Eye of Power

By AlbireoMKG

Do you consider that there is some predetermination, a destiny? And what to do if you don't like your destiny? If to reconcile - that for what? For what do you lead that life which you can throw out without sorry? What is a man and what is a woman? How to distinguish them from each other? And what is a family? And if you can answer this question can you answer a question then "why are they a family?". Is it the same what you have in your life, and what you want to have? And if it is not, then why? Is it now because you believe what the Eye of power knows better than you?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AlbireoMKG
• Release date: Jan 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463087152

AlbireoMKG

Writer. Socialist. Psychologist. Translator. Cosmopolitan. Internationalist. Esperantist. Polyglot. Friendly. Ruiner of the communicative barriers. Xenophobia-hater. Family - is not DNA. Homeland - is not geography.

Book preview

1.At first sight

- Doesn't she have an arm or a leg?

- No, she has everything.

- Is she humpbacked?

- No, she's not humpbacked. She has everything to live a normal life. It’s more of a moral dilemma.

- Then there's some bullshit problem.

- No, she has a significant problem, a very significant one.

- But it’s a physical defect?

- Well...Yes.

From conversations with the readers.

It’s dark, and sweat is sliding unpleasantly on the skin. The familiar dark corridor, with sticky walls which seem rustling. For some reason, I have to go there, and I do. I turn, and then the smell of someone else's sweat hits the sense of smell, someone’s stroking voluptuous breasts, rough hands are sliding on the inner thigh…

In a cold sweat, I opened my eyes. I dreamed again that I was a woman. I never even knew if I liked the process of intimacy in this nightmare.

I am 29 years old, and I work as a literature analyst, sometimes write articles in newspapers and magazines.

I'm looking at the alarm clock now. It was set up at eight, it’s half past nine, but it didn't even think to alarm. Of course, all things in the house make their own decisions, regardless of anything, even their direct responsibilities.

I live in a wooden house nearby a city, like, I'm supposed to live in the city, in a small apartment on a high floor, and only after the publication of this book, I'm supposed to move to a house on the land and till the old age to talk about the written, to quote the phrases, build projects, which are hardly destined to be fulfilled, and to sneer at everything because of boredom. My grandmother left me the house, and I thought it was a good idea to move there right away. So I did it immediately.

I wake up early in the morning, and sometimes my conscience makes me do gymnastics or exercises. I still can’t understand the difference between them, and no one, even gym trainers, whom I know, isn’t able to explain it. Then, I wash my face, it’s not interesting, but it was inconsistent to write that I then have breakfast. Surely there would be some picky reader or a teenager in a good mood reading this book with a friend for finding faults at everything and the more and wittier mistakes one may notice, the higher the authority would rise. Yes, and I had the same childhood. I was able to laugh at any work, whether it was a newspaper or a book, even the appeal to children in the Bible seemed to me very funny. Well, if this book can be of any additional benefit to anyone other than the concept of the basic idea, it will only fill my heart with joy.

Now, I get dressed, I have breakfast... no, I don't have breakfasts like most people. Especially if I get up early. And only then I prepare to accept a new day.

I look out the window or walk down our street. In winter, as in any village, we have it beautiful and snowy, if it snows with flakes, you can’t help but remember all the stories told in childhood and even earlier. Whether by the wind and trees, or clouds, because there are now few and far normal grandmothers who read fairy tales to the grandchildren. Basically, romantic children read them themselves, and already at a fairly mature age, but for some reason, it all seemed familiar to them and heard somewhere. Most of the spring we have it on the street slushy, snow mixed with water, and the picture appears very depressing. But in summer, or very late spring, when the trees bloom all over the street, and the music of bees with the honey melody pours everywhere, we have it very beautiful. Autumn... probably supposed to write about autumn about how colourful It’s in its golden form, but for me, it’s just a feeling of sadness and the end of something bright. Perhaps the climate is to blame. Maybe autumn on a tropical island wouldn't cause so much discourage. In general, even without me is written so much about the beauty of autumn. Every author, a poet, or just sensitive person, pays tribute to autumn, shyly thanks to its abundance, harvest, for the fact that they won’t die in the winter. It’s inevitable paganism.

Only people of my grandmother's age live on our street. They are always busy old women, as if ashamed of the fact that they live in the village. And kind homeless dogs, but, as usual, in the villages, there aren’t many of them. Angry dogs are only in the farmyards. I think it’s because the homeless ones tell them how good It’s out there. Because in the village food of pets and stray dogs is not very different.

For some reason, there are grimy children only in villages. Funny but dirty. I’ve seen that in all the villages that I’ve come across on my way.

There is the forest near, of course, kind and familiar from childhood. There's always big strawberry growing there.

Although... have you ever noticed that the largest strawberries grow in cemeteries? Haven’t you been straightened out by hissing something unintelligible adults, not bothering to explain why not, and for whom it grows there? You can be sure, it tastes right the same as anywhere else, only it’s bigger, I'm talking about it, because I can say with certainty that, as an adult, you’ve never torn it there. But if among the readers there is such who are still thinking this is quite a reasonable action, then admit it, friends think you’re a little weird.

So, I walk down our street to the edge of the forest, where the schoolyard is adjacent to the gardens. Now they begin to build houses there, inanity, in my opinion, but people who are tired of the emptiness of the soul inside, who’ve come here, don’t think so. The village has a legend. Quite a dangerous and warning one. But already just a very few people remember it, and it doesn’t make interested almost anyone. But it continues to act and will act because no one knows how to neutralise it. I'll tell you about it later, in details.

