Smoke and Dust

Chapter One: Home

Why are you here?

Bold, red letters. They seemed to stare back at him, searching for an answer in his mind. Why was he here? As a joke? Entertainment for a higher power, that thought it funny to deny him his last wish? He shook his head and rid his mind from the ridiculous thought. It wasn't funny, not to him and he made sure not to them either. No, him being here wasn't a cruel joke even if did feel like it sometimes.

Why are you here?

The rational part of his brain knew it was an advertisement, just another poster on the wall searching for your attention. He didn't even bother looking what it was for. He didn't plan on stopping in front of it, but the question had taken him by surprise and here he was, standing in front of a poster, loosing himself in those big red letters.

Here. Where even was here? On this world? Why was he on this damned planet? Because his father couldn't keep it in his pants. He chuckled. He could feel the confused look from the old man beside him. His eyes wandered to the question and he didn't even look at it twice before turning back and minding his own business again. Apparently he didn't find it as interesting as he did. Why was he in this city? That was a good question, he had asked himself that question ever since he entered the city two weeks ago. Why did he come back? Why couldn't he stay away? He was weak. Coming here was an act of weakness. Even reading the question over and over was a sign of weakness. He was stalling and he knew it.

Why are you here?

To see his mother. That was why he was here. To see his family. After almost two years he would see her again. He imagined her reaction. She would be happy, maybe she would hit him and shout at him, but she would be happy. She would cry. A messy and ugly cry. One that shook through your whole body and took control over you. And he would wait and smile. He would smile while she shouted at him. He would smile until she stopped crying. And he would smile until she finally went to bed. Only then he would allow himself to take off the mask he's been wearing ever since.

Why are you here?

He continued staring at the bold letters. He had answered the question, but then why did it still feel like it could haunt him, would he diverted his eyes from it.

"That's what I call good advertisement," grunted the old man to himself, watching him from the corner of his eye. It shouldn't have been loud enough for him to hear, but he did. He heard everything. He heard the wind rushing through the street and alleyways. He heard the birds chirp above him. He heard the song of an ice cream cart a few streets over. He heard the woman on the phone down the street, the televisions in the houses, feet shuffling, newspaper pages turning, a can hitting the concrete the street to his left. At the beginning he struggled with overload of his senses a lot, but he managed it better now. It wasn't like he could switch it off, but he could store all the information in some corner of his brain and not consciously notice it unless he wanted to.

And it wasn't just his hearing. His sight, smell, feeling, taste, all of his senses intensified almost to no limit. Once he had made the mistake and turned them all on. He had sat in the middle of an empty field in the middle of nowhere and he thought it safe. As soon as he let the information enter the conscious part of his brain he passed out. Sensory overload. He woke up seconds later and tried again.

Why are you here?

The letters brought his mind back to the problem at hand. He was standing across the street of his mothers apartment. His mother, who he hadn't seen in over two years. He wasn't even sure what they told her about what happened, how much she knew. He had come here every day for the last week and stood at this exact place.

And then he watched. The first time he saw her leave the building, his knees buckled and he wanted to run to her, into her arms. And then he saw it. There was a baby on the arms of his mother. A little, very filigree human being. It was smiling. An ugly smile, as it had only little teeth yet, but it was smiling at his mother. At its mother, he realised immediately. And while he stood there and stared at the thing in his mother's arms, she closed the door, turned and left. He didn't follow, but he was back the next day and the next and the next. He promised himself every day again that he would go up to the door and knock or ring, but each day he found something to preoccupy himself with. Today it was the poster. The day before it had been cleaning the street of garbage and the day before that talking to an old lady he met. Her name had been Agnes and she kept talking about her granddaughter, but she was lonely and he needed an excuse not to go up to the building, so he listened to her.