All night, shadowy, invasive sensations swirled through Rava's consciousness. Weighty, moist hands traced his form, imprinting invisible marks. This nocturnal torment was a well-worn path, appearing with unnerving predictability. Nevertheless, each night evoked the same sharp emotions: disgust fused with impotent rage, compounded by a harsh self-condemnation for his incapacity to resist.
In the dream, Rava consistently retaliated. His own hands desperately clawed at the transgressor's wrist in a futile attempt, yet the other was inevitably quicker - a swift hand descending to his throat, effectively silencing his scream and severing his breath. Commonly, this would cause him to jolt awake, breathless, with his heart violently hammering against his chest.
But tonight, everything was different. This time, he chose not to struggle.
Lying in the enveloping dark, his eyes shut, Rava consciously relinquished all muscular tension. He surrendered to the encroaching touch, studying his perceptions with distant detachment. The man's hands were substantial, potent, adorned with prominent knuckles and thick, bluish veins. Lengthy fingers – perhaps fashioned for piano keys, not acts of violence – encompassed his neck with alarming ease. They tightened, seeking the most vulnerable points, subsequently relaxing when presented with no opposition.
"Why the halt? Carry on," Rava silently pleaded.
He couldn't glimpse the man's gaze nor sense his exhalations upon his skin, but his thoughts resonated.
"Bring this suffering to its conclusion," he urged, an unnerving tranquility enveloping him.
After an extended pause, his hot breath landed on his neck. A tongue, gritty as sandpaper, initiated its work, tenderly caressing the very regions those fingers had bruised moments earlier. The caresses now morphed into the actions of a feline. A predator carefully preparing its victim for the kill.
"Wake," a hushed voice whispered, inciting goosebumps down his spine.
"What...?" Rava attempted to move, but fingers ensnared his throat anew, incapacitating him.
"You will be tardy, my little raven."
Rava's eyes snapped open. He surged upwards in the bed, his fingers anxiously tracing his neck. No marks remained, yet his skin blazed as if genuinely violated. The clock's digits revealed 5:30 AM, with the sun only starting to paint the windows. A usual morning. A mundane day.
Yet, this dream was distinctive. For the initial time in years, he felt not only fear. Something more profound took hold: revulsion intertwined with morbid fascination. Perhaps this heralded the commencement of the finale. Or perhaps, it signified a novel type of self-infliction.
Returning to sleep was now pointless.
Motionless, Rava lay, witnessing the remnants of the dream dissolving into reality. His fingers clutched the border of the sheets: fabric turned cold and saturated with sweat. Compelling himself to relax his grip, he drew a tremulous breath, his ribs protesting after hours of phantom strangulation.
With effort, he dislodged the blanket. The bedroom air remained stagnant, permeated with the scents of dust and a musty odor, as if the walls had internalized every nightmare, every performance from the night before. When he stretched, his spine yielded a cascade of shallow cracks.
The routine, the motions, unfolded mechanically. His body performed well-rehearsed routines while his mind dwelled in the interstitial space between wake and sleep. His legs conveyed him to the bathroom by instinct, fingers automatically turning on the faucet.
Frigid streams of water assaulted his skin, the cold shower shocking him into alertness. He stood immobile until the chill turned into burning, until his fingers puckered, and his lips shivered uncontrollably. A coarse towel scrubbed his body, leaving his skin tingling and raw.
At the sink, his toothbrush moved with excess energy, scrubbing until his gums bled. The metallic taste of blood mixed with minty toothpaste, yielding a sharp, almost unbearable contrast. He spat out pink-tinged foam without looking.
Dressing demanded the greatest exertion. Buttons defied his fumbling fingers, shoelaces untied themselves, and his socks slipped down his ankles, regardless of how many times he pulled them back up.
The door clicked shut behind him. Rava halted on the landing, listening to his own respiration gradually normalizing.
One step, he told himself. Then another. And then another.
Like this, step by mechanical step, he commenced his day.
Like yesterday. Like tomorrow.
As he approached the coffee shop, Rava suddenly comprehended he'd failed to bid his coworkers adieu properly the previous day. His fingers clenched his bag's strap as he remembered their astonished expressions when he'd abruptly exited. "I hope I didn't upset them," the thought struck him, accompanied by the usual familiar guilt. He always presented a composed front, preventing himself from projecting any vulnerability publicly.
Nearing the subway, he initiated his time-tested mood-lifting protocol, a meticulously crafted playlist: initially, kitten videos tumbling into water bowls, then upbeat pop tracks with captivating choruses. His lips curved into a faint smile as a fluffy puppy pursued its tail on the screen. It wasn't authentic happiness, more of practiced facial movements, manipulating his features into a gentler, carefree expression.
Halting outside the café, Rava took a deep breath, adjusted his collar, and paused near the window to examine his reflection. "Is this believable?" he queried his mirror double, forcing his shoulders to square. The hollow-eyed stare and fabricated smile he confronted provided no comfort. But it would fool everyone else.
The doorbell chimed as he stepped inside, prepared for another workday:
"Good morning!"
Rava froze in the threshold, his hand still grasping the handle as though hesitant to fully commit. His usual morning enthusiasm, that practiced, artificial smile, froze into a mask of perplexity.
What was this?
The café, normally expansive, with its high ceilings, bright walls, and mirrored expanses, now seemed constricting, overcrowded. Despite the early hour, five to seven, the mess ruled inside, more resembling a congested business complex during peak hour than a cozy establishment.
Men in expensive but suspicious suits hurried to and fro, colliding, shouting into phones, waving documents. Some even stood in corners with crossed arms, like guarding the perimeter. Mafia? Lawyers? Or both?
A panicked thought seized Rava: he might have been fired, and the café was repurposed into an office? A mob's base of operations? Why hadn't anyone alerted him?!Yet before he could turn and bolt, the owner appeared through the crowd: flushed, disheveled, but radiating joy like a Christmas garland.
"Swift, finally!" he bellowed, grabbing Rava's arm and pulling him inside. "You're the last part of what we needed!"
Rava had barely time to register anything before being thrust into "the fray". His gaze flickered across the dense café as he was ushered towards a far table where a strange assembly had congregated. Iris sat with her cheek supported by one hand, her usually pristine makeup slightly smudged today. The telltale marks of sleeplessness shadowed her eyes as she observed the pandemonium with overt exasperation. Her fingers rapped an impatient rhythm on the tabletop, counting down until her upcoming smoke break. Beside her, Ivi, characteristically composed, crackled with an atypical energy. Pink flushed her cheeks, her eyes scintillating as she whispered animatedly to her conversation partner, occasionally tilting her head back with laughter. Rava had never seen her like this.
In the corner, a tall man in a flawlessly tailored suit buried himself in documents. His square jaw was rigid as he turned pages with surprising speed, occasionally making aggressive notations with an expensive pen. Though appearing fully engrossed, Rava perceived the weight of his assessing glance, brief yet penetrating, before the lawyer (undoubtedly a lawyer) returned to his papers.
Then Rava spotted him.
The manleanedslightly apart, his postureeasygoingyetcalculated. Amber eyes locked onto Rava withanambiguouscuriosity. When their gazesconnected, the strangerslowlystood –his movementsinexplicablygraceful for hiswidebuild.
"Hi." He offered his hand, his voice deep and tranquil like a forest pool.
Rava's breath caught. His own fingers trembled a little as he returned the handshake. The stranger's skin was unexpectedly warm and rough.
"Ah.. " was all Rava could muster, his heart thudding against his ribs.