27. The hell that will haunt us forever

“Why do you, youngsters, stay indoors all day?” grumbled Circul's grandfather, who, I asked Grant, was called Gisborne. “You should go outside, stretch your bones, bask in the sunshine.”

I looked at the frowning sun, playing hide-and-seek with the earth, blinking through the clouds that the wind was quickly driving south-west. I wouldn't mind going a bit further south now either; spring was waking up lazily this year, with big ‘I'm going to sleep for another five minutes’ pauses.

“Grant, when was the last time you practised fencing?”

The guy stopped at the window and smiled awkwardly, putting his palm to the back of his head, and I froze at the sight. Look at that, someone seems to have regained his sense of shame.

“Go practice!”

The end of the stick was thrust at my ‘fellow chain misfit’. Grandpa slapped his grandson's knees a few times, purely for educational purposes.

“I'm on my way,” Circul obediently bowed his head.

“And bring Siri with you,” the old man smiled so broadly that I felt sick. For the umpteenth time that day. “She won't get away from you, though. Hehehe.”

And yes, it wasn't an illusion, Gisborne was smiling like a baby genius plotting to take over the world – also innocently terrifying.

The president's father kindly offered me a magazine of anecdotes, and I mentally shrugged – why not? He winked and said it was just in case I got bored of looking at young, beautiful talents. I didn't ask what he meant, grabbed the thick glossy edition and ran to catch up with Grant.

I was scared of that grandfather, honestly.

The head of the Asanor family told us to go to the park. The grass was so soft and green that I just wanted to lie down and ignore the cold.

On the way, Grant stopped a workman restoring the right wing of the mansion and asked for a large-headed nail. There was one in the toolbox with a head the size of a nickel.

Eventually we came to a small fenced area covered in sand and sparse weeds. I crouched by the fence and watched Grant suspiciously. With a nonchalant look, he pulled our chain, wrapped it around a metal bar and nailed the link to the ground, hitting the nail several times.

“What are you doing?”

“Can't you see?” Grant didn't even glance at me, he was doing some bullshit. “I'm dividing up the territory. This is my part,” he jerked the chain at his end, “this is yours,” he nodded at my measly few dozen centimetres.

Divided the territory? There was no division. Someone had just appropriated more of our space.

“I think you're cross-eyed. It's definitely not five metres,” I said indignantly.

“It's even.”

“No, Grant. You've got at least seven metres. Why do you divide the territory in such an inhumane way? Your conscience is a vague concept to you, isn't it?”

I resented him on principle. He didn't even ask my permission for my legitimate five metres. If he had said: “Siri, please, can I borrow a little of your walking comfort zone?” I wouldn't have said no, I would have agreed to measure a few metres for a while.

“And you have a conscience, don't you? I'm about to go fencing and you just sit there and do nothing.”

Well, once he'd touched my tender, lazy nature, I wasn't going to let him get away with it.

“You shouldn't care what I do with my five metres! It's my territory! Even if I plant cacti around it, you shouldn't tell me what to do.”

Grant sneered, crossed his arms over his chest, and gave an ultimatum, “I won't redo it. If you pull a nail out, I'll chain you to the fence and forget to untie you.”

“Yes, that's how you become a despot. First you take over a few extra links, then whole cities, countries and lives,” I muttered to myself, turning away so as not to look into that greedy face.

He heard me. “Don't be so gloomy. I'm a long way from taking over the world.”

“That's true. You will be killed by the people I represent.”

Grant couldn't ignore my mocking tone. He narrowed his black eyes and said with feigned calm, “Want to redivide the world? Are you sure you won't lose what little you have?”

I shrugged indifferently, naively assuming that my fake confidence would put him off, “Notice that I'm not the one who just hinted at a declaration of war.”

Grant gave me a devilish smile, disregarding my accusations.

“Winner takes all. Always, Siri. So be thankful I haven't started a war, just annexed a bit of your borderland.”

And he turned away, and even his back sang of his contentment. I gritted my teeth. I'd been angry with him since this morning, and he was always there, always in front of my eyes. I'd rather only look at him through a rifle scope.

Then Circul removed the scabbard from his belt and slowly drew a wooden sword. The young man froze with both hands on the hilt, the shadow of a cloud passing over his pale face, a light breeze ruffling the black strands on his forehead. Grant drew his elbow back, bent his legs slightly, and lunged.

