In Between the Aftermaths

—He became lost in misty byways, in times

reserved for oblivion, in labyrinths of
disappointment.

The night the former little Nazi Fred Evander Wayne had
a wet dream, in which was bizarre and melancholic, as if
something epidemic finally cursed on him and he said, I
no longer give a damn if I die, nonetheless, afterwards
shivered as he did of course, for he, whom had been
forbidden to say the very word by himself for the last
two months, suddenly realized that he did mean it,
which was, he no longer gave a damn if he died. Hence
during this peculiar summer, Fred Evander Wayne’s daily
routine was as still as faith, masturbating before getting
up; then brushing his teeth. Having breakfast. Viewing
newspapers. Reading. Lunch. Nap. Swimming along the
stream back in the wood. Supper. Reading. Crying,
crying, crying till he felt no adjunction between he
himself and the enormous boiling mouthes of this world,
till he was too tired to think of anything else and finally
every single object stopped functioning. Meanwhile he
touched his vulnerable little self underneath the faint
blonde curly hair and started to weep again. That was
the time he had a wet dream.

The only good habit he’d formed during the domination

of Hitler and all the other Death Eaters in the city was
that, he said to Andreas Christ later on and smirked,
both at his following words and the situation where Fred
Evander Wayne and Andreas Christ sat together sipping
liquors, he said that he kept reading. Andreas was an
underground comrade, in case anyone is interested in
this bizarre union, who was one of the most enthusiastic
fellows during the happy Manor-period. Not those
wizard fantasies, but actual literature, written by Jews or
non-Jews. At first, Shakespeare and Oscar Wilde,
merely to kill the time as well as to make compensation
for all those lost years when kids universal were having
nightmares trying to comprehend in between those
awkward sentences in the name of world-class literature
while he was nourishing his attitude as a prick, yes, Fred
continued to speak in a satirical tone, a prick throughout
the whole childhood and teenage years, as he
summarized after finishing Coriolanus for a third time in
the muddy grey wood owned by Evander Wayne Manor,
why, when he said reading it was the literal meaning,
which is to read out loud in the deserted isolation
without disturbance, in order to re-create himself, by
doing so he had no alternative but to figure it out what
he was and here was the answer: a perverse little prick.
As Fred Evander Wayne bursted out the second P letter,
Andreas Christ began to laugh, repeating the words, you
prick; then the words passed through to and fro, went
on like that until they were both exhausted at last: no,
you prick; I’m not the one who tried to insult me even
before we got to know each other, you prick; no better,
anyway, you prick; you prick; you prick, I’m tired.

Silence kept going on for quite a long time, but then

Fred pulled another glass of wine and Andreas asked
out of nowhere: what did you get. It took Fred a few
seconds to understand Andreas’s question and when he
eventually did so, he exclaimed ‘oh’ and fell back into
silence. Nothing, Fred muttered as he gathered up the
gut from the wine with another expression popped out:
in vain, after this gigantic hurdle was taken away, all his
words embarked on fluently, to put it briefly was that his
solely finding being the truly hope was dead. He then
explained that all those so-called literature works,
exhibiting numerous kinds of rascals and tragedies,
gave out the information, interpreted as, the rascals
remain rascals, if not so then more rascals to be born,
the tragedies tragedies, the miserables miserables. No
solution, not in one single work of them was handling
out a practical solution. From then on Fred Evander
Wayne knew the truly hope was dead, ‘…the future for
me, for you, or rather to say for all of us, is turned into
eyeless stubbornness and tranquil darkness. ‘ However,
reading stayed as a good habit, at least for the sake of
deriving inspirations of how the world will end. This
specific habit, along with three meals, swimming,
masturbating, crying lasted till now. And that was
supposed to be the end of the story.

Till he had a wet dream that night, and he fathomed out

out of the blue that he never again cared his death. Fred
Evander Wayne woke up with his shirt wet through and
for an instant he thought he somehow rumbled the
essence of the cosmos, and, alas, forgive himself,
forgive all sanities (or was it insanities? ). Embrace the
world. He got up and tiptoed downstairs into the wood
with his bare feet. There the ever-draining well was, cap
on, welcoming him to step on it and jump until it
crumbled as he fall into the slim hollow. Eternally. So he
responded to the welcome and stepped on the cap,
ergo there is no difference between life and death. At
that very moment, another thought came across him
that what would he eat for the next breakfast if he died?
The perpetual difficulty of this question lied in front of
him, pounding on him so hard that he virtually scared his
shit out. He trembled down the cap immediately and
with his moisturized eyes he looked through the wood
and that’s how Andreas Christ came into his sight.

