Olga Shomska
Short Fiction
The man who wants to kill me has blue eyes. Eyes like heaven on a cloudless frosty day. Or like a lake somewhere in the mountains. Mesmerizing, but cold.
He has a gun. He showed it to me several times. From a distance, of course. Just to let me know that he has a gun. I don’t know what kind of weapon it is since I’m not that strong with firearms.
The man who wants to kill me holds his gun in the pocket of his beige trench coat. In his defense, I must admit his perfect taste in clothing. He often wears an elegant black three-piece suit beneath his coat. His shoes are always polished to a shine. And hats. Luxury fedora hats. I have no idea where he gets them in this century, but they look stunning.
Recently, I noticed some changes in his style. It’s becoming more up-to-date. When he knows we’ll go by subway, he replaces the suit with jeans and a sweater. The beige trench coat always remains. I assume, besides keeping the gun in its pocket, he considers the coat to be a part of his identity.
The other day, I was sitting in a crowded subway car. I was looking down at people’s shoes. Sometimes, when I’m bored, I like to take a close look at people’s shoes. A pair of white sneakers with red and dark-blue stripes attracted my attention. They were brand-new, but looked vintage. I glanced up to see what kind of person owned them. Unexpectedly to me, my eyes met those familiar blue eyes of the man who wants to kill me. I looked at him, and he looked at me, and then I nodded approvingly. You know, just a short nod of approval. The man who wants to kill me got embarrassed. At least, it’s what I felt since he pulled a baseball cap over his face and got off the subway car at the next stop without waiting for me to exit.
I often imagine how he will kill me. Will he put a gun to my temple and shoot? But to do so, he has to get really close. Or will he shoot me from a distance in a dark park? Then will he shoot me in the heart or in the head? At least, I feel grateful to him for choosing such a humane tool of killing. I don’t want to be killed with a machete or other cold weapons. I feel uncomfortable imagining the cuts on this beautiful female body I possess and the suffering I might have to endure before I disappear.
It may sound strange, but I felt lonely until the man who wants to kill me showed up. Now I think I was subconsciously waiting for his appearance, suffering from boredom and senselessness. Pity to say, but the contemporary world lacks interesting things to do. I bought a cell phone since everybody owns one here. I thought I could find solace in this portable box with a bright screen. But I couldn’t not. I didn’t use its advantages. I had never registered on social media since I have no friends to follow. My contact book is still empty.
The only thing I used my cell phone for was watching films. I discovered the world of cinema for the first time in my whole existence and still believe it’s one of the best mankind inventions. I watched films while aimlessly riding the subway through underground tunnels, sitting on the grass in parks, or cooking dinner at my place.
But my biggest pleasure became watching films on the big screen. I loved to sit in an empty cinema hall and contemplate filmmakers’ efforts to recreate the picture of past times with the maximum accuracy available. I watched hundreds of movies from different periods and genres. Silent movies, westerns, period drama, noirs, science fiction, horror films, comedies, to name a few.
I got the man who wants to kill me hooked on these going-outs too. I noticed his pace behind me became brisker the nights we moved toward the cinema. He always waited for me to take a seat and then occupied a place three rows diagonally behind me. Sometimes, I slightly turned my head and studied his face, illuminated by the screen light. Having watched him for a certain period of time, I discovered different expressions on his at first sight emotionless face. I felt his affection for noir films, so I had been pleasing him by choosing films of this genre for another month. I imagined he would kill me in an empty cinema hall while watching a French noir, using loud gunfire sounds as cover, and then just calmly leave the cinema, upturning the coat collar, as if nothing happened. But it wasn’t in his style to spoil the moment of the character’s triumph with his own victory.
I started meeting men. As I said, I was rewarded with a beautiful female body that attracted people’s attention, so it didn’t take me any effort to get acquainted with someone. I met men, and we went to a closest bar to have a drink, but I didn’t enjoy their company. It’s just how I spent my time those days. I chose noisy, crowded places so as not to hear people talking nonsense.
