Let me introduce a new label to you. It won't be a label I'll post a lot under, but it might be interesting to some of you: Writing.
I'll post some short stories, maybe essays, and in general longer texts under this label. Here is a short story I wrote for a contest once. It didn't win anything, but since the whole thing is over, I can now post it here. Enjoy.
There are a number of places that always seem to leave one with a strangely surreal feeling. Places that shouldn’t exist like this. Places that seem like they just don't belong, like they are from some other reality where things might be different.
Places like your friends’ apartments when everyone but you is fast asleep. Hospital rooms at midnight. Parking lots that are usually busy, but now empty. The streets of a city just before sunrise.
Cork City on a Saturday night was such a place. Conor had lived there until he was about 8 years old and then his family moved just outside of the city. Wandering the streets on his own, after having lost his drinking buddies, he felt out of place and slightly confused. He realised how out of touch he was with the city now. He should have paid attention to where his friends were going. They knew their way around the place, since they navigated the streets pretty much every day. He wouldn't be as lost as he was now.
But alas, the night also didn’t end the way he thought it would. None of them drank excessively that night, but his girlfriend took a turn for the worse after only two pints; she could usually handle more. Whether it was a bad pint or a spiked drink (which to his surprise was more common than he thought), she definitely had to go home. She was staying with her friends that night, so they took her home with the comment that even if the drink was roofied, it wasn’t too bad, since she wasn’t on her own.
He was staying with one of his buddies, because he definitely couldn’t drive back to his own place. But for some reason he had now lost said buddy. Whether he had been momentarily distracted or if he was just too slow to keep up, the fact was that he was utterly lost.
There were lots of people out and about, laughing and hanging onto each other. Some who had quite a bit too much looked as if they were holding onto dear life. Conor felt like he was drowning in the masses; the weirdly distorted painted faces wearing too much make-up, looking like masks floating through the Saturday night; the fake nails that were brightly coloured and way too long and looked more like harpy claws; the orange, unhealthy looking fake tan that formed a strange, unnatural contrast to the bleach blonde hair; and everywhere the smoke of cigarettes and weed.
There was some light rain, just drizzling down from the sky - even if there were no clouds, you wouldn’t be able to see the stars, because they had already drowned in the neon lights of the city. The rain drops falling in the golden light of the street lanterns reminded him of dust in the sunlight. It had a certain glamorous beauty to it.
The streets were full of trash and puke and Conor started wondering how on earth the streets looked relatively clean again the next morning. But to be fair, he hadn’t really paid attention if they looked clean or not, whenever he was in Cork. As he turned around the corner, Conor saw a girl sitting next to a homeless man. She was wearing a short black dress and had taken her high heels off. Her make up was running down her face, probably both from the tears and the rain.
Conor was wondering how anyone could lead a life like that - going out every weekend, hooking up, getting drunk, and most likely regretting everything the next morning. The few times he regretted things in the morning were bad enough for him to know that he didn’t want to have that feeling every weekend.
He stumbled around the next corner, into the next street. The faint singing he had heard earlier on now became a face, a reality. A lone man with long dreads and a guitar in his hand was sitting in front of a shop, illuminated by bright lights, and was playing his guitar. In this insane mass of people he seemed like the only sane person, like a saviour. Conor leaned against a wall and watched him for a while. The guitar player was like a firm rock in the stormy and turmoiled sea, as he was calmly playing his music, not a part of Saturday night Cork city, not a part of this world. Detached from everything but himself and his guitar.
That was, until a group of women came around the corner at the other end of the street and laid their eyes upon him. All of them were very drunk and they seemed to have no shame. Like harpies they approached him, circled him and bat their eyes at him for a while, trying to strike up a conversation in the middle of his piece. He was trying to ignore them, but they got even more persistent. The rock was washed over with waves and now you could only see him sometimes. The tide was coming in and the water was rising.
Conor turned away from the spectacle and wandered on. He didn’t even remember where he had lost his friends. He would call them, but his phone had died from using the navigation on it too much. Having your location on always drained an incredible amount of the battery.
The next street he came upon was very busy. There were people everywhere, some more or less walking, others standing, a few girls lying on the street, passed out. From what he had heard, it was a normal Saturday night, but for Conor who had spent his teenage years in rural Ireland it was quite shocking. What he saw wasn’t the puzzling nightlife of a normal city - it was pain and emptiness, a bleak outlook, like nothing anyone ever did had any meaning. And maybe it didn’t have any meaning. Maybe this was the truth all along - Cork City on a Saturday night.
