle it? You didn't know. Less than a day has passed, and so much has happened. The shooting of his mother, the torture, and the near-death experience could not help but leave their mark on him, just as the branding iron leaves a scar on the animals in the slaughterhouse. In his case, it was a tattoo. The tattoo that you have been running your fingers over for the past few hours, looking at what he was embarrassed about and pulling his hand away. You were brought out of your stupor by a howl. These desperate sounds are often heard in the wards of cancer patients or described as the cries of restless souls in the darkness of abandoned cemeteries. A desperate, echoing, fearful, pain-filled little, quiet sound. Barely aware of your actions, you took him by the shoulders, shook him.

–Look at me. – You said firmly. Nothing.

– Look at me damn it! – You almost shouted as he continued to fight you off. – Look at me...That's right.

He looked up at you sharply. His eyes were terribly red and his tears were still flowing. It was hard to read his expression in the half-light, but you could feel the fear. His fear. It was like a virus that was transmitted through the air and cables. Perhaps it was because he was shaking like a leaf, or because he was cowering and pulling his head into his shoulders, as if you might hurt him.

– It's okay, you're here. – You weren't sure if he knew where "here" was.

– Oh, God. – That was all he said. It was like a prayer, the word coming out of his mouth with a stutter, like a child's after a tantrum. He kept looking, looking, and breathing as if he were running a marathon. His face was completely wet with tears and snot. Neither of you said anything. You were focused on one feeling: the way his breaths felt on your face. It was ticklish.

– Take a breath and let it out. Like this. – You showed him how to do it, but it was mostly useless. However, he listened. He was breathing heavily. You pulled him to you and hugged him tightly. He weakly placed his hand on your back. You pulled away and, looking into his eyes, wiped his cheek. It was pointless, as a new wave of tears immediately soaked the area again. You gently pressed your lips to his cheek, expressing your tenderness. Then you did it again. Only now, as you held him in your arms, did you realize how wet and cold his shirt was, as he was covered in a layer of cold sweat.

– Put your hands up. – He obeyed, looking like a sleepwalker for a split second. You pulled at the hem and pulled the "wet cloth" off of him. His muscles twitched slightly from the coolness, and he shuddered. The skin of your hands felt scorching against his bare chest as you pushed him onto the bed.

– Calm down. – You stroked his head and looked at him. He lay there, paralyzed, his eyes darting between you and the ceiling. He was breathing heavily.

– Oh, God. – He repeated, as if he were in shock that a simple dream had elicited such an emotional response. God was silent.

In an attempt to soothe him, you murmured nonsense. You kissed his salty, wet cheeks and whispered. And he wasn't looking at you anymore. You ran your hand over his forehead, uncovering his face, combing his clinging hair back and running your hands through his damp hair for a few seconds to lightly massage his scalp. You stroked his cheek with the back of your hand, as if trying to make sure he was conscious, which made him close his eyes.

– What did you dream? Will you tell me? – You rested your head on your hand, and made circles with your palm on his cold chest, warming the skin there, feeling the protruding bones of his ribs with your hand.

– It’s... it was. – He broke off. Took a shaky breath as you ran your fingertips over the bruise on his shoulder, then his collarbone. The pause stretched as you leaned in and kissed his neck, gently, soothingly, as if his face wasn’t enough anymore. – It was, like, what happened yesterday. But only... only she shot. The gun, I mean. I thought...

– How are you feeling now? Are you okay? – You ask firmly, interrupting not only his words but also his thoughts.

– I...I guess – He sniffled like a hurt child. He was no longer sobing, but tears were still flowing uncontrollably from his eyes.

– It's a good thing that you let go. Emotional release is a good thing. – You say, stroking his face, wiping his cheeks, temples, and wherever you can reach, knowing that the storm will soon subside and he will calm down. The drip finally stops. Then you lean down and kiss the swollen corners of his lips, which he's been biting at nonstop. The touch doesn't heal, but it does ground you. That's what you'd hoped for.

– I'm sorry.

– For what?

– For everything... It's my fault. – You're silent. You know he understands. Anything you say against it will only be flattery, a lie. However, you're certain that you're not the person he's asking for forgiveness from.

– Perhaps. But it doesn't matter. The past cannot be changed. We can only make the future better. Was that what you intended to do? – You say quickly, not letting him fall into grief and self-reproach. – Come on, get up.

– What? Why? – He blinked and looked at you, coming out of a trance-like state.

– I want to get some fresh air, come on. It won't hurt you either.

He obediently stood up after you, like a puppet, like a legendary Dracula rising from his long sleep. Still feeling the echoes of a dream, waking up from which did not bring any relief. Wears a zip-up jacket, not bothering to put a T-shirt under it and goes to the front door. Realizes that you are not following him and turns around.

– Well?

– Where are you rushing off to? Let me at least find the keys. – You say, rummaging through the pockets of jackets hanging on loose hooks in the hallway.