No one would ever visit a person in the middle of the

night, Fred wiped his eyes, swallowed his snivels and
pretended to be tough to Andreas again. Your mom said
I could visit the Manor anytime I want, Andreas talked
back directly and added, after the court, where I stood
out and defended the Great Evander Wayne Family. But
Lucius didn’t, and Lucius is the old duke and the dad,
and for your information, my mom is watering artificial
flowers nowadays, twice a day, replied Fred far away
behind from the well, thinking of the man right in front of
him yet so remote, this Saint Christ, like Amazing Grace,
unconsciously saving his life again. Shut up Evander
Wayne, Andreas bossily climbed over the hedge and
walked right to the house, mumbling, I’m tired.

The Manor was a total mess, as was mentioned before,

Narcissa was watering artificial flowers twice a day,
Lucius somehow managed to show up exclusively at
meal time, while Fred carried on with his daily routine
and all servants gone, for there was neither mood nor
money left for them to return to their work. All money
squandered, as Fred described when he go down to the
cellar for wine, if not sent to college for renewing then to
the Ministry of THE DOOMED. ‘War reparation’, Fred
knitted his brows when saying the sentences. Then he
came up with two bottles of Vin Noir and Andreas
uttered, I thought you said there was no money left. No
money, but lots of lots of wines, Fred smiled foxily, and
so the conversation began.

The talk ended with the dawn and Andreas Christ, thank
Melin, ultimately revealed his intention for coming. It
turned out that our little Christ was eerily afraid of
compliments and flowers sent to his door every day. So
Fred, all-messed-up Fred, smashed all the four bottles
they’d drank to the dregs in the past three hours with his
wand and sweared, screw you; you’re drunk, Fred; I may
be drunk, but you are a prick, literally, the end of the
conversation, now sleep.

Andreas Christ woke up when the sun was boiling the

ground and all glass bottles were shattered, covering the
floor, sunk in deep, deep crimson liquid. (Is that blood? )
Like the valley of tears. And when he tried to get up to
seek the source of this catastrophic scenery, he saw
Fred Evander Wayne was kneeling down on the floor, or
to say his face was stuck to the carpet, collecting glass
fragments with his bare hands, where a part of the
crimson liquid came from. You could have used some
cleaning spells, any one of them would work, Andreas
grumbled and had hardly finished the sentence for Fred
stopped to glare at him, viciously, implying that in the
cause of dignity no Evander Wayne should be able to
handle cleaning spells. But your hands, Andreas stared
back and replied with his eyes. Despite this, Andreas
jumped out of the armchair ,squatted in order to collect
the seemingly innumerable pieces of sharp-edged tiny
glasses. Just as they were doing this, Fred sensed
something rough and round under the carpet, and as he
lifted the woolen carpet, a graceful shinny Mark
appeared. The next one pressed under the armchair on
the right side. Eventually they set about searching for
Marks instead of collecting shattered glasses. They went
all over the room, coats, shoes, in between the sheet
and the mattress, fireplace, curtains. (Why would anyone
hide money in these places; I don’t know, we used to be
rich, I just lost them somewhere. ) For the whole
afternoon they sat on the woolen carpet, surrounded by
spraying glasses, surrounding the money they’d found
and counted them. Seventy one Marks, thirty nine
Pfennigs. That’s all.

Fred suddenly had a mood for crying, ironically didn’t

know what for, thus he strode over the glasses and
opened the door, had that kind of arrogant expression
on his face again just like an indulged kid as he would
have in the past years, he said, now you must leave, I
cannot stand staying with you in the same room
anymore. And here Andreas was standing in the middle
of the room, looking through his eyes. After a moment
he said, I lied to you, Evander Wayne, I came here,
because for the past six years I couldn’t help thinking of
death every morning and night, but all of a sudden this
thought vanished and I felt so hopeless…so worthless.
So you came for us for you thought this Manor was
deadly? I didn’t, you said it, I had been wandering to
and fro ever after the war and all I wanted was to speak
to someone that had been in the same situation like
mine, who understood that a victory is a fiasco, and this
brutal, brutal world…

Fuck you, Christ.

The true end of this story went like this. Andreas Christ
asked, would you come back to school next semester?
And Fred Evander Wayne replied, I don’t know. I don’t
know either, said Andreas Christ, I’m not sure I can
handle all the gazes and lights. Whatever, for me, from
now on, all places shall be no man’s land. Maybe I
should go, Andreas bent. You shall go, hours ago.

Then Andreas walked to the door, ‘see you later.’

Fred watched Andreas go and went back to his

armchair. Besieged by thousands of spraying glasses
and hundreds of glittery coins, he randomly picked up a
book. Faust, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, and
MEPHISTOPHELES smirked, ‘he now will seat him in the
nearest puddle; The solace this, whereof he’s most
assured: And when upon his rump the leech hang and
fuddle, He’ll be of spirits and of Spirit cured. (To FAUST,
who has left the dance:) Wherefore forsakes thou the
lovely maiden, That in the dance so sweetly sang?…’