It was afternoon.

Looking around felt disturbing, though I had no idea why; my eyes were sore. I couldn't remember last night at all. Apparently some kind of storage hall surrounded me; two massive shelves were filled with more cardboard boxes on my right – actually more than just filled: boxes were piled around the already packed compartments. Several large windows were right below the ceiling; obscure pillars of dim light pushed through them and collided with piles of cardboard. On the opposite side of the hall was a large metallic door. It was seemingly meant for trucks, as the shelves bordered a perfect amount of space for large vehicle. One of those was parked outside; I could see its trailer through a lower windowpane and the fog beneath. On my left was a notably smaller door for pedestrians; that's where I had come from. Behind it would be some kind of courtyard and another way inside that garage. Mere thought of going back made me extremely uneasy; that door alone looked revolting.

There were dry bloodstains all around me; on the floor and on my clothes – some of them led to that smaller doorway. Memories appeared once I attempted standing up: that rainy hell came back as one loud scream. This confusing, twisting ache climbed up my left arm and brought me back down. Most of the hand was wrapped inside white cloth – in an extremely messy fashion. It still made no sense to me, as I could feel the missing fingers inside: moving, bending and rubbing against each other. First came sudden feeling of imbalance, then waves of nausea; I threw up along the floor. String of curses followed, as I was too exhausted and battered to even stand on two feet. Rummaging the sports bag felt still doable though – some warm coffee remained in the thermos. Back then I didn't question its high temperature since it was enough to wash the taste of bile away.

I closed my eyes and concentrated first on breathing, then thinking: could I make it to the cafe in such condition? Of course; my legs were still functional – just force yourself to move, as simple as that. My only other option became clear as I inspected the revolver: one bullet remained. Once again, as simple as that. But it would have been pointless; this broken town would probably kill me anyway. Faint hints of panic appeared with this idea, yet they were suppressed by the fatigue; I had lost too much blood. No matter what was going to happen, I would try to meet my daughter before ending it. This wasn't clarity nor realization; merely adapting to unnatural chaos.

Carefully I pulled out the map from my pocket; rainwater from last night had reached it, though it was still usable. Street names waved in front of me: Ellroy, Sagan, Crichton, Koontz...there, at the end of Koontz Street was Cafe Sun. I set it as my goal and pulled myself up – never knew one could be so tired and still remain alive. I made my sluggish way towards the opposing wall; the metallic door was closed, yet another smaller one was located behind the shelves and piles of boxes. It led to the driveway where this truck had been parked; the vehicle was covered by a thin blanket of snow. I stared at the empty street shrouded in bright, icy mist – my eyes were burning; I couldn't move until they got used to the white glow. The river was right in front of me, behind a fence and some ornamental trees – and bridge over the river was around next crossroads. At first every step was cautious and slow, but once the cold air made me feel less nauseous, I could move a tiny bit faster.

I entered the bridge; walked past a control room and some frosty oil barrels. It was completely quiet again – no other sounds but my own dragging footsteps. Once a crossroads appeared, I turned right and followed Crichton Street. Some cars were parked along it in a single tidy row; precisely behind one another. At the end of their line stood a fast food restaurant, with tables and plastic chairs gathered around its facade. I sat on the closest chair to catch my breath and control the fatigue. My hand wasn't as painful as I had expected – instead of pain, there was a disturbing sense of pressure; it radiated across the whole arm and made me sick.

The cafe was getting close: Koontz Street opened almost in front of me – behind two blocks. Rest of the coffee brought me back into movement and led through the next crossroads. After a bookshop, a pharmacy, another restaurant and a hospital, Cafe Sun was finally there. Its outdoor tables were covered by snowy parasols; roof's edge was decorated with red and yellow stripes. Among them were cartoony pictures of sun – just like on the ticket. That piece of paper was my only proper lead; otherwise nothing about this deserted building seemed important.

I pulled one of the front doors open and stepped inside.