He sighs and leans against the door frame, lowering his head and letting his hair fall over his eyes again. Then, as if coming to his senses, he puts on his sneakers and kneels down to tie his shoelaces. When he looks up, you're standing in front of him, twirling your keys on your finger out of boredom.

You step outside, and he sighs again. It's your first breath of fresh air after the rain.

You turn around and, without saying a word, point the way to the more lively neighborhoods up the street. In your case, it's more to the west. He shuffles after you, his hands in his pockets.

– And I don't even know where we're going. Great. As usual, the decisions are made for me. As - I - Said. – He deliberately paused between words.

– Alright then. You tell me. Where should we go?

– It's not that simple, I have already lost the habit of making decisions myself. – He says it half-jokingly.

– Wow you quickly get out of the habit.

– Okay, okay, let's go... – He turns 180 degrees in the opposite direction. – Over there. – He points.

– Well, actually, that's even better. – You shrug, and he smiles smugly.

You walk in silence for a while, illuminated by the lights of the streetlamps and passing cars. You walk along the empty, wet road. You pass a section of roadway on a bridge, where people usually stay close to the sides of the road during the day, as this part of the road is not intended for pedestrians, but there are always those who want to take a shortcut. However, at night, everything is different. You had walked halfway across the bridge when he spoke again.

– I promised to change. To change the future. – He said as if he was talking to himself. As if he was summing up.

– Yes, you did.

– No, I mean, is it even possible? I mean, what if it's a predetermined fate or something?

– You know perfectly well what I'm going to say. It's up to you.

– That's right... – He said, drawing out the words.

– But the butterfly effect hasn’t been ruled out. You know, the fact that we’re taking a different route could change everything. Or if I do this... – You crossed over and started walking to his left. – This could also have an impact.

As if to confirm your words, you could hear the sound of a lone car approaching from behind. The headlights caught you, and he pulled you to the side, moving slightly to the left. The car passed where you had been walking a moment ago.

– You see, if I hadn't changed my position, I wouldn't have noticed the car and I would have been hit.

– You would have noticed it.

– But you understand what I'm saying, right?

– I'm glad you're trying to help me with my existential crisis, but it's still strange.

– It's strange that you were almost killed by a chick from the future, not by time travel theories. Talk to your brother, he'll tell you more about it. I'm sure he has a whole lecture prepared.

– Alec? – He chuckled bitterly.

It seemed to have given him a bad thought, because he fell silent again. So did you.

You reached the part of the city that was a few miles from the bridge, and it was lined with concrete slabs covered in slimy moss, which were constantly being washed by the waves, and iron fences. At the bottom of the stairs, you could see a gray beach with dull black waves crashing against the shore, and you could hear the distant sound of the surf. It was like the mournful cry of the sea crashing against the shores of an unknown world. A doomed world. In the distance, in the middle of the sea, a cargo ship was drifting, and beyond it was the vastness of the cold ocean. It heaved heavily, as if a barrel of slag were rolling over, and in the distance was a gray, smoky streak. This part of the city was usually empty and slightly hidden behind a line of trees planted along the fence, but drunken groups often hung out under the bridge. Now, however, there was no one there.

Half an hour later, you walked through the sand, which tried to get into your shoes, and reached the rocks that lay on the ground like beached whales. They were huge and dead. Under your feet, you could see piles of debris from the waves, mixed with small bones from animals or birds. The rocks were covered with gray salt deposits. The wind continued to blow, carrying dry stems from dead shrubs across the sand.

You sat on these rocks side by side and looked at the veil of smoke on the horizon, through which you could see ghost ships, tankers, and yachts with lights on in some of their windows. There was a carpet of seaweed on the beach. Black, lifeless waves rolled up to your feet.

– Julian.

– Yes?

– You don't want to talk to Alec, do you?

– I don't.

– Why?

– You know why.

– Do you think he told Kira about you?

– No.

– But you're blaming him?

– Yes.

– Why?

– I don't know. I'm probably more angry with myself, but I'm blaming him. Even though he only wanted to help. But I still blame him, and that's what makes me angry. – He ran his hands over his face, as if washing it clean.– A vicious cycle.

– I'd like to suggest that you forgive him, but I suggest that you start with yourself.

– That's more difficult.

– I'm not your advisor here. – You said. –I think you'll get through this, Theseus

– Don't call me that. Not you.

–You're not used to that nickname yet, that's great.

– I won't get used to it.

– That's a good, awesome start...Listen, even though movies show that everything you do leads you to your destined fate, I believe it's easy to avoid it.

– Well, I have power in my hands right now. – He said, but his tone was light and unforced. He didn't believe it himself. –What if I can't handle it? – He teased lightly.

– Man, you already have some fucking insane power in your hands. If I had the chance to turn the future from this dystopian crap filled with destruction, biobots, and my name becoming a household term... – You paused. – Although, fuck, it’s already a household term and not really yours, but that’s beside the point. Basically, if I could turn all this into something more boring where technology just makes people lazier, I would do it. – He chuckled. – But really, what’s the point of all this violence?

