Mikita was waiting. These days it seemed he was always waiting for something to happen, for this town to wake up, for Anya to come back so she could die again and again. The night air was sharp in his lungs as he stood just outside of the halo cast by a nearby street lamp. Nights like these he hated this sleepy town, hated being stuck here with no way out. Nights like these his desire to destroy burned more intensely, making every breath a labour. Usually, a quick visit to a bar was enough to take away some of the itch, but tonight Mikita wanted, no, needed lasting results. Blood could be cleaned off, a burning house soon turned to ashes, smashed windows were just glittering dust you forgot in the morning. Mikita wanted evidence that he was here, that this undoing belonged to him. And there was only one person in this god-forsaken town that could give him that.
He’d picked this crossroads at random and now he questioned his choice. It was Militza’s neighbourhood and it was early enough that she might not have wandered into some other part of Zanuda. But then, it was always hard to guess what exactly she was up to. The ghost girl, he liked to call her, though only in his mind. He watched her as much as she watched the world around her, constantly looking for her soft places, a spot so weak that hitting it would send her right on the floor. Not that he planned on hurting her anytime soon, he just wanted to know.
Mikita played with the idea of hunting her down if she wouldn’t appear on her own, when he heard footsteps. “Here she is,” he called into the dark, “the stalker to my homewrecker.” Even if it wasn’t her, the comment should lead to an argument. Not a bad way to start an evening, either way.
The night was endless to Militza when she did it right. There was a sense of wander that surrounded the sleepy roads around her. There was a different vibe that surrounded her the moment she stepped out of her grandparents’ home, closing the door behind her and looking at the deserted place before her eyes. Everyone that had decided to go for a night out was already at the bar they agreed to meet at, rarely did she meet someone on the streets just wandering around like she did, as lost as she seemed to be and as free as she felt inside, even if her thoughts caged her in a place she didn’t want to be at. Camera inside her bag and the sound of the constant opening and closing of her lighter echoed through the streets. Her steps, though silent, weren’t as silent as the nothingness surrounding her. As she walked down her street, the same way she always did, she saw a few people outside the bars, taking a puff of their cigarettes between words.
Hands buried inside her jacket’s pocked, she walked and looked down at her feet some times and others, she looked up to the sky and at the old buildings around her. People were interesting to photograph but the never stopping aging of the streets she walked by every day was a prettier photo opportunity to her -- people, to her, had to have a certain vibe to them to make her inspired to photograph them. Some had that and others didn’t; object, old buildings and the sky always had her attention, however.
Completely convinced that she was on her own, she rummaged her bag; it was a mess inside that old, brown leather bag that belonged to her grandfather way back when. It was old, it smelled like it looked and that was something Militza really enjoyed. The small things. Taking out her rolling paper, she held it between her lips and was looking for her grinder when she heard a voice and looked up, her eyes slightly widening. Only after a second did she recognize the voice directed at her; immediately, she took the rolling paper from her dry lips but not in a rushing manner. “Here I am.” She said, slightly surprised at his appearance. “What’s up?” She could guess.