Next to the windows stood rows of benches with brown and red coverings; wooden tables were placed in between, with layer of dust on top of them. Floor was made out of differently shaped and coloured tiles; brown and gray – or perhaps originally white – squares, with a few hexagonal and triangular tiles here and there. A light brown counter controlled the space, with its smooth corners and some colourful paintings hanging on the back wall. Once again, everything about the interior felt and seemed rather old; as if the place had been designed in the 1980s. Calm, snow-filtered light dived through the windows and landed on table tops; it left half of the cafe in darkness.

I turned left and followed the aisle between windows and counter. This distant, sweet scent lingered in the cafe; mixture of pastries and coffee – though neither of those were actually in sight. Only a few empty coffee cups were left on the tables. As I moved one of them, a ring of dustless wood got formed. It reminded me of that symbol: the four circles flashed in my mind, with a cross between them – something was apparently hidden in this place. Something important. Not in the dining area, of course; perhaps in a back room. At the counter's end was a door meant only for employees. It led me to a dark, narrow hallway with several other entries: one for the cafe's kitchen, a few for storages and one for something called Office. As I pulled the door open, a ray of orange light escaped through the gap.

I entered a room surrounded by partially filled bookshelves; their contents seemed precisely arranged. Floor was made out of wooden planks; they looked ancient and sounded almost hollow under my feet. Walls were split in two parts: upper half was gray, lower decorated with oak panels. A few wide steps divided the room in two as well; the opposing section got lifted a tiny bit higher than mine. A wooden desk stood on it, with rectangular ornaments carved on the sides. Behind the desk was a black office chair and a painting hanging on the wall: a misty forest bathing in sunset's orange light. Red carpet was lying in front of the table; somehow its position felt carefully considered. The colour itself was familiar enough to freeze me in place: exactly like the red book's covers. I pulled it out of a plastic bag and made quick comparisons – the very same violent shade of red. They didn't just look the same: there was simply no difference between them.

I started looking around both anxiously and patiently, trying to spot anything relevant – frequent pauses were necessary because of the broken hand. Most of the shelves' books had to do with history, economics and statistics; some fictional tales were added here and there. I wasn't ready to browse through a whole private library, so I concentrated on the desk first. Nothing was left on top of it and the drawers were mostly empty – one of them contained blank papers, pencils, pack of cigarettes, paper clips and a small, overall rusty key with octagonal shape. In hope of finding the corresponding lock, I turned around towards the painting. Looking at it made the whole room seem bizarre; almost staged, and no one had bothered to hide that appearance properly. Reason for this became clear once I lifted the painting down: this wasn't an office, but an altar.

Behind the canvas was a rectangular embedding with another painting fit inside: a pale woman in red dress and orange hair, walking in air and looking at the viewer. I stepped backwards without realizing it; all colours on that canvas had the same effect as the red book's covers. I spent several minutes standing there, lost in the emotionless stare of that woman. Every now and then the picture seemed to change its size and dimensions; it shifted between a mere collection of pigments and something unnatural. The trivial question came to my mind slowly: was this their god? Certainly someone related to it, but there wasn't any visible title plate.

Two white candles stood in the embedding, one on each side – apparently they hadn't been used too often. The simple wooden frames were pressed against concrete; moving the picture with one hand would have been hopeless. I considered breaking the canvas when another option appeared: the woman seemed to point towards something, as her left arm was stretched out. Left side of the room; left wall – nothing unusual at first. Closer look revealed an item hidden behind the oak panels: a hinge. I pushed against the panelling – once enough force was applied, it turned open with painful creaks.

I stepped inside a tiny, cubical space with another door at its back: uneven and gray, perhaps made out of steel. As I grabbed the door handle, a few strings of slime attached to my hand – only then I noticed how this opaque matter covered the whole room. While the door was tightly shut, a round keyhole made the next step obvious: I fetched that rusty key and turned the lock open; scent of mild soap appeared. Behind the door a narrow staircase descended to the left, through complete darkness. At the end was a distant light source; it fluttered slightly, as if created by candles.