The barely audible rustle of sand beneath his feet, the guy turned, another – a jerk, the practised kendo technique repeated over and over. He glided smoothly, moving at the same time, as if slicing through the air, like a table knife through a piece of melted butter, effortlessly keeping his breathing steady.

I caught myself staring shamelessly at Grant the whole time, mesmerised by his calm, ancient sword swings. The sun played with the glare on the lacquered, dark surface of the wood, making it seem unnaturally alive and smooth.

The chain twisted obediently with each swing, kissing the ground, touching dandelion leaves, soaring to the heavens, but my part remained motionless. Surprisingly, Grant's manoeuvres did not pull out the nail.

I immediately turned away again, not wanting to cloud the memory of the day with the fascinating sight of the president's son dancing with inspiration on the lawn, a ‘stick’ in hand.

I reached for the book Asanor had lent me. Grandfather's ‘magazine of anecdotes’ turned out to be a collection of political articles. And Gisborne laughed so hard... so hard when he read it, I thought he'd at least flicked through ‘The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Quasars. The Second Coming of the Mice’.

I glanced through a few pages, sighed, my eyes fixed on some boring article. The voice in my head read the lines monotonously, and my eyelids almost fell asleep. I laid my sweater on the ground and leaned back, looking sleepily at the cumulus clouds.

When I woke up, however, the breeze seemed to have quarrelled with the south and returned to the chilly mood of the north. I stood up abruptly and immediately shoved my goose-pimpled hands into the sleeves of my windbreaker. Grant was sitting next to me, a few centimetres away, staring at the trees.

“How long have you been here, spoiling my sleep with your Circul’s aura?”

“Ever since you started crying in your sleep. Was it so hard to accept that your rightful part of the chain had been taken away from you?”

“Was I really crying?” I looked at him to see if he was lying. I didn't feel that I had cried.

“Just a little sobbing. Mixed in with the snoring. Creepy sounds, to be honest.”

I knew he was playing with me, but I couldn't help it; I was tempted to respond to all his provocations. It was like sewing the open wounds in my chest, the threads salty and burning, but it was better than just staring at the festering gaps where my virtual family used to be.

Even though the game was an artificial world created by technology, magic and man's boundless sick imagination, the feelings and memories of Virtul were just as good as the real thing. They made you feel joy, sadness, exhilaration and loss in the same way.

“I never snore. You're having auditory hallucinations. Poor, poor Grant, soon a car with men in white coats will come and take us to a house with soft walls and yellow-pink wallpaper. But, you know, I don't want to end up in a lunatic asylum because of you, so stop slandering me for snoring. It would never invade my sleep. I have the snoring vaccine.”

He looked at me with surprise and amusement. I met his gaze with icy indifference and arrogance.

Grant averted his eyes, reached up and immediately wrinkled his nose, dropped his right shoulder and rubbed it.

“Damn, I should have stretched...” Grant muttered. “I've never been a fan of stretching. Now it looks like I've pulled a muscle.”

“Serves you right,” said I quietly.

He gave me a threatening look, but instead of commenting on my words, he simply said, “I'm first in the shower.”

“Okay. But let's stay here a little longer. The weather's really nice.”

The cold northern winds were once again replaced by a southern forest breeze, and the sun peeked out.

Grant lifted his head, exposing his neck to the wind.

“Who is Krile? You called for him in your sleep,” he finally asked.

“Don't you know? That's my husband in the game. I already told you about him.”

“Yes, except you didn't tell me his name.”

I tried to remember our conversations over the past few days. Yes, I'd mentioned my husband a few times, but I was afraid to say his name... as if I said it, the bitterness and longing that had been so far hidden would come rushing in, smearing the grief on the inside of my soul.

“Sometimes I felt so bad that the only thing that kept me from thinking of terrible things was Krile,” confessed I. “He always had time for me and a great sense of humour, although unfortunately he didn't always understand my irony.”

Grant smiled thoughtfully at my words, looking at the dandelion buds. He seemed so innocent and airy and charming now.

“Have you ever had someone in Virtul that you became even more attached to than people in real life?”

I thought Circul wouldn't answer, he was silent for a whole minute, but still he exhaled barely audibly, “Tina. She was my girlfriend in the game.”