Short story: The Wanderer's Night of Madness

It was a cold, rainy night in the city, the kind that makes even umbrellas feel dreary. The streets were deserted, and the sound of raindrops echoed like a distant drum, beating out the rhythm of loneliness. I, a wandering old man with more wrinkles than teeth, was huddled in a corner of the stairway connecting the subway to the surface. My eyes, glazed over from too much cheap wine (which, by the way, wasn't so bad if you thought about it), rested on a couple that looked like something out of a low-budget romantic movie.

The couple was deep in animated conversation, their faces lit by a spark I had long since forgotten. They spoke in whispers, as if sharing secrets of the universe, and their laughter floated in the air like soap bubbles, bright and ephemeral. At that moment, I felt a pang of nostalgia. What would they know of life? Of the cold nights without a roof over my head? Of the looks of contempt I received as if they were confetti? The couple's laughter echoed in the air like a cruel reminder of what I had lost: love, companionship, human warmth.

As I sank into my dark thoughts, a noise broke the romantic atmosphere. Suddenly, as if summoned by an unseen conductor, a man disguised as a giant bird appeared. It was not just any bird; it was some sort of cross between a parrot and a nightmare. The costume was so ridiculous that I couldn't help but let out a chuckle despite my situation. The man was running at full speed, synthetic feathers fluttering behind him, chased by a group of gang members who looked like something out of a B-series.

“What a way to get a workout!”, I thought as I watched the scene with growing interest. The costumed man was shouting something about “freedom” and “bird rights,” but his message was lost amidst the shouts and derisive laughter of the young men following him. At that moment, I wondered if I was dreaming or if I had really fallen into some sort of collective madness.

Meanwhile, another group of gang members was approaching from the other side. The scene became worthy of a theater of the absurd: two rival groups facing each other, as if they were waiting for someone to shout “Fight!”. The tension was so palpable that I could almost touch it; although I didn't try, because I had enough of the blows life had dealt me. The air was charged with electricity; I could feel the emotions fluctuate between fear and adrenaline.

And then, as if it was all part of the script, both groups pulled out their weapons: knives, razors and chacos. At that moment I thought, “This is going to be more exciting than the last movie I saw on TV in the hospital!” The gang members started running down the stairs, ready to give each other a beating worthy of the best wrestling matches. I sat there, stunned and amused at the same time; it was like watching a masterpiece of mayhem.

The costumed man was still running, now faster than ever. He seemed to have forgotten his message about avian rights; his only concern was to escape the impending disaster. Amidst the tumult and deafening screams, I was still there, caught between two worlds: the world of young love and the world of gang rampage. The couple watched with wild eyes as I wondered whether I should intervene or just enjoy the show.

And then... darkness. I don't remember how I got to the hospital; maybe it was the emotional impact or I just passed out from shock. When I woke up, my body ached worse than a Monday without coffee. Every muscle seemed to scream at me for having been part of that madness.

A doctor approached me with that serious face that only doctors know how to put on. “The police want to question you about what happened,” he said in a serious tone. I looked at him as if he had asked me if I wanted to do yoga in traffic. Me? Questioned? But I could barely remember how I had gotten there! Confusion reigned in my mind; fragmented memories danced before my eyes like elusive shadows.

As I waited for the interrogator, I realized that tonight had been a truly tragicomic spectacle. An absurd mix between Shakespeare and Sesame Street, where dreams and nightmares intertwined in a chaotic dance. I thought about how I could tell this story: “A night where love met madness,” I could begin.

So there I was, a drifter caught up in a story worthy of being told in a bar while everyone laughed and cried at the same time. Maybe this experience would give me something more than physical pain; maybe I could find humor even in tragedy. As my mind wandered between blurred memories and imaginary laughter, I decided I couldn't let this opportunity pass me by.

So as I prepared to face the aftermath of that crazy night - where love and madness collided like runaway trains - I decided that maybe it was time to rewrite my own story. After all, if life gives you lemons... make lemonade! Or at least try to make a good anecdote to tell anyone who will listen.

At that moment I understood something fundamental: every encounter has its weight and every decision its repercussion. Maybe this chaotic night would be the starting point for a new chapter in my life; one where I could laugh even when the going got tough. And that's how I began to map out my plans to leave the hospital not only with physical scars, but also with stories to tell - stories filled with laughter and tears - because at the end of the day, that's what makes life worth living: finding beauty even in the most absurd and tragic.

Source of the images.
Image created with Starryai.