Irrational

The two men stepped out onto the footpath. Their sleek grey car sped away, around the corner and out of sight.

It was a Thursday evening like any other, the time when the sun had just set, and dusk deepened into night. Jonathan strolled along the main road, glancing longingly once at the bar before turning away toward his house. His wife was waiting for him back at home. Turning into a smaller street, he bowed his head against the wind, buttoned his suit and crossed his arms as he walked. A sleek grey car passed him at an amble, keeping in line with him for some time before turning away. There was no one else on the street.

Two pairs of well polished suit shoes sounded on the cobblestone path. The two men were of equal height, although one more muscular than the other. Their faces were indiscernible in the poor lighting of street lamps, their figures less than silhouettes against softly lit cottages. The two men turned to look at each other, before splitting off, one to the left, one maintaining his forward trajectory.

A street lamp flickered, and Jonathan walked home faster. He wasn't usually afraid of the dark, but tonight, there was an ominous feeling in his gut. He fumbled in his pockets, and pulled out his phone to check the time. Confidently pressing the power button, he waited for the screen to light up with his wallpaper, the photo of him and his wife before the Berlin Wall, arms around each other with carefree smiles on both their faces.

His phone remained stubbornly black.

There was a sound of footsteps behind him. Jonathan felt his phone slip from his hand as he turned around to look. There was no one behind him, but his phone had landed face down on the cobblestones, jaunting him to pick it up. He looked down at it for what felt like a long time, and bent slowly, afraid to see the screen. A wave of relief overwhelmed him when he realised there was no damage to his phone. Again, he pressed the power button, willing it to turn on.

Still it remained black.

He stood on the footpath for a while, a lonely figure staring at his phone held in his hand, a conventional commuter walking home after a long day at work.

Suddenly he sprinted. A knife had glinted in the reflection of his phone, just before his senses felt an approaching presence behind him. The man sprinted after him, the knife tucked up his sleeve. Jonathan was running, but every step was an effort. His joints were stiff, limbs locked, as if all his body wanted to do was freeze. He was three streets away from home, and the man was gaining on him. Nothing came to Jonathan's mind. The only thought he was aware of was run. A shadow stepped out on the intersection before him. There were two men after him. He stopped abruptly.

The footsteps behind him stopped abruptly. Jonathan didn't turn around. He walked forward, slowly. He looked around him, seeing nothing but high rise apartments and quiet, parked cars. He heard a bus roll past on the street behind them. The footsteps behind him sounded again. Approaching. The figure in front began to advance simultaneously. He was trapped. No way to run into the apartments, for the lobby required resident access. The men would seize him instantaneously if he were to try. No use calling anyone, after all his phone wasn't turning on.

Suddenly a ringtone shrieked from behind him. His pursuer paused. The figure in front of him hesitated.

Jonathan ran.

He spun around and darted past the first man, who was about to pull out his phone. He ran toward the main road, hoping that there would be someone, anyone, around. The road was empty. Footsteps pounded behind him again. He flung his phone backward, hoping that by some miracle, it would deter the two men. He would have to buy a new one anyway. His lungs heaved, and his chest burned. But the one thing he held onto was the need to keep running. Forward. One step after another. Faster.

But he couldn't run anymore. His legs gave way and Jonathan crashed into the paved path. His body seized up and curled up on the ground. The two men walked slowly up to the unconscious body.

The sleek grey car drove up beside them. They gently lifted the body up onto the backseat of the car, pulling the doors shut before they disappeared from the world.

Subconsciously, a hazy image of a balloon appeared in Jonathan's mind. He wasn't awake, he was sure of that. But everything felt real. The figures of the two men were walking shadows in his mind. It felt as if they drew out his thought, leaving him unable to think, unable to feel, unable to process what was happening to him. It felt good somehow. Relaxing, almost, as if he had nothing more to worry about. He wasn't Jonathan anymore. He was just a man. Just a hollow being, being torn apart from inside his subconscious. He didn't want to wake up, ever, from this feeling of empty bliss. So he let himself fade into it, he welcomed it, and embraced it. Swallowed into nothing.

His wife waited patiently at home, expecting the lock of the front door to turn at any moment. As 8 o'clock came and went, she began to worry. A sense of dread nagged at her. She called his phone, but there was no answer. She paced around the living room, ears pricked for any sounds of keys at the door. Silence. The once homely and mouthwatering scent of carbonara she had cooked up in the kitchen began to feel nauseous. She dialled his number again. No reply. She opened the front door and stepped out onto the street, but it was empty. Weird, for a Thursday night. It seemed as if the world was peacefully asleep. She frowned at the flickering lamp on the corner of the street, before turning back inside. She sat down on the couch, and waited. 11pm. Maybe he had gone to the bar and lost track of time. She waited. There was a strange feeling of sleep drawing her in, as if her body wanted to shut down. She forced herself to stay awake, nurturing the pit of dread in her stomach. But somehow, the twisting and turning within her consumed her thoughts. She gave in to this unconscious, dreaming of when Jonathan would come home.