Blood Connection
by Nikolai Belyakov
Shoulders pushed me and feet trampled over mine. Brown masses of people blurred past, vying for any space they could take up. With as many crammed inside as possible, the train moved. A multitude of alien tongues were spoken, their speakers accommodated for by the government. Their traditions, clothes, culture, were all foreign, but one thing remained the same. They were a horde of unfamiliar faces in a land they had nothing to do with.
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The advertisement catered to them, as did the signs. They found their way into politics, business, and entertainment. There was simply no escape. In fact, now that the herd settled, I received strange glances as if I was the one who didn’t belong. If you asked one of them what this country, which I can no longer call my own, was like a mere 20 years ago, they would have no reply. It was degenerating then as well, yet I was still able to call it home.
The train stopped. Two dozen left, three dozen managed to pack themselves in. Now instead of a mostly black and brown crowd, it was black, born and yellow. As best as they could, they tried separating themselves into their own ethnic groups. The front for the Asians who just got on. The middle for the Arabs. The back for the Africans. As for me, I would have to fit in wherever without making anyone uncomfortable.
The train started up again. There was a constant clatter, constant cries of toddlers, constant laughter. It was a mystery how these people could stand the barrage of sound without caring. I was struggling, as usual, to even allow my mind to be present. Despite my attempts however, I noticed some Africans doing a traditional dance. Speakers playing tribal beats with some unintelligible language layered over the top, while the women gyrated their lower bodies. The Arabs looked on in disgust, but under the Africans were more of a protected class than they were and tried their best to simply distance themselves. I was grateful I was more on the Arab side of the train—at least they didn’t subject everyone to such a shameful sight.
Another stop. This time, to everyone’s delight, the Africans and some Asians left, while a handful of Aboriginals got on. I moved to the back with them for some much needed space. While they weren’t as noisy as the Africans, the Aboriginals were creepy. They had this blank look to them, as well as various facial deformities. The lesser of two evils, I suppose. They also smelled. Everything on this train smelled, with varying degrees of vileness, but Aboriginals especially smelled.
Finally, my stop came, I moved past my brown first-class-citizen-superiors and got off. I was greeted with more of them. They went left, right, down, up, any direction you looked and they were there. Further down the waiting platforms, a brawl between two Africans was about to kick off.
I quickly moved to and up the stairs, trying to avoid the weird stains everyone else stepped in. At the top, a little bit of sunlight that managed to shine through the unchecked pollution hit my eyes. The smell, of piss, feces and kebabs assaulted my nostrils. Stone blocks, many hosting flashing advertisements on their walls, loomed over every available inch. Cosmetics, food, media, news, all of them aimed to seize every waking moment you had.
I continued walking. A mosque’s second prayer was broadcasted through eight loud speakers, graciously donated by the city. The Muslims stood in number, slightly bowing their heads. The prostrating and bending over didn’t start for another few hours.
As I moved past, I officially entered the commercial district. Some of it could hardly be called commercial, as some businesses were simply fronts for money laundering, or open unhygienic kitchens, or blatant scams of all varieties.
I went down a different route that I usually do. I wanted to avoid the preemptive haggling that all the merchants would do with me and enjoy a slightly quieter atmosphere. Like moths to a flame, the few peaceful moments I got enjoy were interrupted by a gang of Arabs and Africans. Five of them, they spoke in a foreign language amongst themselves until one threatened me poorly for all my money. I gave him all I had, he and his friends laughed, and he said the same line again. I tried telling him I had nothing more to give, and his smile faded me.
I tried defending myself despite them outnumbering me and took down two. I think it scared them slightly, but six fists and legs still came my way and knocked me down. As I laid on the concrete and the vultures left, my vision started to blur and fade. The already dark city became darker, the flashing lights were dimmer, and all I could remember was a figure running towards me.
White light pierced through my closed eyelids, forcing them to open. I looked around for an explanation, but only found a dilapidated room in an equally as dilapidated house. The pain from my lower body woke me further. I was unable to do much but use my arms. I heard distant noise inside the house: the sound of ports clanging.
I looked around. The walls were light blue, the baseboards a whitish-yellow. I heard footsteps gradually getting closer and tensed the muscles that I could feel. The door slowly opened to a man with a warm, a wide frame, and a slight smile. He was momentarily shocked that I was awake, but then his smile grew ever bigger. In his mitten-covered hands was a bowl of steaming hot soup.
I, too, was shocked. The most eye-catching part of him was his skin color. He was a White man, something too unknown in today’s world. I felt an instinctual, primal connection to him. As he smiled, so did I. As he walked, I felt the impact of his feet. He place the soup on a table next to me and gestured for me to have some, shortly thereafter bringing in a chair to sit down. Along with all of this, he asked for my name.
I hesitated, grabbing the soup’s spoon and bringing it to my lips. It was hot, the first hot meal in a while. It tasted of a variety of things, but I was unable to focus on that. My mind was racing, debating internally whether or not I should tell him my real name. As he pressed me again. I decided I should. Considering he saved me from whatever fate I would’ve ended up in, I owed it to him to be honest.
As I spoke, his smile faded and his face morphed into a much more serious one. He gripped the chair’s armrests with both hands, veins popping out of his arms. The only thing he said, the only thing he needed to say, equally changed me.
“Brother?”
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