Maybe amongst all those people, as drunk and as high as they were, there was some prophet of this generation. Maybe the rock was the prophet, but that wasn’t possible. The prophet wouldn’t be drowned out like that. Conor started looking at people’s faces more closely. A lot of them just seemed to be horrible grimaces, full of greed and egotism. There seemed to be no dreams, no ideals, no goals. Nothing to define someone, to make them into their own person. They all just seemed like cardboard stand-ups.
Conor’s thoughts went back to the rock. He seemed to be someone with ideals and dreams. Someone with a certain ambition to live his life in a certain way. Maybe he was the prophet… Or maybe he was the prophet of a long lost generation. A small percentage of today’s world. Maybe he wasn’t important at all, maybe he only seemed important to Conor.
There were three guys stumbling out of a pub. One of them seemed I incredibly drunk and it looked like the other two were helping him to walk. The drunk guy in the middle was holding a small bottle of high-percentage rum, but he didn’t seem able to take a sip from it anymore. His eyes were glazed and looked around wildly. He seemed scared and confused as he opened his mouth.
“Mass isn't until 11 in the morning, where are you taking me?!”
At first this seemed quite amusing to Conor, but then he remembered the confusion in his eyes. Was he the prophet? It didn’t make any sense, but maybe that was it. Maybe that was the truth of this life - that it didn’t make any sense. Maybe it would make sense in the future or in another timeline. But not now.
Conor had to get out of this place. He had to find his friends and go home, before he was drawn into this strange, meaningless void. He started developing a little bit of a headache. Things seemed to be spinning a little. Maybe he should rest in some quiet alley for a while. As he was walking down Cornmarket Street, it seemed like the other side of the river was a little more quiet.
Conor walked a little faster , making his way through the crowds, trying not to bump into anyone and not to look at anyone too closely, when he heard something that sounded like a gunshot from far away. Conor stopped for a minute and looked around him. No one else seemed to mind it much at all, everything seemed as usual. Maybe he had just imagined it.
He had reached the river now and saw the little footbridge that led over it and onto Popes Quay. It was a fairly modern bridge and it looked very quiet and peaceful, especially when you were just leaving the buzzing city.
Once Conor had crossed the bridge and was on the other side of the city, everything he had just seen seemed completely surreal. Like it never actually happened. This side of the river was so quiet that it was almost unbelievable. There was not a single soul to be seen.
As he turned into a small and narrow side street, he stopped at a entrance, that seemed quite sheltered. The rain had been slowly and unknowingly soaking through his clothes and it was only now that he felt how cold he actually was. He sat down on one of the steps that led up to the door and hid his face in his hands.
He felt tired and drained, as if the city had been slowly eating away at him, consuming him. Conor heard a faint beeping in his ear that became louder and louder. He felt dizzy and began to sweat. This lasted for a few seconds and then slowly went away.
‘Must have been my circulation.’ Conor thought to himself and looked up. He startled a little when he suddenly noticed a dark figure standing at the wall next to him, breathing heavily and leaning on their knees, as if they had just been running.
“She out to kill you as well?”, the person asked under their breath without looking at Conor. He was wondering whether they meant him, but he didn’t see anyone else there.
“What, me?”, he answered, with no idea what that dark figure was talking about. They seemed very shady - tall, lean, wearing a huge black hoodie with the hood up, which was covering their face, still out of breath.
“See anyone else here?”, the figure asked. It was definitely a male voice. And for some weird reason Conor was sure, there was a smirk on that man’s face, even though he couldn’t see it.
“No.”
“Then I must be asking you, I guess.”
Cork City on a Saturday night was such a place. Conor had lived there until he was about 8 years old and then his family moved just outside of the city. Wandering the streets on his own, after having lost his drinking buddies, he felt out of place and slightly confused. He realised how out of touch he was with the city now. He should have paid attention to where his friends were going. They knew their way around the place, since they navigated the streets pretty much every day. He wouldn't be as lost as he was now.
But alas, the night also didn’t end the way he thought it would. None of them drank excessively that night, but his girlfriend took a turn for the worse after only two pints; she could usually handle more. Whether it was a bad pint or a spiked drink (which to his surprise was more common than he thought), she definitely had to go home. She was staying with her friends that night, so they took her home with the comment that even if the drink was roofied, it wasn’t too bad, since she wasn’t on her own.