I turned on the flashlight and took the first couple of steps; my arm forced me to pause again and sit down on dirty concrete. The finger stumps started pulsating; for a long moment I feared passing out. By the end of the stairs I was soaked in sweat and lightheaded, yet still on two feet. My phone was ringing; its bright sound twisted and came from all directions at once – while the device was already out of charge; I couldn't turn it on. The ringtone disappeared as I reached the light source: a rectangular doorway on my left. The room behind it was indeed lit by candles; they were gathered on metallic tables, though no candlesticks had been used: wax was dripping over one of the table's edges. Deeply orange glow pulsated peacefully and threw weak shadows everywhere. Air smelled sweet, though not exactly pleasant: it was thick and warm.

I stood still and looked at the opposite wall: a single table was placed right in the middle of it; large group of deeply yellow candles illuminated the table top. Something was resting there – apparently a chalice and a piece of colourful fabric. On the wall was that symbol again, drawn in black: the large circle with four smaller ones inside it, and a cross between them. I walked to the table with my sight fixated on the curved lines. This whole setting formed another literally highlighted altar – wasn't that exactly what I had been looking for? An altar for a pagan ritual, even if I had no idea how to conduct it. But something else was wrong there; in that moment I just couldn't name it nor recognize it properly.

I dropped the sports bag and focused on the cloth first: a triangular piece of velvet, divided into three differently coloured sectors; black, white and yellow. On its left stood the chalice; a snake was carved into its stem with great precision. At first this bowl seemed completely black, yet between the dark regions ran blue and red veins; distant and complicated patterns. I took the oil bottle from my pocket and placed it down – combined with the chalice, they could form the brimful of white wine. Finally, the red book went on right side of the cloth – that was all; four items and the symbol. I stared at them, let my sight move along this row of absurd yet simple objects. Was my daughter really in some sort of vague spirit realm, ready to get brought back with cup of oil, coloured velvet and some magical rites? No, that couldn't be true. All I knew was that something unexplainable had guided me there, and turning back wasn't an option.

I opened the red book and started reading out loud.


''On tenth hour, eleventh never came. I lay down, from trembling hands brimful of white wine, in the night without morning, in velvet white, black, yellow, through mist come forth, on my lips, these last hopeful words...''

That was page number 97; my voice was getting tired. I opened the glass bottle, poured the oil in the chalice and placed it on the velvet; an intense aroma filled the room. Once the book was finished I had no strength left: I sat on the floor and waited – nothing seemed to happen. The wounded hand felt heavy; gauze around it was wet and stained. Carefully I opened the wrappings and revealed the dark red stubs underneath. Such an absurd sight: the hand looked so small and unfamiliar. Following the stubs' movements made me nauseous; they started aching again. Rest of the palm was covered in dried blood – that cut from kitchen knife was still sore, though I barely noticed it. After the wounds got hidden under new gauze, I laid myself down and closed my eyes. I kept falling asleep and waking up; sometimes the candles weren't burning anymore, sometimes they were. During one of the dark phases, I asked if Fae was there – and she wasn't. Of course not.

I don't know how much time passed, but it felt like sleeping through several days. Every time I woke up, some of the candles had disappeared – and once I finally pulled myself from the floor only a single white candle remained. Its weak shine landed on piles of wooden boxes around me, all covered by thin layers of dust. The red book was resting in a metallic shelf compartment – I grabbed it and placed one of its corners above the candle flame. A bright, orange cloud started climbing along the covers, burned its way among the pages, turned them quickly into ash: soon only a book-shaped pile of crumbling residue was left. The other items had disappeared – so had the altar, that symbol and almost the whole room: this was nothing but a storage, overloaded with those dusty piles of boxes and metallic shelves. I fell on the floor again and kept staring at the candle flame.

Apparently that was it. I had no way out of the town anymore, and didn't even need one. There was still one bullet left, so I could end it quickly and exactly when I wanted to. Such freedom felt almost comforting. As my pathetic attempt of resurrection was now over, only facts remained; and once more they broke me. Simple thought went through my head: just press the barrel there and squeeze, that's all. So painless and effortless – whole thing feels grotesque to think about today. I'm not sure how far I went with the idea; whether I truly considered it remains unclear to me.

I could hear the bomb alarm; its distant, wailing cry pushing through walls and soil. Suddenly it disappeared.