- I don't even really believe in this stuff. That I can become a catalyst for all this Like...

– Yeah, I wouldn't believe it either.

– May I ask. What would you do if you were me?

– After all that happened? After I've Don everything you've done? – You shrugged your shoulders. – Would sleep till I'm forty. It's probably exhausting.

– I mean...What should I do with my life?

– Maybe just start living it. – You searched his face, looking for what your words got to him. – Really. Let the future be in someone else's hands. Trust Elon Musk or someone like him. Don't take offense at what I'm saying, but there are more responsible people I would trust with global change. – He laughed. It's been a while since you've heard him laugh. He looked up and shook his head with a smile. Above him, there were myriad stars, obscured by an orange blanket of clouds. The sea merged with the black horizon in the distance.

– You're right. It's probably not even difficult. – He turned and leaned toward you. – I can, right? – He asked, hesitating a little.

- You can. – You say, and he kisses you too clumsily and ridiculously, accidentally brushing your lips with his teeth. You don't comment on it in any way. You just smile a little condescendingly to yourself, holding his face in your hands.

– Well...

- Let's work on it. – You slap him on the shoulder.

You took a taxi back. In the car, he leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes, passing out.

– No, I still don't understand.. – He said, yawning. You were sitting in the kitchen, and he was swinging an empty ceramic mug of tea on his finger.

– Let's change the topic, huh? – You said.– Tell me about the commotion you caused in the prison.

– That's right! It was crazy! – He brightened up for a moment, but then yawned again.

– But I want a proper story. – So, remind me what I asked tomorrow, you're going to fall asleep.

– So do you.

– Yeah. – You said, rinsing mugs and throwing tea bags away.

– Good night, Theseus, may no minotaurs bother you in your sleep.

– Hey, I asked you.

– Sorry, the pun has been in my head all evening, I didn't know how to insert it properly into the dialogue.

– I appreciated the joke, thank you.

He takes off his zippered jacket, leaving it on the floor, and flops down on the bed. The mattress sinking under his weight. You turn off the light and lie down nearby, moving around by feel. He takes your hand and guides you so that you don't lose your way. You rest your head on your hand and look out the window, then at him. Julian turns to face you.

– I never said thank you, by the way. I really didn't know where to go.

– If you don’t know where to go, you can always come here. – You say, and he smiles hopefully, as if he’s seen a bright green, neon sign for an exit and a door leading outside a burning building.

– Thank you. – He mutters awkwardly.

– You’re welcome, Julian. Just promise me one thing.

– Well, if it's something impossible...

– No, it's quite possible, just make sure that everything you promised me today isn't just empty words. – He sighed.

– I'm a jerk, remember? I might not be able to keep my word. – He teases, repeating the words you once said.

–Well, then I'll have to believe in fate and kill you myself.

– You won't do that.

– Are you sure?

– Yes.

– I'm sure of you, too. So promise me. I've made a lot of sacrifices.

– Sacrifices?

– Yes.

– What kind?

– Is the terrorist in my apartment considered? The one who wakes me up at night.

– Yes, I suppose so. Okay, fine. – He raises his pinky finger so you can see it and extends it. – Here's your oath. – He says, and your pinky fingers interlock. You remove your hand and place it on his cheek, stroking him as people usually stroking dogs for behaving obediently.

There was a pause as he tensed at your words.

– I'm sorry for involving you in all this. – He seems to be taking your words seriously.

– No no, it's okay. Don't even think about it. – You move closer and rest your forehead against his.

– If I could, I would take back all the mistakes I've made, really.

– I've already told you. Forget about it. Move on, okay? I'll help you.

– Really?

– Of course. – You fell silent. So did he. You decided to bring up a new topic in the end.

– What did you dream of before? I mean, what would you wanted to? – He thought about it and turned away, staring at the ceiling. He thought about something for a long time and finally gave up and exhaled.

– I don't remember.

You sigh heavily and hug him.

– Okay...It's okay. You can't remember everything in one evening, can you?

– Yeah. – he sniffs.

– It's all ahead, baby. – You pull him to you and cover his cheek with kisses again, wrapping your hand around the other one. Then you get up on your elbows and pull his head closer, wait a second just to be sure, and kiss his swollen lips.

– Come on, smile. Keep your chin up. – He smiles slightly, then shows his teeth, smiling wider.

– The smile suits you. Really.

– Yeah I guess. – You swear you can see a blush on his deathly pale skin in the dark.

– I... love you. – He blurted out without hesitation and was immediately got flustered...I mean thank you...for compliment.

– Of course, Julie. I love you too. – And you kiss him again.

You lie back down and he, in a state of half-sleep, pulls you closer. You embrace, trying to give him the warmth he's subconsciously seeking. Your nails lazily scratch the skin of his head, and his breath tickles your neck.

You hope it gets better.

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