Page 4 of Beneath the Light of the Moon
The vodka-filled crystal decanter was no different. A piece within the larger picture of his life. His fingers itched for it, his tongue watered for the smooth burn that was sure to erase the buzzing growing in his head.
No, no, no—
His eyes flicked over to the self-help books on his shelf. Maybe he should read those instead, hoping to God that they’d save him. But before he could stop himself, his feet had carried him over to the decanter, the liquid sloshing into a clear cut tumbler. Without even taking a sip, his nerves had already settled.
2
An Enticing Dusk
Mikko
Late summer sun warmed his back as Mikko sped toward the glimmering skyline dotting the horizon ahead of him. His meeting was in a couple hours, his clothes sure to be wind blown and hair askew, but he didn’t mind. At this point in his career, anything outside the mind-numbing repetitions proved exciting. Stuffy suits ruled his life, one moment without them wouldn’t kill him.
Although, leaving his oceanside house behind—its monolithic architecture sunken into the cliffside a safe haven for him—felt bittersweet. He’d left the city last week, the seclusion and fresh air much needed after multiple return clients, one being Tech7, grew fed up with his unorthodox ways of running the business.
His reign was ever slipping, Alek’s firm grasp on people still evident all these years later. It tired Mikko. Times had changed, people had changed, so why was it so hard to keep things running smoothly?
Memories of his childhood and of blood stained floors sent him tohis oceanside house. Cristiano hadn’t asked questions since he also had his own demons from Alek instilled inside of him. Instead, he let his friend leave, content to look after things until he got back.
Time healed all, but for Mikko it appeared time was crushing him.
Now he was recuperated and ready to take on the tasks set before him. Alas, his city penthouse would suffice, even if the city was too loud; too much. At least until the ordeal with Ivan blew over.
Until then, these moments on his motorcycle would help him cope. The engine roared below him as his body was bent over the tank, pliant from endorphins. Finally, he could think; finally he was free. The wind whipping at his clothes plucked all other thoughts from his mind.
As the dashed lines blurred beneath him, he let his mind wander. The ghosts of his past clung to him despite the speeds he traveled, an image of his mom flashing across his mind. It’d been twenty-two years since she’d been gone, but it never got any easier. Not a day passed where he didn’t think of her.
Or more so, what she’d think of me, her once precious and gentle son forming alliances with monsters.
Mikko had grown up into something terrible despite all his best efforts. Blood coated his hands, the mistakes of her past forever in his mind. Since his mom was no longer alive to encourage his true self, he’d buried it along with her. He’d transformed into the man his father had wanted instead. It was easier that way.
It was kill or be killed, and Mikko had chosen the lesser of the two evils.
Although now, he wished he hadn’t.
And maybe traces of her still lingered in him. Evident in the ways he would escape to his seaside estate, much the same way his mother would flee his father’s wrath and find seclusion elsewhere if only for a while.
It was too late now, his fate determined long ago, and his body struggling to keep up. Regardless, his spite fueled him, along with the tingling in his fingers as his eyes scanned the road before him. Excitement dulled his sense of sadness and self-preservation, his mind snapping back to the present moment.
But that was the point of these solo trysts with his motorcycle.
To think. To move on.To forget.
If only he knew how difficult that would soon become.
MOLTEN ORANGE SHIMMERED against the harsh line of the cityscape, an inevitable marriage of man-made structures and nature.
While his back had faced the sun on the way into the city, he was now able to catch a glimpse of it between the looming silhouettes of the buildings. The precipice of the moment was palatable, the burst of colors glaring as the sun kissed the horizon. The clouds were stained a hue reminding him of marmalade before cascading into rosy pinks, and at its edges, it was violaceous, a coolness settling above him.
He’d seen a sunset a hundred times before, but the uniqueness of each one called for him to stop and appreciate the moment.
My little daydreamer,his mom used to murmur.
Sighing inside his helmet, Mikko wished to capture it. The familiar shutter of his camera cementing the view before him into a picture, but deep down, he knew it wasn’t worth it. The beauty before him was ephemeral, no picture could hope to seize it and contain the colors inside a screen or piece of photo paper.
Instead, he’d tuck—
“What’s that saying?” a voice interrupted his daydream. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer?”