He was staying with one of his buddies, because he definitely couldn’t drive back to his own place. But for some reason he had now lost said buddy. Whether he had been momentarily distracted or if he was just too slow to keep up, the fact was that he was utterly lost.
There were lots of people out and about, laughing and hanging onto each other. Some who had quite a bit too much looked as if they were holding onto dear life. Conor felt like he was drowning in the masses; the weirdly distorted painted faces wearing too much make-up, looking like masks floating through the Saturday night; the fake nails that were brightly coloured and way too long and looked more like harpy claws; the orange, unhealthy looking fake tan that formed a strange, unnatural contrast to the bleach blonde hair; and everywhere the smoke of cigarettes and weed.
There was some light rain, just drizzling down from the sky - even if there were no clouds, you wouldn’t be able to see the stars, because they had already drowned in the neon lights of the city. The rain drops falling in the golden light of the street lanterns reminded him of dust in the sunlight. It had a certain glamorous beauty to it.
The streets were full of trash and puke and Conor started wondering how on earth the streets looked relatively clean again the next morning. But to be fair, he hadn’t really paid attention if they looked clean or not, whenever he was in Cork. As he turned around the corner, Conor saw a girl sitting next to a homeless man. She was wearing a short black dress and had taken her high heels off. Her make up was running down her face, probably both from the tears and the rain.
Conor was wondering how anyone could lead a life like that - going out every weekend, hooking up, getting drunk, and most likely regretting everything the next morning. The few times he regretted things in the morning were bad enough for him to know that he didn’t want to have that feeling every weekend.
He stumbled around the next corner, into the next street. The faint singing he had heard earlier on now became a face, a reality. A lone man with long dreads and a guitar in his hand was sitting in front of a shop, illuminated by bright lights, and was playing his guitar. In this insane mass of people he seemed like the only sane person, like a saviour. Conor leaned against a wall and watched him for a while. The guitar player was like a firm rock in the stormy and turmoiled sea, as he was calmly playing his music, not a part of Saturday night Cork city, not a part of this world. Detached from everything but himself and his guitar.
That was, until a group of women came around the corner at the other end of the street and laid their eyes upon him. All of them were very drunk and they seemed to have no shame. Like harpies they approached him, circled him and bat their eyes at him for a while, trying to strike up a conversation in the middle of his piece. He was trying to ignore them, but they got even more persistent. The rock was washed over with waves and now you could only see him sometimes. The tide was coming in and the water was rising.
Conor turned away from the spectacle and wandered on. He didn’t even remember where he had lost his friends. He would call them, but his phone had died from using the navigation on it too much. Having your location on always drained an incredible amount of the battery.
The next street he came upon was very busy. There were people everywhere, some more or less walking, others standing, a few girls lying on the street, passed out. From what he had heard, it was a normal Saturday night, but for Conor who had spent his teenage years in rural Ireland it was quite shocking. What he saw wasn’t the puzzling nightlife of a normal city - it was pain and emptiness, a bleak outlook, like nothing anyone ever did had any meaning. And maybe it didn’t have any meaning. Maybe this was the truth all along - Cork City on a Saturday night.
Maybe amongst all those people, as drunk and as high as they were, there was some prophet of this generation. Maybe the rock was the prophet, but that wasn’t possible. The prophet wouldn’t be drowned out like that. Conor started looking at people’s faces more closely. A lot of them just seemed to be horrible grimaces, full of greed and egotism. There seemed to be no dreams, no ideals, no goals. Nothing to define someone, to make them into their own person. They all just seemed like cardboard stand-ups.
Conor’s thoughts went back to the rock. He seemed to be someone with ideals and dreams. Someone with a certain ambition to live his life in a certain way. Maybe he was the prophet… Or maybe he was the prophet of a long lost generation. A small percentage of today’s world. Maybe he wasn’t important at all, maybe he only seemed important to Conor.
There were three guys stumbling out of a pub. One of them seemed I incredibly drunk and it looked like the other two were helping him to walk. The drunk guy in the middle was holding a small bottle of high-percentage rum, but he didn’t seem able to take a sip from it anymore. His eyes were glazed and looked around wildly. He seemed scared and confused as he opened his mouth.
“Mass isn't until 11 in the morning, where are you taking me?!”
