HE CITY BUZZED beneath a dark canopy of sky, sirens wailing along neon-lit streets. Laughter and chaos reached their peak when, somewhere in the labyrinth of dim alleyways, a careless step nudged a rat too familiar with human presence.
‘The show’s over, Rico,’ barked a coarse voice as the rodent darted behind trash-laden bins. ‘Say hi to Kermit for me.’
‘Hoping for a break in showbiz?’ came a second, more gallant voice.
The first man, evidently intoxicated, stood silent for a moment.
‘Clowning on stage is better than clowning for the self-important bourgeoisie in a club,’ he said at last.
‘Hm. At least the tips are good.’
‘Good,’ sighed the first, ‘for an obedient dog...’
‘What would suit your sensibility, then?’
‘I don’t know...’ the sombre voice replied. ‘Something... that would make me feel good...’
The contemplative companion, who had been gliding behind his clumsy steps, paused, lost in thought.
‘That explains the amount of booze tonight.’
‘Haha...’ the man turned to him. ‘I didn’t even catch your name, friend...’
‘Call me Az,’ the man answered after a moment.
‘Az!’ the first echoed with a lopsided grin, rolling his eyes in surprise.
Az had nothing more to add. Still, a warm smile spread across his well-groomed face. The drunkard nodded approvingly.
‘Az, huh... Sure. I’m Peter.’
‘Pleasure, Peter. Not like we haven’t been drowning the whole evening in drink...’
‘That we have... So why are you following me?’
‘You’re intoxicated and tired, my friend, and can’t exactly stagger where you’re headed alone.’
‘You watching over me, maybe?’
‘Please,’ Az bowed gently in respect. ‘Had it not been for you, those two thugs would’ve likely beaten and robbed me in the alley back there...’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Peter waved him off. ‘Heh... Scum... Cost me my smoke break.’
They continued walking, Az following close. He moved with an air of nobility—not stiff and pompous like the self-important buffoons his new companion loathed, nor bearing the forced etiquette of upper circles. If anything, he seemed of modest background. His demeanour, speech, and generosity felt innate, not learned.
‘But the evening wasn’t all bad,’ Peter eventually added.
‘But not good either?’
‘Haven’t called anything good in this world in a long time.’
Az, appearing thoughtful, looked at his companion.
‘Perhaps there’s no good left,’ he noted. ‘Not in this world.’
‘Then in the next one?’ the drunken brawler mused.
‘The God-fearing say so.’
‘So...’
‘In Heaven, there’s good.’
‘Hm... They say it’s boring...’ Peter drifted again and nearly fell, but Az steadied him.
‘They say? People who’ve never been there? No... they just don’t know. Prison is boring. And Hell is prison.’
‘Prison’s not boring,’ Peter muttered with some regained composure.
‘Ever been there?’
‘No. You?’
‘Maybe...’
‘They say it’s lively inside,’ he grinned. ‘Like Hell. While in Heaven, everyone just sits, sings mellow songs, picks flowers. All day long.’
‘In Heaven, there’s always a feast. In prison, only darkness and shackles, razors on skin, and a gag in your mouth. And you know what?’
‘What?’
‘All day long.’
Without warning, Peter stumbled again, and his not-so-small figure spilled across the damp, cracked asphalt of the alley. Az groaned while helping him up. The alcohol was beginning to take full effect.
‘Easy now, friend... Come on.’
‘Must’ve had a bit too much...’ the bulky waiter chuckled.
‘Come on now... Easy... There we go.’
‘So where are we headed?’
‘To let you rest a bit.’
Soon they emerged onto another street, where the night seemed calmer and gentler. It was a quiet, rundown area, seemingly deserted, though not far from the sinful heart of the city. The two companions wandered beneath flickering lamps—those that still worked, at least. Somewhere in the distance, a siren cried briefly, but Peter paid it no mind.
‘You know there’s drinking, dancing... sex at those feasts?’ Peter murmured thickly.
‘I know.’
‘Is there any of that in Heaven?’
‘All pleasures belong to Heaven,’ Az said, escorting with deliberate grace his companion down a stairwell toward a door. ‘Hell offers only torment.’
‘I still don’t believe in that,’ the other grumbled, even as old doors let them into the dark interior of an apartment.
‘In what?’
‘That... I mean... If “God” ‘ made everything for us... why does everything that feels good turn bad in the end...? And all that hurts is the reward if we avoid it? I mean... where’s the logic?’
‘Maybe there isn’t any.’
‘Man, it all feels like... I don’t know... an unfinished picture. I mean...’
‘Maybe “God” is just an amateur painter,’ Az replied, lowering the already numbed Peter onto a bed. ‘Maybe, once upon a time, when He got bored, He pulled out this biiiig canvas, started painting the world, then decided He didn’t like how it turned out and gave up? Set some rules ahead of time and then just left it all to rot?’
‘Probably golfing right now,’ his companion muttered with a distant smile, ‘while we set the world on fire.’
‘Hence all the meteors,’ Az joked, lifting his feet onto what seemed to be a bed.
‘Or maybe God doesn’t come from a book, maybe He’s just Existence itself... not caring much either way, creating good and evil as byproducts... laughing at His little experiment... while we, in His name, invent and destroy made-up rules?’
‘That’s possible...’ Peter mused, feeling his companion perhaps drape a shroud over his legs.
‘Or,’ Az emphasised the word, and his once-gentle melodic voice trembled with a darker note, ‘maybe God has always been at the helm. And we just live in a fallen creation, corrupted by the sin of our own decline. That’s why all this shit happens. Over and over... And in the end, only scars remain... on the flesh... on the soul... tangled like a net, holding hope inside, in case there’s still something better ahead.’
‘Damn...’ the other sighed. ‘That’s deep...’
Then he smiled again, like a drowsy child.
‘So... you’re saying... there’s a feast in Heaven, huh?’
Az stayed quiet a moment. A faint thread of light from outside caught in the dark mirrors of his eyes.
‘Yes,’ he finally said, almost wistfully. ‘Maybe some of us make it there.’
‘So, how do we get there?’
Suddenly, a cold shiver ran down Peter’s spine. Something tightened firmly around his wrists.
He tried to rise, but failed. His arms and legs were bound—by something thin, but unyielding. The movement broke at its root, as if his muscles had forgotten how to obey.
He tried to speak, but the words tripped over his tongue, sluggish, heavy, foreign.
Az’s shadow loomed over him. A hand slid down the cot, tightening a strap that had been sticking out of the sheets—with the care of a ritual long repeated.
Through sweat-blurred lashes, Peter saw a glint of reflection. Something small and dark, glassy—it shook in a hand like a rattle.
‘The shortest path, my good man,’ Az said softly. The vial slipped through his fingers.
In his other hand—a razor. Grey and blind to light, a blade that had waited too long, but had never been forgotten.
Az fixed his gaze upon him. Unhurried, unaffected. A still, silent gaze—as if no soul animated it, only a decision made long ago by someone else.
In that silence, Peter felt the room contract. It seemed smaller, lower, as if the world beyond had suddenly become much too far away.
‘Right through Hell,’ Az added, with a voice both comforting and unbearable.
The light outside flickered. Once again, a siren howled in the distance—futile now, lost in the dark, like a voice calling through the end of the world.
