It was a silent night, she wasn’t tired yet.
As she used to do in that time, she felt like walking down to the Street again. To smell the hard odour and lukewarm heartiness of concrete. To let the subway’s vibrancy go through her shoe’s tread and to let it reach her whole spine. So she entered on, attended not to break the dumbness, which invited her to the toddle. It was a little bit difficult to walk silently, but she reminded her childhood and what her father teached well: how to sneak in the dead fallen leaves. She closed the entrance door, it was just clicking to magnify the silence.
Curiously the Street was fully empty. Even the Street Lights weren’t turned on that night, so she could feel the rigid, hot darkness on her forehead.
She breathed much air, and with hands in her pockets she entered the Square. Leaving every other Corner she felt different scents. The poovey wind dragged hankies, nylon bags, dry leaves along. After a while she stopped to take a rest in the middle of a giant crossing. It was only the moon sparkling, by a strength, which is slightly enough not to grain down the starshine. The Concrete was somehow living, moving; new dawning shadow motions came out from the corner of her eyes at all time. She didn’t feel the Street lonely, on the contrary, she read the signs, ate the odor, talked away with the wind of it. Everything changed and have been a living forest, the hankies, nylon bags turned pussy cats and cheerful wolves – trees offered their hands to her, they took care of her, went in fear of her life. They became friends, lovers. More and more Wall, Building bent on her, their words became more and more clear, she has been snowwhite in her forest; while peeping, jumping, shouting little animal flooding her shoulders. They wanted to tell her everything in the same time, because she was the first, who understood their words.
She looked up the sky.
She had to step back, as she felt as the secrets stoke her almost dead. The City shared the secrets with her, and its words were hooked on her flesh as a ballast which is pulling her down to the Concrete. She allowed, let herself lay, felt the rumbling of subway, however she knew it doesn’t run in this late time. The city pushed to her chest and heart the shoetread’s sentences, the warmth of cigarette stubs, the nails of birds. Suddenly she’ve been apprehended all the things of world, even so she felt ill at ease, she was quite weak. Through the sound of silence she was panting powerless, helpless, she spliced out a matchbox under cover from her pocket. She pulled out a match-stick quakingly. She hardly could stand the press of this city, but with her last force, with soundless shout, she fired it.
In that moment, as the flame flared up, the whole Street has changed to a glossy luminous hull. The sound of inflammation have unblocked a giant wind. In a broken period of time, breaking the secret of silence and darkness...she has been banned.
Since that time she lies there. The light burned her to the eternal concrete-bed. Cars, birds, hankies, leaves, high heel shoes trample her body every day.
She has been the immortal prisoner of the Street.
Roland Biró