Better With Age || Viktor Brandt

[Euca]

3. Paying the Debt

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When I was a child, I used to sit atop of the hills of Hamburg, in the brief spring, and roll rocks down the hillside on our property. I remember being fascinated by the way the rock sped up at first, all of its rough edges smoothing into a soft blur of grey as it trampled down the slope and onto the flat ground. It would go from a ragged stone, to a speeding blotch of grey, then slowly return to its original form. I watched it slow down as it hit the plateaus, and then eventually stop. Once a quick paced bullet, now reduced to a still object, forever caught in the lapse of time. I tried not to think of it, and rolled another rock down the hill.

Now, standing here over my table of notes and figures at one in the morning, I can't stop thinking about those rocks. Once upon a time making progress and going forward, now just a lumbering, still hunk of mass.

The weeks following had been hard on me. I started to narrow down the search on the elusive Jane. Removed all the fair, blonde women. Tossed out all the ones that were spotted speeding once or twice. Forgot about the Jane's that were clean record. There were entire days where progress was hasty and on track, now all my work has boiled down to the grime at the bottom of the pot, the sludge that the heat has brought fourth from the bountiful amounts of liquid. A cork-board on the wall, fashioned with pictures of Jane look-a-likes, all connected with red string. Maps with highlighted locations where she has been sighted. News reports on Harburg. Mugshots of similar criminals. It was all beginning to clear in front of me, but at the same time, began to cloud and turn my vision jaded.

My phone buzzes. Lights flicker, stomach growls, eyes droop. Concentration, I have found, is not a commodity that is as easily bought and sold as alloys or food. It is a product of motivation, alongside other things, such as hydration and being well fed. All of these things are starting to become sand to me, slipping through my fingers and being caught in the wind. My mind follows those sparkling trails into the dark, and there is little that I can do to stop it. I fall back onto my couch, and let my eyes roll back into my head, and sleep take its deadly hold on me.

For a moment, I'm caught in the tumbling darkness, losing my footing. The darkness clears and I'm caught between two looming Harburg towers, the snow gradually building and the air being heavy and filled with smog.

"What am I doing here?" I ask out loud. The noise warbles through the air, rebounding off of every building and returning to me as an echo. A light switches on behind me and beams down from above. I turn, and there she is.

"Good question..." And I know where this is going. She's illuminated in the light, with all her features intimidatingly casting a shadow that engulfs me. As she speaks, her hand reaches to her face, grabbing an invisible corner of an invisible cloth.

"...what are you doing..." And with a swift hand movement, she tears her face away, revealing a familiar old face.

"...Herr Brandt?" And before me, looking solemn and wearisome is Cristofer. Cristofer with his innocent look. He collapses to the ground and I run to him. As I fall to the ground next to him, my hand glides over the bullet wound, staining my hands with a dark red blood that slowly begins to paint my hands. He stares at me, in pain. Breathing heavily, he whimpers to me.

"You're no better than I am." And again, Cristofer is gone, and Jane is laying in the snow, smiling a villainous, blank expression. Her hand, snaps from her sides and in a heated moment, she draws a knife and carves a grueling line across my neck. I fall to the snow, slowly being dragged into the ground. Her voice follows me, drifting down into my sinkhole.

"Cristofer sends his regards."