When Armin turned thirteen, he began working in an old antique store on the outskirts of the city. He saw engraved porcelain mugs, silvered books and thin rings that you want to stick your fingers. All sorts of things which is never useful.
'Why', he constantly asked himself. 'Why for such big money people buy crystal shoes-salad bowls, if they never bring it out into the light, worrying about their appearance? Why do they need this blings on the windows, made of rock crystal, and costing like all my clothes, taken three times?'
He understood that some people just eat breakfast on such amounts, and sometimes this lead him into depression.
The old rags he inherited from his older brother look ridiculous at low skinny body — they hang and interfere with normal walking. There isn't enough money to buy a powder so his grandfather used to buy a regular household soap. Yes, the thing that smells not the best way and the odor disappears in less than a week. So Armin continually smells like soap.
And he thought it couldn't get any worse.
But then this story wouldn't have happened.
'Sit down and listen, friend, how I met my little night lantern.'
As told by his parents — with what kind of mood you wake up in the morning, the same will follow you all day. And he always believed the conviction, maybe that's why he rarely was in trouble.
When Armin was eight he had a strange dream leading him to creeps.
He clearly remembered saying goodbye to his parents as he goes to school, felt mother's gentle kiss on his forehead and heard father's counsel. He was given money to buy bread on the way back. Armin nodded cheerfully, and his blond hair bounced on his head.
He walked along the edge of the path as his toes barely touched grass, growing on the verge of the asphalt. It tickled his exposed heel, and the boy happily laughed holding his stomach.
Armin exactly knew the road and he was sure he's on the right track but the streets somehow changed its direction, painted houses in other colors and broke fences protecting homes. Menacing clouds were gathering over his head as they were chirring. Soon it began to rain. If all the light was gone, leaving only dark sky and the sparkling flash of lightning.
He was scared, he was shaking. Not everyone wants to be outside in a thunderstorm, unprotected and alone.
Then he saw them.
Parents who stood on the other side of the road and pulled hands to him, urging him to stand under the umbrella and go home.
Thunder boomed in his ears, laying them. Screams were indecipherable.
He woke up in a cold sweat, with faces of his parents in front of the eyes and his own heart-rending cries. The tears were not to stop, but he rubbed his eyes painfully, afraid that now all of this becomes true. The boy rose to his feet, hesitantly got out of bed and ran to the parents' room.
The sun was far to climb, the space lit only a small lamp attached to the socket in the wall. The room was silent, diluted only by peaceful humming of his father.
His parents didn't know why their son was roaring lying in the middle of the bedroom.
All became clear a week later.
They got into the plane crash.
It was a business trip, and relatives of employees were invited too. Armin refused, but his older brother expressed a desire to skip a week of school.
The pilot lost control in clouds, and the plane flew down. Brother died on the spot. Parents are in a coma.
'I don't want it,' Armin says himself. 'Only a weak man will ruin his own health a month for a torn t-shirt.'
He stands in the middle of the street staring at the window of barely opened boutique. Fucking expensive t-shirt dark orange color with carefully cut slits on the ribs looks at him through the thick glass. The guy moves slightly to the left, and can he see the writing on the back.
Shut Your Eyes
Nervously looking around, he thinks. If he buys it now, he doesn't have money for jeans from second-hand. And if he doesn't buy it, he would wear oldies and pout.
'Ah!' Armin breaks out, turns around and bumps into someone. As he raises his eyes he buried them in a deep cut of a dress. 'Excuse me!' he hastily mutters and rushes past girl, hoping that she doesn't hold grudges. He hurries to turn the corner, enters the building which situated immediately around the corner and goes down to the basement storey.
He's seventeen and his body grows with suspicious progression. Even if you look at the face, it's easy to see the differences: facial contours has stretched, cheekbones appeared, large eyes don't seem so big, but still burning. He began to remove back regrown to the shoulder blades hair using hairgrip.
On the ground floor is surprisingly fresh and cool. Air conditioners do their job, and a small number of people allow cool air to remain in the hall. Little girl of six or seven is running back and forth, trying on dress and tiny ballet shoes. She screams something about a summer vacation and the trip to the sea. A soft smile begins to grow on his face as Armin's watching her. He remembers himself at her age, surprised to see that he was just as restless.
Armin knows that the right lane is hanging the cheapest clothes which he can ever imagine. Yes, it can be torn, ugly stitched up and with a terrible picture. "But that's no problem, right?" he says to himself. It is always possible to sew, to hide the sloppy tie. Importantly, it can be worn.
The guy chooses only two things — a simple dark blue shirt and bright shorts with blue side panels of the pant leg. Prices are reasonable, and they are comfortable outwardly. Unfortunately, in the store they are nowhere to measure, so you have to choose by eye.
Pay for your purchase, Armin goes out and walks towards the place of work. He must go for long, but he was used to daily walking and not complaining.
'After all, you expressed a desire to help the family. Here now, do as you promised.'
He often remembers his mother's words about the need to learn and get interesting, but worthy profession. However, how he can attend school or college when it needs workers? Who will help granddad, who will pay the rent, who will render to doctors? WHO?
These questions he asks himself probably a million times.
And there is the only one answer. He, Armin.
'Oh, mom. I wish I had flying with you' , the guy sometimes thinks and gives himself a slap. Painful, but sobering.
Armin is sitting on the chair, wearily staring out of the window. Children run past, his peers ride bikes. A cuckoo clock jangling behind him, a crystal gleams into his left eye. The light in the room is brighter than outside, and it's nerves the blond. Lately he began to notice that his emotions live like they're separated from him. If they want – they make him yell at another restless visitor, then 'the tax' will be deducted from his salary. If they want – they will gurgle inside of him as in the boiling broth, rejoicing for no reason. He knows it's called 'crisis of adolescence', but he thinks it is not up to him. Survive, survived.
The bell on the door rings and it opens, introducing into the store new visitor. It's a fragile-looking girl with bluish-black caret and clouds-colored eyes. She looks around, and then comes to missing Armin.
'Good afternoon.'
Armin stands up and nods her head.
'Can I help you?'
'I'm looking for a gift. Something small, but at the same time beautiful. Without any sequin or flowers,' her voice is pensive, she slowly pronounces the words. Quite hard to understand what she wants.
'What? Decoration, decorative toys, figurines?'
'Something from figurines, I guess,' mutters the girl. Armin runs until the end of the corridor, stopping almost in front of the door, and picks up the lion from the bottom shelf.
'He's about two years,' he says smiling. Peripheral vision he sees the brunette reaching for the dial to the right of him — there're a dozen tin soldiers. 'But they are about a hundred.'
'I'll take them,' black-haired says quietly and looks into the face of the seller. Her eyes widen, it seems that she's choking to death. 'What... Armin?'
'Ah?..'
'Look, Mikasa,' Armin quickly turns his head to the sound of the bell. 'How long are you still going to hang around?!'
'Why his face seems so familiar?..' the blond thinks as he moves his glance from well-known black t-shirt with slits up to the eyes of the newcomer. Vivid and verdant. 'Really?..'
He slips, tries to grab for anything, he drops the lion, tilts standing beside of him wardrobe feeling its weight. Paint slowly loses their richness. He loses consciousness.