Prisoner

He was walking quite quickly, perhaps in a hurry, but it wasn't hard to keep up. Suddenly, he stopped, looked back, then to the side, and continued walking. He took strange, somewhat uneven steps, glancing back every so often, as if he were running away from someone and checking if they were right behind him. He stopped dead just beyond the bus stop when he noticed people staring at him. He raised his jacket sleeve and glanced at his watch, pretended to try to remember something, and lightly tapped his head with his hand.

He walked on the right side of the sidewalk, always following the same row of ankles. Not once did his foot touch the red cobblestone line running along the right side. He stopped before the curb, which had a few centimeters of drop, took a few steps backward, and then started forward again. He repeated the incomprehensible maneuver three more times, to the surprise of the elderly man who was watching intently. He gritted his teeth, and a strange grimace appeared on his face. A grimace that concealed bitterness, despair, and stubbornness. He walked through the gas station entrance and headed toward the pedestrian crossing. It was red. He waited a moment, then the light changed, then he moved, as if in a convulsion, as if to shake off the dirt and leave everything behind. Further on, the sidewalk was divided into a bicycle lane and a pedestrian lane—he kept to the white lines throughout.

Here—on the other side—there were no more paving stones, but instead manhole covers. When one caught his eye, uncertainty and fear spread across his face (the kind a sclerotic person feels when standing in front of a closed apartment door, and the thought that he'd left his keys at work and even knew they were on his desk—he'd simply forgotten to take them).

Perhaps he decided that this time it would be enough to touch the manhole cover with both feet, or something very close to it, because he constantly stopped at the edges, and only when both feet were in the designated spot would he continue. As he crossed the bridge, he suddenly turned toward the bank and grabbed the railing. His legs buckled beneath him, as if he felt an irresistible temptation to jump, and though he probably knew he wouldn't, the thought tempted him, because after a moment they buckled even more. Below, he could see the murky, dirty foam that formed as the water breached the dam and crashed shriekingly against the gentle river surface. He let go of the railings. The sight of the foamy, dancing bubbles must have calmed him somewhat; he seemed more resolute, his inner turmoil lessened, and his body became submissive.

A moment later, he was across the street, observing the people waiting at the bus stop, gazing with the eyes of a child who had never received candy, while the children at the bus stop waded through colorful wrappers up to their knees. Perhaps he had just received the colorful wrapper, because he had become cheerful and looked up at the sky with such joy, as if heavenly caramels, fudge, and filled chocolates were falling from above, now floating like a tiny boat on a calm, sun-drenched water.

Suddenly, he stopped, as if he had hit an invisible wall, as if he felt fear before something familiar, like Prometheus who sees a vulture approaching and knows it's imminent, just around the corner. He glanced back, a street lamp caught his eye, and he drew back. When he was opposite it, he froze for a moment, took a few more steps back, and then sprang up, as if he were competing in a street marathon. He walked forward again, but this time his gait turned almost into a dash, and anger, pure anger, was etched on his face. He ignored the high curbs, the potholes in his ankles, the people waiting at the bus stop, the approaching bus. He pressed forward, wanting to take as many steps as possible, wanting to escape, to get away, to take advantage of the fact that anger had now gripped him and that he was free again, with the strength to reject the whispers of his stray consciousness.

He reached a pedestrian crossing, stopped in front of a traffic light pole—even though the light was green—unable to decide whether to pass it on the left or the right. He stood there, desperately searching for the best route (which even a three-year-old would have had no trouble choosing). He wanted to go right, but he ducked as if to deceive himself, almost hitting the pole, took the left side, the green light flashed, he ran red, a driver honked. He reached another crossing, a moment later found himself on the other side of the road, and headed toward the bus stop. Now his steps seemed even and calm. He raised his hand, slightly pulled up his sleeve, and checked his watch, then slowed his pace slightly. In that brief moment, a transformation had taken place within him. Now he was completely free again, or rather, liberated. At the same time, he seemed absent, as if he were walking on the promised land, where evil had no access, where the air seeped through his nostrils and carried a fragrance... a luminous fragrance. It must have been one of those moments when the body inertly surrenders to thought and perceives all its manifestations, filling every cell with a mental energy capable of working miracles. The wind, which had gently stirred the protruding branches of the roadside trees, on which single yellow-brown leaves could be seen, had died down. It was a silence that brings solace, reflection, and delight. Individual twigs began to sway slightly in the cool breeze, and he stopped by the lamp and gazed into the distance. He stood there, as if slowly growing into the earth, as if transformed into stone. Suddenly, he quivered, touched a lamppost, and continued on. A dozen or so meters ahead was a bus stop. He passed a group of young people waiting for the bus and chatting about the cars passing by. He stopped under the shelter, looked at a bench where two people were sitting, leaving plenty of room. He turned and gazed across the street. He spotted the church tower, which towered over the nearby buildings, atop which stood a white cross, visible from almost anywhere in the city. He stretched out his right hand and raised it, trying to cross himself, trying to hide his act from the people standing at the bus stop. He looked again at the church tower, crossed himself again, as if it were penance for having done it secretly earlier. The bus arrived, and people slowly approached the door and boarded one by one. He leaned against the bus stop and touched the metal plate with his finger a few times.

Another bus arrived, and he tried to spot the town sign. He approached, the bus stopped, and a few more people were boarding ahead of him. He returned to the bus stop and pressed his fingers against the metal plate, pretending to check the timetable. He hurriedly jumped inside, boarding last, placed his foot on the step, and took a step. After a moment, he stepped back and went down. The driver gave him a pressing look – he climbed up, extended his hand, holding a paper bill, and asked for a ticket. Although there was plenty of room on the bus, he couldn't decide where to sit, and finally sat down. The bus slowly pulled away, and in the distance, he could still make out a gray figure rising and moving to the opposite row.