At first this seemed quite amusing to Conor, but then he remembered the confusion in his eyes. Was he the prophet? It didn’t make any sense, but maybe that was it. Maybe that was the truth of this life - that it didn’t make any sense. Maybe it would make sense in the future or in another timeline. But not now.
Conor had to get out of this place. He had to find his friends and go home, before he was drawn into this strange, meaningless void. He started developing a little bit of a headache. Things seemed to be spinning a little. Maybe he should rest in some quiet alley for a while. As he was walking down Cornmarket Street, it seemed like the other side of the river was a little more quiet.
Conor walked a little faster , making his way through the crowds, trying not to bump into anyone and not to look at anyone too closely, when he heard something that sounded like a gunshot from far away. Conor stopped for a minute and looked around him. No one else seemed to mind it much at all, everything seemed as usual. Maybe he had just imagined it.
He had reached the river now and saw the little footbridge that led over it and onto Popes Quay. It was a fairly modern bridge and it looked very quiet and peaceful, especially when you were just leaving the buzzing city.
Once Conor had crossed the bridge and was on the other side of the city, everything he had just seen seemed completely surreal. Like it never actually happened. This side of the river was so quiet that it was almost unbelievable. There was not a single soul to be seen.
As he turned into a small and narrow side street, he stopped at a entrance, that seemed quite sheltered. The rain had been slowly and unknowingly soaking through his clothes and it was only now that he felt how cold he actually was. He sat down on one of the steps that led up to the door and hid his face in his hands.
He felt tired and drained, as if the city had been slowly eating away at him, consuming him. Conor heard a faint beeping in his ear that became louder and louder. He felt dizzy and began to sweat. This lasted for a few seconds and then slowly went away.
‘Must have been my circulation.’ Conor thought to himself and looked up. He startled a little when he suddenly noticed a dark figure standing at the wall next to him, breathing heavily and leaning on their knees, as if they had just been running.
“She out to kill you as well?”, the person asked under their breath without looking at Conor. He was wondering whether they meant him, but he didn’t see anyone else there.
“What, me?”, he answered, with no idea what that dark figure was talking about. They seemed very shady - tall, lean, wearing a huge black hoodie with the hood up, which was covering their face, still out of breath.
“See anyone else here?”, the figure asked. It was definitely a male voice. And for some weird reason Conor was sure, there was a smirk on that man’s face, even though he couldn’t see it.
“No.”
“Then I must be asking you, I guess.”
He sat in confusion for a while, unsure of what to say to a question as bizarre as that.
“I don't really get what you're on about.”
“Well, obviously not the same woman. I mean is your one trying to kill you, too?”
“My one… what?”
The faceless figure just seemed to stare at him as if he was some kind of idiot. Conor finally managed to break the silence with a diplomatic: “I wouldn’t know of anyone who would be out to kill me, no.”
There was definitely another smirk hiding under that hood. Conor knew it. Whoever this man was, he seemed weirdly familiar. Maybe a little too familiar.
“Good for you.”
“Why is she trying to kill you? Whoever she is.”, he asked out of pure interest. He regretted it instantly. Whatever was going on here, Conor was sure it was trouble and it would be better not to get involved in it. But it was too late for that now. The words were out. No way back.
“She just is. It’s like a game. Whoever is the most cautious, the most careful, the best at foreseeing the other’s moves… well, that one is going to win. Fact of life. And it’s a very exciting game, as well.”, the dark figure said with a hint of slight amusement in his voice.
“And you couldn’t just play chess or something?”
“Chess?”
“Yeah. The game, you know? Black and white squares? Figures? The king and queen, bishops, horses, pawns and such?”
“Never heard of it.”
“Huh.”
What kind of person wouldn’t know of chess? Conor found that to be very strange. Fair enough, not everyone knew how to play chess, but pretty much everyone had heard of it. Then again, he didn’t know what to do with this random information.
The breathing of the other person was calmer now and he stood up straight, but still not facing Conor. He was looking up at the sky. Conor - not sure what to say - looked up at the sky as well and was surprised to see the moon there, and even a few very bright stars.
“I didn’t realise the clouds have cleared up.”, he said, trying to make conversation. He could feel the raised eyebrows on the other man’s face, even though he couldn’t see them.
“There never were any clouds to clear up tonight. But I guess there must be some on the other side.”
The other side? What was this guy talking about? The other side of the river wasn’t that far away that the weather would be completely different.
… Or could that actually be? Conor decided to research that at some point, but it probably wasn’t worth discussing it with this individual.
