A short short story I wrote during boring classes, translated to English by Manuel.
The Mistake
“Hey! Freeze!”
Crap, he's found me! Panting heavily, I jumped out of my hideout behind the stack of old, dusty boxes in which old, ridiculous costumes gathered dust. It was a stupid idea to seek refuge in the old warehouse. Just like the criminals in cheap whodunnits, which for some unfathomable reason, always climbed the nearest ladder, stairs or ramp to escape upwards into a certain trap, I had chosen this narrow hall, which guaranteed a rapid end of the chase, as my hideout. I was trapped, but I couldn't give up. I couldn't fail. Not again! Completely out of breath, I started to run. Bloody spleen! Who invented this useless organ anyway? It was probably some criminalist, to make pursuits easier. As soon as I had broken my cover, I heard the voice of my pursuer again.
“Freeze!”
At this moment I realised that the previous call had been merely a feint to flush me out. After the choice of the warehouse as my hiding place, this was my second mistake within five minutes. Damn it, I was getting old! What now? Where to go? I held tight to the package and ran along the monstrous, infinitely long racks which were arranged neatly in a parallel fashion in much the same way that pick-a-sticks are not. My pursuer had given up shouting in the meantime and preferred to use his energy for chasing me. I heard his steps and heavy breathing, it seemed as though he too was worn out. I thought the steps were getting closer. How much of my lead was left? No idea. Could I risk casting a glance backwards? Better not, I was stumbling more than I was running anyway. The danger of falling was just too big, and that would set an abrupt end to the chase, the mission and thereby, my future.
Further along the racks I reached the end; before me was now the eastern wall of the old building, massive reinforced concrete from better days, when such construction was still affordable. This construction was not designed to be penetrable in emergencies. A glance to the left: darkness, endless lines of racks, boxes and clutter. A glance to the right: more lines of racks, a window at the end and an old forklift. A forklift! Since early childhood I was obsessed with these things and tinkered around with them, perhaps I could give him the slip with this vehicle! I must admit, a helicopter would have had more style, but it should be enough to get rid of an exhausted pursuer.
In the heat of the moment I turned towards the forklift and kept running. 70 metres left. Behind me, I heard the squeaking rubber soles of the man I was trying to lose. 50 metres left. The racks passed me on my right. I held my side in pain. The midday sun blinded me through the windows, 15 metres high, which had long been broken. Why were they not at ground level? Like this, they were of no avail to my escape; they even hampered it due to the sun. Another 25 metres left. The realisation hit me like a slap in the face. Why would the owner have left a perfectly operational forklift behind while all other valuable equipment had been sold and taken away? Yes, I knew about these machines, but all the knowledge in the world was futile against the ravages of time, ever gnawing on the metal, chewing up the gaskets and making them brittle. Would I be able to get it running fast enough? Did I even have time left for trying? The probability was rather slim. Damn it, my third mistake! How much time was left? While still pondering the consequences of my previous foolish mistake, I made the next by impulsively turning my head around and, upon seeing my pursuer, tripping up on an old supply line I had not previously seen due to the bright sun. I faltered, tried to regain balance and found shortly thereafter that I was going too fast to be able to break my fall. Instinctively, I threw my arms in front of me to absorb the force of the impending impact. Well, that was the idea. Here, the idea was separated from practice by an old metal bar supporting the rack to my right, which caught my arm. Obediently complying with the law of conservation of impulse, my body reeled around the metal bar in a near-perfect circular motion while I tried to hold on to it with my right hand. Fifth mistake. Apparently, the old metal bar was not suited for such a jolt and, with shock, forgot to remain stable. It broke apart at a particularly rusty spot. I fell and found myself lying on the side between the rack and its still intact neighbour. Time started up from its sleep and stopped its ravaging of the now broken metal and slipped off into a corner; I had to watch in slow motion as the few boxes still remaining on the broken rack called attention to themselves through their gravitational force, while the rack slowly gave in and bent over me in a menacing manner. I crawled backwards until I touched the other rack. The first boxes fell off the shaking construction, which bore a striking resemblance to the tower of Pisa, as if it were glad about the exercise after all these years of waiting.
All I could do was to duck and cover while old pieces of clothing, hat racks and parts of mannequins from the burst boxes scattered all over the floor. Glass splintered; I felt a piercing pain in my left arm. I glanced to my right and looked into the terrified eyes of my rival, who had also reached the rack by then and was forced to watch the arguably quite spectacular demonstration of physics. The package! Where was the bloody package? I must have lost it during the fall! A boiling hot shiver ran down my spine, for a moment I even forgot the collapsing monster above me.
Bang! The last cardboard box missed my head by mere millimetres and settled for my shoulder, emptying a plethora of old stuffed animals over me. Lucky me! Meanwhile, the rack had casually leant against its neighbour and looked down at me in an almost snarky manner. “Gotcha! I win!” like the catcher in a game of tag who has forced his fellow player into a corner from which there was no escape.
“Gotcha! I win!” my pursuer shouted and waved the package at me triumphantly. I crawled out from beneath the rack, picked myself up and brushed the dust off my trousers. I stared at my brother mischievously. “Alright, you win this time.”, I said, feigning resignation but snatching at the package filled with gran's delicious biscuits, which he still held up into the air. My brother was faster, pulled it away and ran towards the exit, laughing. What a tosser! I held my aching arm and took up the chase. As soon as he had reached the exit, he turned towards the old, abandoned mine, presumably in order to look for a hideout for him and his loot.
His first mistake...