Since my childhood passed here, I know especially fabulous places in the woods, very close to the edge, but hidden from the stranger’s eyes. I often sit on my favourite slope and read, or draw, for which I have almost no ability. But I can tell you about any story in any genre. Frankly, for some reason I'm too lazy to do such a long work, but sometimes I get pleasure from such stories when I tell them to someone. There was even a time when I wanted to have a younger sister or a brother, to have a number of free ears, where I could pour all my literary delights. Fortunately, my parents left this wish only at the proposal stage. I have no idea what would have happened if I could convince them of the need for this event. It was the lack of free ears that prompted me to write down my ideas. So my literary growth began.

There, in a hidden place, I met Her. Dazzling and beautiful. The Woman. Not a fake, mannered female. Not a flirtatious, cunning female animal unit, which is considered to be for some reason, real women. I always laugh when I hear that. You can call a female a woman, being afraid to offend a stupid creature, but you will never confuse them, especially if you are familiar with a woman. However, very few of you, readers, have at least a couple of familiar women. Just moody drama queens are often called bitches. But those who are real bitches are almost always women. And very few people remember that the bitch is a female of dog, and not a capricious, confident woman. Also, few people know that nice a long time ago meant foolish, senseless, it’s from Old French.

So, she was sitting there, looking sadly and thoughtfully in front of her. Just looking at her, it became clear that in her situation It’s almost impossible not to be sad. I felt sorry for her. But at that moment, there was nothing I could do to help her. Although her image was sunk deep into the mind. It couldn’t be otherwise. She saw me, and She was embarrassed. Because beautiful creatures like her don't like to be caught in such moments. And her deep eyes were already filled with tears. My smile, too, was of little consolation. She sat far enough away from me, so nothing kept her from getting up and leaving. So She did. And I still had many pages of an interesting book.

***

I get up early, and I don't know why, the hope of a miracle, the fear of oversleeping something that could change my whole life at once. I lie in bed for a few minutes before getting up and listen to the birds chirping outside the window. Fortunately, the window of my room overlooks the garden, which everyone in this village calls the vegetable plot. All the gardens here, are called the vegetable plots…

I have a beautiful and well-kept garden, I take care of it personally, without letting anyone come close to it. I like so much, when bright flowers bloom in spring and summer, making me think that everything is possible, and I live in a fairy tale. I love berries. I have some trees in my garden that give fruit early.

In the morning I always do gymnastics for flexibility. Men like flexible women. It gave me a lot of pleasure to see how after a few months of gymnastics my gait became more graceful and elegant, and the movements got plastic. Friends even told me that with this set of exercises I could make some money, probably, it’s possible, it’s designed by my own, but I don’t want to, I have enough things to deal with. Maybe later, when my life won’t be so obscure.

After the gymnastics, I take a shower, I love the smell of perfume. Gels, creams, shampoos, their subtle aromas also take me to a fairy tale. Then I rub my body with a gentle oil so that the skin would emit a subtle odour, and be silk to the touch. Nature didn’t very generously endow me, I have slightly rough skin, but no one guesses about that. I mostly hear compliments. I'm 28 years old. I have a feeling that the old age is near. Unless things change... but it’s so annoying, to wait for. And when you don't know what to wait for…

I work as a designer. Whom else? With my passion for bright colours. Sometimes I take orders for interior decoration or shop windows. No one has ever complained. I guess I need to be proud and decide that I have impeccable taste. There must have been something in my childhood that kept me from doing that.

Then I renew my nails, if necessary, and style my hair. That's all. Hello, day. I have breakfast, usually, coffee and a berry dessert. After, I work a little, or read, sometimes, watch TV, but very rarely. The village doesn’t have the benefits of civilisation, and if you don’t adapt, you can go crazy. There are two TV-programs, you can get seven, a couple of radio stations. There’s the Internet only if the provider has a satellite connection.

And I go for a walk unless a neighbour (a man or a lady) runs in. The lady asks for something to help, always noting that she would have coped herself, and that while men are never found out by asking, and that she also lives alone... The work is always not so difficult that she really would have coped herself; obviously, she's just bored, and wants to share the gossip of our street. The man for some reason believes that discussing his romantic exploits with me is the best pastime. He probably thinks I'll understand what a treasure is walking beside me.

I walk in the forest. It’s not far from us, right behind our street. I have a secret place there. As a child, I was able to win it from those who knew about it, and make them silent, and to hide it from those who didn’t know. I hadn’t had and still don’t have a friend, who would I want to talk about it.

Usually, in summer, I wear lightweight pants and bright t-shirts.

In the secret place, I can not hide and not smile to anyone, and to be sad about my woes, as much I want. Until I get tired of it, and I decide to do something. These decisions make my situation a little easier, but they don't change it. If only someone knew. Oh, if just someone knew! Of course, my problem for someone may be the cause of suicide, but not for me. It’s probably a test I need to pass. And I'll pass it... but anyway, I'm very sad.

My thoughts almost won fought up me when suddenly He appeared before my eyes. He sat reading. On the slope, in my secret place. He was right what he was supposed to be. I was so impressed by what I saw that the thought of my own problems immediately flew away. It was like being struck by lightning. It never occurred to me that I would see anything like this. My confusion was probably clearly written on the face; he certainly noticed it. He must have felt bad. I would have. I had no choice but to get up and leave quickly. It got very painful somewhere in my chest so that it became difficult to breathe. He looked at me as if I didn't have that terrible flaw that spoils a