“So who is trying to kill you?”, he asked. Conor could feel the wide grin that started to form on the stranger’s face.
“My wife.”
“Oh.”
“She is a smart little thing. And sneaky. Very attentive and very cautious. But so am I. That’s why she didn’t get me yet, you see. It’ll all depend on who’s worn down first.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier for her to get a divorce?”
“Why would she do that now?”
“Well, if she is trying to kill you… I mean…”
“That woman loves me and I love her. Otherwise we wouldn’t be doing this whole thing here.”
He gestured to himself and his surroundings. Conor was confused, but in the past he had learned that it was sometimes better not to question things and just go along with them. And this was most likely one of those situations. Questioning it would make it more confusing.
“So… What are you gonna do now?”, Conor asked.
“Wait and see what happens. She is around here, I can feel it. She’ll probably come out of her hiding place soon.”
“I guess, I better go so. I wouldn’t wanna get involved in this thing.”
“Oh no, no. Please stay. It’s always more interesting if there is something unforeseen. Like an unknown variable in an equation, you know?”
Conor had decided that this whole thing was way too freaky for him and that he wanted to get out. Now. Or rather as soon as possible. This didn’t sound like some harmless delusional guy anymore. This actually sounded quite dangerous and insane. Who knew when that guy would pull a knife and start stabbing him.
Conor remembered the gunshot he heard earlier. Was that somehow related to this whole thing? Or had he maybe only imagined it? Conor wasn’t sure what was real and what was imagination anymore. What if his drink was spiked as well and he was imagining all of this? It wouldn’t be impossible. But then again, he felt quite sober.
He saw the other guy raise his head and heard him sniffing a little. A little bit of his chin was revealed. He seemed to have a very lean face, 3-days-beard and quite dark hair. He started grinning wildly and turned to Conor, his face hidden again.
“She is here.”
Conor looked around himself nervously.
“Where?”
The dark figure pointed towards the other side of the street, but way up high, towards the roof of the house opposite them. As Conor looked up he could see a petite figure standing there. He could barely make out her features, since she was so far away. He could see that she was wearing her hair in two braids and she was wearing wide shorts and a tight-fitting top.
“Found you.”, he heard her shout.
“I can see that.”, the dark figure shouted. Conor looked up at the roof again, but she had disappeared already. He looked at the man beside him again, who now grabbed him by the arm, shouted “Come on!” and started running through the dark and lonely streets. Conor did not want to get involved with this whole thing at all, but he still went with the dark figure. He didn’t exactly know why, but it seemed safer at the time.
For a long time they ran through small side streets and hid behind the parked cars as they scurried along. Until they were back by the river, not on Popes Quay, but closer to the city centre again. The area seemed somewhat familiar to Conor.
“You have to leave. Now.”, the dark figure said.
“What? Why couldn’t I have left before?”
The dark figure only shrugged and went to turn around.
“Where are you going? Are you sure you’ll be okay?”, Conor asked him.
“I’m fine. But I don’t think you are. You better get going, before it gets too late. I might see you again some day, you never know.”, the man replied.
“I’m sorry, but this is the weirdest thing that happened all night and I’d really like to get more answers!”
The figure shrugged again.
“A lot of strange things happen and sometimes, there is no answer.”
With those words the man took off the hood he was wearing and Conor was able to see his face. Only that it was his own face. He looked into his own face. This man was the exact image of himself. Conor looked down quickly and blinked and looked up again, certain the he was imagining things. But he probably wouldn’t ever find out. His mirror image had disappeared into the darkness.
There was definitely another smirk hiding under that hood. Conor knew it. Whoever this man was, he seemed weirdly familiar. Maybe a little too familiar.
“Good for you.”
“Why is she trying to kill you? Whoever she is.”, he asked out of pure interest. He regretted it instantly. Whatever was going on here, Conor was sure it was trouble and it would be better not to get involved in it. But it was too late for that now. The words were out. No way back.
“She just is. It’s like a game. Whoever is the most cautious, the most careful, the best at foreseeing the other’s moves… well, that one is going to win. Fact of life. And it’s a very exciting game, as well.”, the dark figure said with a hint of slight amusement in his voice.
“And you couldn’t just play chess or something?”
“Chess?”
“Yeah. The game, you know? Black and white squares? Figures? The king and queen, bishops, horses, pawns and such?”
“Never heard of it.”
