Termino.
Ad Perpetuam
--
Mist. Fog. A blur of white smoke. Hiro blinked. He felt the cold of the wooden parquet floor against his back. In a daze, he slowly got to his feet. Hiro knew he must keep going ahead. There seemed to be an invisible force pushing him forward, as if telling him he must go on. Hiro felt his breath catch. It was getting harder to breathe. His lungs didn’t seem to be functioning properly. But the invisible force continued to egg him on. Step by step, Hiro proceeded, coughing in the toxicity of the air. Hiro felt his head clouding, his eyes watering. Something in the air here was just not right, but his legs dragged him forward, and Hiro kept moving…
And then he stopped. The air had now taken on a pungent smell, and his burning skin was turning red. The fog was clearing slowly and there seemed to be something up ahead.
As Hiro looked on, the glassy surface of a mirror appeared. As Hiro squinted at it in disbelief, he saw words appear on the misty glass, as if written by an invisible hand.
You’ve come so far.
Hiro was now gasping, as he felt the toxic gas slowly suffocating him. The words faded as quickly as they came. He reached out to the mirror, trying to get closer.
Of course, there is a way out.
His vision was getting blurry now. He squinted to make out the words in front of him.
Why do you think you had that package with you? Why did the voice on the phone sound so familiar?
Hiro’s mind clouded in confusion. The package…. he struggled to form a coherent thought in the haze of acidic vapours. That package of drugs. The one which had gotten him into this entire mess in the first place. Hiro felt a pang of anger towards the person who had called him to bring the drugs in the first place. Hiro looked back in the mirror.
“Drugs?” he winced.
Check your pocket.
His hand went automatically to his back pocket. Shaking, he pulled out the same old Nokia phone he had gotten a call on. It was already dialing a number. A saved contact.
Both the mirror and the phone said the same thing.
Antidote.
Hiro gasped. An antidote, an escape from this uncontrollable pain. He now knew who was on the other end of the line. This was it. Would he get there in time? Or was the cycle fated to repeat itself, with him failing to bring the antidote and dying a painful death?
Hiro was losing consciousness now. He knew he would be dead within the hour. It was now or never. He lifted his head to look up in the mirror.
It had disappeared.
He raised the phone to his ear, with his hand trembling.
He heard his shaky voice on the other end. “Hello?”
“Hiro.” Hiro said feebly.
His own voice.
“Yes?”
Hiro’s heart was racing. The words he’d heard on the other end, a line he still remembered word for word, was echoing in his brain.
Bring the silver package to 409, Seventh Avenue. I’ll be waiting.
The kid, he remembered. He would have to leave the kid behind, there was no other way he’d get the antidote in time. The acid was slowly making its way into his system. The antidote. If only he could get the antidote…
What did Hiro say?
“Bring the silver package to 409, Seventh Avenue. I’ll be waiting.”
Hiro cleared his burning throat and whispered into the phone. As he waited for the result of what he’d told himself to surface, he lay on the floor, unconsciousness slowly taking over his motionless form.
