Matryoshka

The character runs across the fields, panting as he wipes the sweat off his forehead. He stares behind him and towards the path, alternatively, conscious his manoeuvre has not gone unnoticed. The pain emanating from his leg is becoming harder to ignore at every step. Without daring to stop, he tightens his hands around the straps of the blue bag and finds the strength to keep limping forward. He finally stops behind a thick oak tree to catch his breath.

The train station is further away now, and they can probably no longer see his silhouette in the faint light of dawn. He presses the wound in his knee with a wry face, letting go a muffled cry of pain. For a slight moment he regrets having jumped off the train with such clumsiness, but the thought quickly blurs away: he knows too well it was worth it. He sighs with relief as he opens the blue bag and holds the thick envelope with the twenty thousand dollars in his hands, feeling the weight of each and every note. He smiles with pride and his chapped lips quiver with emotion. Time has come for him to reclaim his worth.

A dry leaf lies flattened in the corner of the page.

All of a sudden, a noise from the fields floods his veins back with adrenaline. An eagle cuts the sky with omnipotence. Still behind the old oak tree, he stares at the deserted fields towards the horizon and closes his eyes for a moment, trying to discern the calming sound of the river from the vigorous howl of the wind. He must keep going. He knows it won’t be long until they catch him if he makes a mistake.

A disturbing dark red fingerprint blurs the last letters of mistake.

He eventually takes the hidden path that reveals itself at his right hand side and follows the small stream of water without looking back. Eyeing his watch with impatience, he begins to slow down as he recognises the small dock by the lake. He jumps over the wooden fence skilfully, repositioning the blue bag against his back as he lands on the other side.

The crisp, yellowish page shivers as it turns through the fingers.

He rushes towards the dock, looking back into the wild forest with doubt. He takes-off his damp t-shirt and uses it to clean off the blood that is dripping from his knee, wrapping it around his leg to stop the bleeding. He raises his glance: just a few meters away, the boat awaits him.

The beautifully curved calligraphy of the beginning of the tale has now become a rushed, barely legible scribble.

The calm harmony of the lake fills him back with hope as he begins running towards the boat. He can only envision his impressive escape across the lake. His mind races as he pictures every story he’s starred in, every final twist, all the conversations he’s voiced. He thinks of all the fingers that have caressed his moves and dreamt about his adventures. The ever-lasting effect he’s had on people’s lives. After all, he knows he earned that money. They owe him at least that.

Suddenly, a creaky noise behind him catches him by surprise. He turns around with horror…

A thick, uncontrolled mark of ink covers the following word, making it illegible. The rest of the page is blank.

The roused reader impetuously flicks through the rest of the little black book. But it is in vain. The story has no ending.

As if waking up from a long deep sleep, the reader stretches out his arms, suddenly conscious of the long withstanding bad posture of his slouched over neck. He closes the book with disappointment and raises his glance to the moving landscape on the other side of the glass. He discreetly looks around him: a woman he doesn’t recognise from before is now sitting across him in carriage 21, fighting to find a comfortable position in her seat. They exchange a polite smile as the train begins to slow down and the driver announces they are about to reach the next station.

The reader takes his luggage from the overhead rack and steps out into the platform. He leaves the train station behind with confidence and heads towards the fields. He knows exactly where he needs to go.

An old oak tree catches his eye as he turns right and follows the hidden path along the water-stream. Shortly after, the lake appears before him and he sights the small boat moored to the dock. He climbs over the wooden fence with much difficulty and slows down as he approaches the dock, wary of the sounds of his own shoes stepping on the undergrowth.

He knows he’s not alone.

A treacherous branch betrays him as he steps on the dock and he holds his breath: the creaky sound echoing in the deepest corners of his mind. The wounded character is now standing in front of him, looking back with horror.

The reader recognises the blue bag the character carries and knows he has no choice: he has always been the rightful owner of the money. His mind races as he pictures every story he has loyally devoured, every unexpected twist he’s patiently witnessed, the conversations he’s brought to life. He thinks of all the shivery pages he has caressed and the characters he has loved as they reached their much anticipated endings. The power he has given to mere fictional words by connecting them to his reality. After all, the money should have always been his.

The wounded man starts running towards the boat in despair. After a moment of hesitation, the reader takes the gun out from his belt and shoots.

The character plummets.

A moment of bewilderment brings the writer back to carriage 21: one of the passengers has also fallen dead to the floor. Two rows ahead, a reader flicks through the blank pages of a little black book with confusion.

Sitting across him, the writer smiles with pride as he holds the blue bag with the money tight between his legs. He types the final full stop and the story ends there.