“Huh.”
What kind of person wouldn’t know of chess? Conor found that to be very strange. Fair enough, not everyone knew how to play chess, but pretty much everyone had heard of it. Then again, he didn’t know what to do with this random information.
The breathing of the other person was calmer now and he stood up straight, but still not facing Conor. He was looking up at the sky. Conor - not sure what to say - looked up at the sky as well and was surprised to see the moon there, and even a few very bright stars.
“I didn’t realise the clouds have cleared up.”, he said, trying to make conversation. He could feel the raised eyebrows on the other man’s face, even though he couldn’t see them.
“There never were any clouds to clear up tonight. But I guess there must be some on the other side.”
The other side? What was this guy talking about? The other side of the river wasn’t that far away that the weather would be completely different.
… Or could that actually be? Conor decided to research that at some point, but it probably wasn’t worth discussing it with this individual.
“So who is trying to kill you?”, he asked. Conor could feel the wide grin that started to form on the stranger’s face.
“My wife.”
“Oh.”
“She is a smart little thing. And sneaky. Very attentive and very cautious. But so am I. That’s why she didn’t get me yet, you see. It’ll all depend on who’s worn down first.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier for her to get a divorce?”
“Why would she do that now?”
“Well, if she is trying to kill you… I mean…”
“That woman loves me and I love her. Otherwise we wouldn’t be doing this whole thing here.”
He gestured to himself and his surroundings. Conor was confused, but in the past he had learned that it was sometimes better not to question things and just go along with them. And this was most likely one of those situations. Questioning it would make it more confusing.
“So… What are you gonna do now?”, Conor asked.
“Wait and see what happens. She is around here, I can feel it. She’ll probably come out of her hiding place soon.”
“I guess, I better go so. I wouldn’t wanna get involved in this thing.”
“Oh no, no. Please stay. It’s always more interesting if there is something unforeseen. Like an unknown variable in an equation, you know?”
Conor had decided that this whole thing was way too freaky for him and that he wanted to get out. Now. Or rather as soon as possible. This didn’t sound like some harmless delusional guy anymore. This actually sounded quite dangerous and insane. Who knew when that guy would pull a knife and start stabbing him.
Conor remembered the gunshot he heard earlier. Was that somehow related to this whole thing? Or had he maybe only imagined it? Conor wasn’t sure what was real and what was imagination anymore. What if his drink was spiked as well and he was imagining all of this? It wouldn’t be impossible. But then again, he felt quite sober.
He saw the other guy raise his head and heard him sniffing a little. A little bit of his chin was revealed. He seemed to have a very lean face, 3-days-beard and quite dark hair. He started grinning wildly and turned to Conor, his face hidden again.
“She is here.”
Conor looked around himself nervously.
“Where?”
The dark figure pointed towards the other side of the street, but way up high, towards the roof of the house opposite them. As Conor looked up he could see a petite figure standing there. He could barely make out her features, since she was so far away. He could see that she was wearing her hair in two braids and she was wearing wide shorts and a tight-fitting top.
“Found you.”, he heard her shout.
“I can see that.”, the dark figure shouted. Conor looked up at the roof again, but she had disappeared already. He looked at the man beside him again, who now grabbed him by the arm, shouted “Come on!” and started running through the dark and lonely streets. Conor did not want to get involved with this whole thing at all, but he still went with the dark figure. He didn’t exactly know why, but it seemed safer at the time.
For a long time they ran through small side streets and hid behind the parked cars as they scurried along. Until they were back by the river, not on Popes Quay, but closer to the city centre again. The area seemed somewhat familiar to Conor.
“You have to leave. Now.”, the dark figure said.
“What? Why couldn’t I have left before?”
The dark figure only shrugged and went to turn around.
“Where are you going? Are you sure you’ll be okay?”, Conor asked him.
“I’m fine. But I don’t think you are. You better get going, before it gets too late. I might see you again some day, you never know.”, the man replied.
“I’m sorry, but this is the weirdest thing that happened all night and I’d really like to get more answers!”
The figure shrugged again.
“A lot of strange things happen and sometimes, there is no answer.”
With those words the man took off the hood he was wearing and Conor was able to see his face. Only that it was his own face. He looked into his own face. This man was the exact image of himself. Conor looked down quickly and blinked and looked up again, certain the he was imagining things. But he probably wouldn’t ever find out. His mirror image had disappeared into the darkness.
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