Yellow

He raised his arms high above his head, hands clasped, fingers interlaced.

Brought them down, hard.

. . . Thud . . .

Again.

. . . Thud . . .

The sound wasn’t clean. Not the snap of bone, not the smack of flesh. It was wetter. Heavy. A sound like butchery . . . like meat being tenderised by someone who hated it. Something cold spattered his cheek, thin and slimy, trailing down toward his jaw.

He swung again. Shoulders burning now, each movement dragging fire through his muscles. His breath hitched between strikes. He couldn’t tell how many he’d done. Couldn’t tell how many more he had left in him.

The body on the stones lay still, half-submerged. Legs in the river. Chest and head on the bank.

. . . Thud . . .

Then . . . a cough. A gurgle that didn’t sound human at first, more like a drain clearing, water choking its way free of a pipe. The body lurched, expelled something. Vomit, but thin, soupy. River water forced back out.

He let himself drop backward. His yellow uniform, heavy with river water clings to his skin. He lays down on the gravel, lungs tearing for air, chest heaving like he’d been sprinting uphill. The stones cut into his back. He didn’t care. For the first time all night, he allowed himself the luxury of a breath that wasn’t stolen.

The figure rolled, weakly, onto its side. Coughed. Retching, gagging. Liquid hit the ground in slow splatters. It was the only sound, apart from the crickets, and somewhere far away the faintest suggestion of a city . . . a siren, a car horn, fragments of normal life carried on the air like ghosts.

He said nothing. Didn’t move. Just lay there, watching the moon hang indifferent above the trees. Pale, perfect, looking down on him as if none of this mattered. His body screamed exhaustion. His mind refused to let go.

He heard the man shift. A dragging shuffle, as if his body still hadn’t remembered how to work properly. Crawling closer. He still didn’t move. He wanted the moment, just this . . . the moon, the night, the idea that all the things gnawing at him could be quiet for five seconds.

“What happened?” a voice asked. Wet. Raw.

He answered without turning his head. “You sank beneath the waters. Another cast you from the bridge.”

The man coughed, spat, then twisted enough to look back. The bridge wasn’t high, not really. “Can I swim?”

He frowned. Strange question. “Not while your hands were bound behind you.”

The man seemed to chew on that. Then, softly, “Thanks.”

He dragged himself the rest of the way up, sat down beside Victor, shoulders hunched, breath still uneven. He was huge . . . now that He could see him properly. No wonder the struggle had drained him. The man must have weighed as much as two of him. The memory of hauling him through the water felt even more impossible now.

Crickets filled the silence between them.

The man finally asked, “Who am I?”

He turned his head then. Really looked at him. Water still clung to the big man’s face, hair plastered to his scalp, clothes sodden, smelling of river rot. He studied him a moment, weighing the question.

“Search your garments,” he said. “Perhaps you carry a token… something that bears your name.”

The man fumbled, hands shaking, found it. Pulled the leather rectangle free, a wallet. Squinted. Too dark to read. The man sighed.

He noticed. Pushed himself up on one elbow. “Rise. The road lies close by. We’ll find a lamp, and see what truth your belongings hold.”