The man who wants to kill me also got used to bars. He had no choice, actually. Some change in his appearance had happened lately. His hair and beard grew long. He looked a bit fatigued, but generally he held up well. In a bar, he ordered a glass of red wine and drank it alone at a table in a far, ill-lit corner without taking his coat off.
Once I was in a bar with a big group of people. We celebrated my birthday. I told them it was the day of my birth since it’s what was written in my document. We drank champagne while the man who wants to kill me sat lonely with his wine. I wanted to cheer him up, so I asked the waiter to bring him a glass of champagne. I didn’t want to embarrass him, just to share the moment.
The waiter brought the glass of champagne to his table, but the man who wants to kill me shook his head in denial. He put his right hand in the pocket where he kept the gun. The waiter turned around and pointed at me. The man who wants to kill me didn’t look in my direction. He just impatiently waved his hand, thus allowing the waiter to put the glass on his table. The waiter went away. I didn’t take my eyes off the man who wants to kill me and his glass until he raised it and took a sip of champagne. I wanted him to look at me at that very moment, but he didn’t.
Who’s that? asked a man who was my suitor for that night.
My husband, I answered.
I don’t believe you, my suitor said.
Then go and ask him, I proposed.
My suitor hesitated.
You didn’t say you are married, his voice sounded disappointed.
But I am, I said.
Why doesn’t he join us? my suitor asked.
It gives him pleasure to watch me from a distance, I answered.
What is he, some kind of pervert? he smirked.
No, I denied. Not pervert, but killer.
My suitor stopped smirking right away. He drank champagne from his glass to an end with one move.
Who is he going to kill? he asked.
Me, I answered.
My suitor took a bottle of champagne and filled his empty glass. I set my glass down, and he poured some champagne into it too.
You lie, he said.
It’s easy to check, I said. He always holds the gun in the right pocket of his coat. That’s why he never takes it off.
What kind of gun is it? my suitor wondered.
It is a Colt Army Special revolver with 3″ barrel, I replied.
Here I must confess that I lied about my lack of knowledge about firearms. From the very first glance at a gun, I know its type. This is my forte. So, I beg your pardon.
My suitor shifted unquietly in his chair. The whole conversation made him feel uncomfortable.
Why would he kill you? my suitor asked.
It’s a good question, I answered. Ask him and then tell me.
My suitor stood up. He swayed slightly from the drunkenness on his way to the table where the man who wants to kill me sat. My suitor came to him, keeping a safe distance, and told him something, but as he stood with his back to me, I couldn’t read his lips. Then my suitor turned toward me and pointed at me. The man who wants to kill me turned his head toward me, too. I finally found a way to catch his eye.
What happened next caught me off balance. The man who wants to kill me took his hand from the pocket where he kept the gun and slowly raised it. He put his index finger to the upper right part of his head and tapped his temple with it several times. My suitor laughed at that gesture. He exclaimed, “It’s what I thought!” while the man who wants to kill me remained emotionless. My suitor immediately believed that I was mad. After that well-known Bible case with Eve, people used to believe men more than women. This has been lasting for centuries, and I’m not sure if it will ever change. To be honest, humanity will sooner cease to exist than women will be trusted again.
In the meantime, my suitor came back, but he took a seat away from me. He whispered something to the people sitting at our table, and they gave me quick glances, trying to hide their embarrassment mixed with curiosity. It was a good time to leave, especially since their company annoyed me.
I went out of the bar without saying goodbye and breathed in the fresh night air. I decided to take a walk across the bridge over the river. I loved that road. The man who wants to kill me came out of the bar after me with his coat unbuttoned.
We slowly walked along the bridge, I ahead, he behind. I stopped and leaned on the railing. I looked at the dark water beneath. The man who wants to kill me also came to the railing and looked down. This dark, deep water beckoned me, so I had nothing left but to succumb to instinct. I took off my shoes, climbed over the railing, and jumped into the river. I wasn’t afraid of drowning because I was a good swimmer.
