The Beginnings of Nowhere

Somewhere in a little town, a nameless man stood alone, frightened, and as silent as the void.

Bitter rain began to descend from the heavens as it always did when our world collided with Nowhere,  and not too far away from all this ,a girl sat by her windowsill, breathing steadily and intently watching how it all began.

The heart of the Nameless man was thumping violently against his chest then, a vicious thump that rung through his ears, and made his head ache and teeth clench with pain. His eyes were, darting from the darkest of confined corners to the vast expanse of the night, desperately, and frantically searching for something that was almost always never there.  Every shadow was a malicious and terrifying monster, the darkness his enemy and every insignificant noise, concrete proof that he would find him soon. His body was heavy, his clothes ragged, his mouth and lips cracked from the dehydration.

The Nameless man had traveled far, further than many can hope to in their lifetime .crossing deserts, jungles and sometimes even seas as he went. His eyes had seen it all. They had witnessed the small and inconsequential wonders of this world, and then quietly shrunken away when he couldn’t bear to anymore, when the incessant sirens and laughter of glee filled people filtered through his ears and into his lonely heart. He feared that one day he may be lost in the beauty of it , the bustle of the streets , the hum drum of the people , the aroma of sweat and life that seemed to cling to the air wherever he went . If he were to slip into it, if he were to live then, oh then it would all really be over.

He left little traces of himself as he roamed, hardly noticeable really, but there none the less. His footprints in the sand, the imprint of his delicate lips on a glass, the husky smell of him in hotel rooms. They were there for those keen enough to notice, and they did. They watched, they hunted. They found.

Nowhere.

He whispered to no one in particular and was surprised to find that no one answered. Not a soul was with him in that dark forgotten street, the never-changing streetlight his only assurance that he was still in the land of the living.

He had a key in his left hand, a blue bag in his right and a document safely tucked in his front pocket that said he that he now owned a house on Wilshire Street.

His large wide eyes were pools of darkness, his face gaunt, ghostly white, and devoid of all expression. He had an unruly mane of raven black hair that clung to him as he stood, and the thin delicate fingers of a piano player.

Incidentally the man was standing in front of that very house on Wilshire Street, his eyes sometimes even moved to my house across from it, and quite often I think he must have seen me, standing like he did in that rain  , however those eyes of his never lingered anywhere too long. They were ever moving, darting towards the smallest of sounds and distraughtly examining the darkness like it would extend its icy hands and take him.

He looked up at the house he would come to inhabit with false curiosity and fear, and took a few steps forward. He reached out to put the key in the slot, hands trembling in the process, breathing scruffy and uneven. The sound of the door clicking open seemed to have reassured him, because now, not quite so obviously, I saw him straighten out, he no longer looked so shrunken and small. Perhaps I even saw relief wash away the deep lines that had begun to appear on his face but as I said, it was raining that day and I could never have known what he didn’t tell me afterwards.

Then a man appeared, out of Nowhere, dirty, old and dark-skinned. He carried a chestnut guitar, wore a faded brown jacket and a smile of mischief that could haunt your mind without respite. He went by the name of the Dirty Busker then and he had known the nameless man for a very long time.

Why here? You knew I would find you easily this is where it all begins boy.

The Nameless man did not turn to face his unwanted companion, he didn’t need to really, he knew the face from his dreams and the Busker did not question him further he merely stared at him with vague amusement.

The Nameless Man shivered and the Dirty Busker moved closer to him like a malicious hunter closing in on its weak and defenseless prey.

Will you run when I come for you again?

The Nameless Man said nothing and the rain greedily consumed the silence. His hands where frozen on the long forgotten sliver key, his mind was telling him to run , to run far and run hard but he remained where he was.

You will run again.

And he would, he would run further than he had ever dared to before.

The Busker laughed then  and it echoed through the street, so even I heard the deep velvety sound of his cackles and my heart shook with fear .I quickly left my vantage point at the window and ran towards the safety and warmth of my bed, I still heard him laugh under my covers and the sound of the Nameless man’s door slowly begin to creak open, I heard the two men walk  into the little house on Wilshire Street and slowly but surely I heard the wheels of our stories begin to turn.