The cold invades his body, as heavy downpur envelops him in a liquid cloak like a fetus in the bosom of it´s dead mother. He wakes up lying in the mud and it's raining, raining hard. As consciousness returns to his head, merciless raindrops hits his skin and soil granules creak between his teeth. He gets up until seated down, as fast as the severe headache and dizziness allows. Everything around him is in a quasi gloom: Where is he? Buildings under construction everywhere, concrete monochrome giants, bombarded by liters and liters of water watch him in his confusion.
He tries to get up, a piercing pain erupts in his ribs when his muscles contract with the effort: he leans over himself and sees a huge bruise on the ribs. His legs skate inside the sticky mud, feeling the water moving between the fabric and the skin. he's soaked from head to toe and has been in the rain for several hours: that's the first information of the night. Who is he? What are he doing there? there is just vague memories left of a club, strobe lights everywhere and a man's face disappearing into a cloud of blood, brains and shattered bone; generic electronic music still hammers him in the ears.
He rises on his feet, sweeps the eyes in search of a shelter; all he sees is the rain falling into vertical lines over the half-made buildings, without roofs, monolithic walls pointing to the sky: No shelter for him, the place he´s standing is as good as anywhere else, so he makes an inventory of his situation. bare feet, no shirt, and in the pants pockets only has a few loose coins and the most disturbing thing: the only object in your wallet is a club card, with a number in it.
He checks the card. With one hand he takes his hair back and flat it as much as possible to his skull to give his eyes a little time without the harassment of the water. Piccola Morte. On one side of the stylized skull and those two italian words is a phone number:
"420 662-742-443 Lenka".
Lenka? What kind of name is this? A woman's name? Maybe. The number is scribbled in pink ink and the lyrics have too many flourishes to be a man's. Besides, at the end of the name there's a cutesy little heart.
The card was again kept in the wallet, before the water ruin the ink even more; He would find out who the hell is this "Lenka" later, now he got more urgent problems to take care of . A hard object hurts his tailbone: It's a pistol, a Sig Sauer P226. This piece of information flows through his brain like an electric pulse; he manipulates the gun whith expertise; he feels it, closes his hand on the handle with confidence; the weight is pleasant on the palm, the texture of the handle is familiar to him. He pulls the slide just enough to see the brass of a live cartridge seated on the mechanism: 14 cartridges in the magazine plus one in the chamber; he close the slide and decock the hammer with the hands in automatic mode, not knowing how or when he learned all of this.
Now he is sure that pistol is not just a gun but it's HIS gun. How do he knows all this? How can his remember a firearm, but not his own name? He can't wait for answers. He places the gun back on the waist of the trousers; he turn his eyes around: half-made buildings are all he see and they'll never answer his questions.And in the meantime there is that rain, which continues to fall mercilessly, the water continues to cross the barrier of its eyebrows and ends in its eyes; the mud gets into his toes: making the lights of the city look fuzzy and flickering like stars that are not in the sky.
He needs to find a shelter, somewhere dry and dark where no one notices a confused, semi-naked man. He leaves the construction site and find the world: tall buildings of old-fashioned styles whose roofs are hidden in the dark mist of the storm. The light comes from neon lights in the distance, some flickering lights of unknown position and some cars passing at regular intervals: a curious mixture of the worst of the past with the worst of the future.
No soul here in the streets; nothing out of the ordinary, considering it's raining cats and dogs outside. Who would want to walk outside right now? exactly: just the madman who only want to find himself. He hears voices and he looks to hide by instinct ; doesn't know why, but somehow he knows it's not safe. He enters the alley and the first things he do is stumbling upon a garbage can: big mistake, there is noise, a lot of noise. The metallic noise sounds like thunder, way above the rain that already roars like a waterfall. Two subjects stagger after him, their stark silhouettes cropped in the mouth of the alley: another creatures who do not know their place in the world; the only difference is unlike him, the effect is voluntary, a confusion that disappears tomorrow. He despises them for it.
He tries to de-escalate the situation, but for some reason, a... feeling, he know how useless will be the effort. He sees with a little sadness the boasts of a bully on his attackers, their rude words, that irregular movement and that erratic swing of the shoulders that precedes the sucker punch: so predictable... he block the first blow with a slash of his palm and at the same time he crush his windpipe; a kick puts his assailant on his knees; then he knocks him down by twisting his neck with viciousness.
The other shadow doubts, then attacks without conviction. A metal blade shines during the arch it projects to reach his flesh. He doesn't know how but dodges it, and manages to catch him in a strangulation that invalidates the threat of the knife and leaves the thug semi-unconscious seconds later. The stranger is in the ground and berrheas like a wounded beast, crying out for help, attention he would not have desired in another situation. He methodically stomps his skull until the gurgling noise vanishes . The two strangers are at his feet, badly wounded and perhaps, dead.
He had take them out with ease and not even their knives had saved them. Again: Where had he learned this? What kind of person he was been before that night?He takes the clothes of his attackers and a combination of both, manages to dress up. He had to look like an idiot for sure and he was still soaked, of course; but now he had a shirt, shoes, a cell phone and 66 american dollars. Now he can venture into public spaces.
He calls "Lenka" who responds bewildered; she wasn't supposed to talk to him for two days. He omits the part where he has lost her memory and only asks to see her with the greatest conviction he was able to fake.
"Do you know the Piccola Morte? See you there in two hours" That's what she told you before she hung up.
Piccola Morte... is what the card in his hands says. The address is right there, and it's actually not far away. The neon lights he saw earlier? That's its origin.
Merci pour la lecture!