I was curious what the man who wants to kill me would do. But he didn’t jump after me. Maybe he was worried about his gun, which would not be able to fire after getting wet. Maybe he didn’t swim well or was afraid of water. Nevertheless, he stayed on the bridge, looking at me swimming in that cold, dark river. Later, when I got out of the water and sat down wearily on the sand, I found my shoes neatly standing aside and waiting for me.
I became bored with my long curly hair. I didn’t remember ever cutting it, but now I wanted to get rid of it. I went to the nearest hairdresser, where a woman with gentle hands cut my hair without asking any questions. In fact, she asked one question afterwards: Could she take my curls and make a wig from them?
The man who wants to kill me lost track of me. He simply didn’t recognize me getting out of the hairdresser’s, looking like a boy now. Until the end of the day, I walked alone through the city, constantly turning around and looking for him. Perhaps I had to be happy appearing on my own for the first time in a while, but I wasn’t. I missed him. I went back to the hairdresser. The woman with gentle hands assumed I had returned for my curls. But she was mistaken. I wanted her to teach me to cut people’s hair.
The man who wants to kill me waited for me near my house. Illuminated by a streetlamp, he looked lost, with his shoulders slumped. He was smoking a cigarette. I had never seen him smoking. I walked right in front of him, looking into his blue eyes. He noticed me. The smoldering tip of the cigarette he held between his fingers burned his hand. He quickly threw the butt under his feet and stepped on it with his dusty boots. It was the first time his shoes looked untidy.
The following day, I started working in the hairdresser’s next to the woman with gentle hands. I was a fast learner. Cutting someone’s hair calmed me down. I also enjoyed observing how the changes in appearance encourage people to perceive themselves in a new way. At first, I only cut hair, but then I started shaving beards. I felt weird while running a razor across men’s throats. To some extent, I felt power over their lives, but I never thought of doing them any harm.
The man who wants to kill me always remained outside. I could contemplate him through the hairdresser’s window without distracting from my work. He often stood bending his leg at the knee and leaning against the house wall on the opposite side of the street. He smoked a lot now, without hiding it from me.
That evening, I finished my work late and was about to close the hairdresser’s when the front door opened.
We’re closed, I said without looking at the person who entered.
I heard the door closing from inside. I turned to see who that was. The man who wants to kill me appeared on the threshold. I stood motionless. I had many thoughts, but I couldn’t utter a word. I squeezed the scissors in my left hand since I was a left-hander.
The man who wants to kill me entered the room. He came to the hanger, took off his coat, and hung it on the hook. Then he walked over to the chair in front of the mirror and sat down. He looked at my reflection in the mirror, and I looked at his. I came close and covered his shoulders with a hairdressing cape. The man who wants to kill me remained immobile, only his long fingers moved nervously on the armrests.
I touched the blond hair of the man who wants to kill me. It was very soft. I spread my fingers apart and ran my hand through his hair. Then I put my fingers together, taking a strand near his ear. The scissors snipped, and the first strand fell to the floor.
Olga Shomska is a writer and scriptwriter from Kyiv, Ukraine. Olga’s latest story, “Foggy Story,” was published in Terrain.org magazine in May 2024. Her “Deer Story” was published in the American Literary Review in November 2022 as a Flash Flood winner. Her story “Flash of Lightning” was published in 2020 in Kyiv, Ukraine, as part of the short story collection “Kudafudra.” Olga’s script “Island” is at the development stage by the Italian film production Bedeschifilm, directed by Giovanni Bedesci. Also, she cooperated with the Portuguese production Bando à Parte by co-writing the script for a full-length feature film directed by Rodrigo Areias, which will be shot in 2026..
Photo Credit: Carella Keil is a writer and digital artist who splits her time between the ethereal world of dreams, and Toronto, Canada, depending on the weather. She is a Pushcart Prize Nominated writer, Best of the Net Nominee and the 2023 Door is a Jar Writing Award Winner in Nonfiction. She is the featured artist for the Fall 2024 Issue of Blue Earth Review. Her photography has appeared on the covers of Glassworks Magazine, Nightingale and Sparrow, In Parentheses, Blue Earth Review, Colors: The Magazine, Frost Meadow Review, Straylight Magazine, and Cosmic Daffodil.
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