The fair light
[short story]
Once Joe ended up being broke and living on the street, he questioned the concept of fairness. Trying to make ends meet, he got into nasty fights just to protect small things he managed to claw from this world. He was beaten often—he'd never been a big guy. It all didn't feel fair indeed.
One day, he trudged through the snow near downtown. February was brutal this year, with blizzards so merciless they scratched the skin as if to rip his face off entirely. Covering his face with one mittened hand while tucking the other into the armpit, Joe passed a decrepit building which had once been a glamorous hotel back in the '80s. Now it became a shelter for the likes of Joe. Despite his pleas, he didn't get a place there. It might have been for the best—Dafney, who did get inside, told him it was creepier than living in a tent under the bridge. Some males formed gangs to split the shelter into areas of influence; they threatened those who didn't comply. One girl was even stabbed, and though security called an ambulance, they preferred not to get involved beyond that. This was a brave new world's order.
Joe was freezing but suddenly stopped. He recalled his mother's face. How sweet it was, how much healing power her gaze had for Joe when he hurt his knee or got scratched by a neighbor's cat. Joe stared at the vision of his mother. He pretended that she was across the street, calling for him, so he decided to get closer. She was in her fifties— just as he remembered, before cancer ate her alive. The haggard face she wore, but her irreplaceable, proud stance was in place. Add to that her tallness and all that was making her look like an ancient goddess. The deity stared at Joe as he crossed the street. Once close enough, he stretched an arm out of the armpit but lost the vision instantly. Shorn of examining his mother's face, he gave the hotel a look. Now standing across from it, he could better see its palatial body. The right wing was blackened with soot, many windows were cracked, the entrance doors no longer closed tightly, so one of them kept slamming in the wind.
As bad as it was, the hotel could warm him. Joe sighed heavily, resisting the urge to burst into curses, and made his way to the entrance. The blizzard swept the streets clean, no guards in sight. No one stopped him as he slipped into the lobby. Dark and wet it was, the smell of mold pressed in. Somewhere deep inside, apt moaning drifted through the walls. One person peered out from behind the column, near the elevators. Stringy hairs, a thin face—just enough to resemble Joe's mother. Not knowing what else to do, he dragged his feet towards the column. "Just like mother", he thought. "But what is she doing here anyway..?"
This time the vision didn't disappear, rather transformed. The figure was an old, worn woman, her eyes bleak, her lips muttering. She stared through Joe, her gaze not expressing anything except for lost dignity. He shivered. A cold, sticky fear crawled under his skin. Hadn't his mother looked just like that when they put her in a coffin? He briefly looked back at the entrance, where the broken door slammed so powerfully that it finally shut.
Nik Pushkarski
Ottawa, Feb 9, 2025