Again he was there in the alley. Again he saw her. Again, lifting her head, she "floated up" to him, moving half a meter above the ground. Again he ran from her…
…and ran into the winter. Something grabbed him by the arm and spun around.
"Be a maaan…" wheezed the frozen hobo with a shard of a bottle in his left eye.
He pushed the dead man and rushed away.
The alley seemed endless—endlessly dark and endlessly creepy. He heard the bum he'd killed groaning behind him; felt how silently and stubbornly, sprinkling the asphalt with blood from the back of her head, the prostitute he had murdered was floating in pursuit. He knew he could not outrun them endlessly…
He fell to his knees and slid a couple of meters along the icy road. No. No! Why can't I wake up?!
He turned in panic—but the dead did not move anymore. They had frozen a few steps away from him.
He turned his head slowly…
"Well, hello, Fam."
He looked up—and horror gripped him. Strong hands grabbed him by the shoulders and lifted him like a rag doll.
"I told you, you can't hide from me."
Familiar looked into the face of his enemy.
"It's time to end everything," it grabbed him by the throat with its right hand and pulled him forward.
Familiar tried to break free, hitting his enemy's arms and even his knees—all in vain. He tried to scream—but the grip on his throat was too strong. He tried to cling to the bushes and the grass—useless. His heels plowed two tracks into the ground—first through snowdrifts, then plowing up old sod—and in the end, he began to tear his tendons and limbs apart as they were dragged through the stones.
Pebbles. A pond. The last hope.
Familiar grabbed a smooth oval rock and struck the knee of his enemy with all of his might. He stopped and then slowly lifted Familiar close to his face.
"Don't be naughty."
Familiar hit him in the face with the rock. It was covered in blood. He continued to strike—again, and again, and again. A torn cheek, a shattered jaw… But the enemy only grinned terribly.
And quickened its pace.
Familiar continued to beat it, but it was all in vain: the enemy dragged him unstoppable into the pond. They were knee-deep, then waist-deep. The enemy kept Familiar near the pond's surface, but now and then, he dipped him. Familiar felt that there were already several meters of deep water under them, but the water seemed to remain only at the level of his enemy's waist.
"I've always expected two fish," his broken lips stretched out.
And he began to drown him. Gathering his last strength, Familiar tried to break free, but the grip did not weaken. The enemy's arms lengthened as he pushed him down ever deeper, but the terrible grimace did not diminish.
Familiar's body hit something soft, and the grip on his throat disappeared. He instinctively took a breath, and water poured into his lungs. He panicked and turned around to push off from the bottom—and saw the dead face of his father…
***
Familiar thrashed about in the bath, clearing his throat. He had swallowed a lot of water.
Fuck! Damn… That dream… My father…
Familiar leaned over the side. The bottle of whiskey that had fallen out of his hands in sleep had not broken, but almost all the drink had spilled onto the floor.
No, it cannot continue this way. Something needs to be done.
Something needs to be addressed with Cord.