Short Story - The clouds above the mist: Chapter 1

I push down on the accelerator. Not because I’m late for work, not because the road is empty. I just want to feel the exhilaration, the adrenaline, the blood pumping through my veins. Windows down. The winter air rushes in, chilling, maddening. I see flames dance out from the cigarette stuck between my fingers, landing on my skin, burning, comforting.

The music is loud. Too loud. I look down and turn the dial on the stereo. I feel a massive jerk. My neck stretches out, my body held by the seatbelt. Choking, I gasp for air, eyes bulging. The sound of crashing metal fills my ears. I hear the windscreen break. Shards of metal penetrate my skin, icy cold, deadly.

I stand on the beach. Barcelona. The sun is glorious, old, about to settle down, call it a day. The winds calm. People happy. Relaxed. I walk parallel to the water, smiling. There is something magical about the sands on a beach. They embrace you, envelope your skin in their warmth, their hospitality unquestionable, their intentions clear. I see a ball rolling towards me. Grey and pink, definitely bigger than a football, I think. There is a man waving at me, beckoning. I glance at the group playing beach volleyball, smile, and kick the ball towards them. The man clad in shorts and a pair of Raybans, gives a thumbs up; continues the game.

I turn around, back towards my hotel room. The sun is kissing the horizon, caressing the ocean waves. It’s daily routine. I hear a bell. Looking around, I see a man the colour of my own skin walking towards me.

“Beer, beer, 2 Euro beer” he bellows, in a distinctly familiar accent.

Curious, I go up to him, asking for one. He hands me a can of chilled beer from a transparent plastic bag that looks as if it’s about to tear away from the burden it carries. I look down at the familiar language written in red on the shiny silver can. Indian. Maybe Thai. I’m not sure, but it’s definitely from that area.

“It’s from Mexico”, the beer man states proudly, his thick eyebrows raised, waiting for me to hand him the money.

What a load of horseshit, I think, smiling at him, nodding. My ability to mask my feelings, always ready.

“Where are you from?” I ask, giving him two coins.

“Sir, I’m a man of this planet. I belong anywhere and everywhere” he professes, pocketing the coins.

“India?” I probe.

“Oh no Sir, no no, I’m from Pakistan”. He replies, a look of surprise on his wrinkled face, shock and incredulity in his eyes.

Laughing, I shake his hand again, and tell him I thought so too, inviting him to join me.

We sit down on the sand, close to the water, facing the ocean.

I tell him about my purpose in the city, how I ended up in Europe, he tells me his story.

Beer man had two daughters back home. One single, another married. His cousin wanted to marry his single daughter. A 26 year age difference between them. She, still in school, he, in his forties, a landlord. Beer man refused. His cousin, influential and belonging to a local political party, kidnapped the daughter. Paraded her naked through the town, and sliced her head off, leaving her corpse to rot. Beer man’s wife went insane. His eldest daughter committed suicide, and his cousin, took over his herd of cattle, his only source of income.

He fled the country, taking whatever was left of his savings. Ended up in Barcelona on a visit Visa. It has been 6 years for him here.

I look at the man sitting beside me, now gulping down beer from his own can. I feel pity. Anger. A sinking feeling in my gut. Shaking my head, I get up. Drowsy. Bloated. I look at the three empty crushed cans at my feet, put my hand in the zipped pocket of my jacket, and hand him more money. We say our words, formal, traditional. He gives me a hug, smiles, eyes wet. We part.

I open my eyes. Look around. I’m slumped against the seat. I smell the blood. Pungent. Sweet. Raw. Disturbingly enticing. I’m in shock. My face hurts. Feeling my skin with my right hand, I try and pull out a piece of metal lodged in my cheek. Agony. Panicking, I try and move my legs. I cant. The crash has pushed the engine of the car inside. Coughing. Gasping for breath. I realize my eye glasses are cracked. I take them off. I need water. Air. I need to move.

I hear the door pull open. Forcefully, purposefully. The sound of blaring horns, cars and motorcycles streaking by, shouting people fills my ears. Someone says something I can’t decipher. I’m blacking out again. I feel a rough slap on my face, stinging pain in my head, a face looking at me, talking to me. I’m pulled out of the car. Placed on the road, sun too bright, blinding me further. I make out someone looking at me, talking to me. I focus. I recognize the face. I hear him asking me if I’m in pain.

I nod, the pain spreading down through my neck. Unbearable. I see him again.
It’s beer man of the Mexican beer.

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Read the Prologue HERE: https://steemit.com/story/@writerbro/short-story-the-clouds-above-the-mist-prologue

Source: Images my own.