Nightmare of Mark The Marxist

Mark sat in the car as it slowly rolled through the brightly lit streets of Cambridge at midday. The sun's rays reflected off the windows and the paving stones, casting a bright light all around. A light breeze fluttered his hat, but Mark did not notice. He was dressed in his usual railroad engineer's attire, which he always wore with a slight aristocratic edge. A black jacket and trousers, a white shirt buttoned to the top, and a formal black waistcoat - all this made up his almost theatrical image.

He had his pince-nez on again, his third since arriving in Cambridge. The previous two had been broken in the most unpleasant circumstances, during clashes with people from the Union of Gabriel the Archangel. Mark had been tormented for a long time about whether it was worth spending money on such a thing again, but in the end he decided that money was one thing, and eyesight was another, because without his pince-nez he could not even see the road properly.

He nervously tugged at the end of his tie, trying to concentrate on something that could distract him from his many worries and anxieties. The street he was driving on was busy - people, cars, trucks with goods passing by. Everything seemed normal, but the feeling that something was wrong did not leave him. Questions were racing through his head: what will happen next? How will he cope with the situation he found himself in? Everything that had happened lately seemed like part of some crazy dream from which he could not wake up.

At that moment the car stopped at some building, and Mark, tearing his gaze away from the window, shook himself a little, as if returning to reality. The driver opened the door, and Mark, getting out of the car and paying the taxi driver, headed forward, already habitually adjusting the bag he was carrying in his left hand. With his right he held a black cap, trying to put it on in a hurry as he headed toward the building.

The midday sun was shining brightly on the streets of Cambridge, and the city around him was still pulsing with life, but Mark was preoccupied with his own thoughts. He fidgeted nervously with his tie, feeling his nerves tense with every step he took. He had just left a rather tense meeting, and the atmosphere of Cambridge was not reassuring. He couldn't shake the feeling that the further he went into the city, the more he felt the pressure.

Crossing the threshold of the building, he stopped in the lobby, straightened up and tried to pull himself together. He quickly tried on his cap, but did not put it on completely - his gait was more confident, but he was clearly in a hurry. There was an elegant atmosphere in the air - aristocratically dressed gentlemen in formal suits and ladies in elegant dresses stood around. They all looked calm, confident, absorbed in conversation and preparation for meetings. Several people were talking, moving towards the stairs, and Mark involuntarily felt how their gaze stopped on him. It was an unpleasant feeling when you suddenly become the center of attention in such a crowded, but quiet and noble environment. Nerves played with him, and all this time he did not stop trying to put on his cap, but a nervous movement of his hand led to it accidentally slipping off his head and falling.

The cap hit the floor with a loud click. Mark turned around sharply, trying to hide his irritation and awkwardness, but seeing the reactions of those around him, he realized that the only option was to restrain himself. There were several people standing in the lobby, just at that moment when he ran into the very man he had long expected to run into - a stern aristocrat with an expression on his face that clearly assessed what had happened. All eyes were glued to his awkwardness, and Mark's face instantly turned red with embarrassment. He leaned over, feeling how these seconds seemed like an eternity, and with effort picked up his cap, trying not to make unnecessary movements.

The eyes of the others continued to follow him closely, and he quickly, in order not to give these glances a reason for further observation, stood up and, without stopping for a second, shrank into himself. He took his cap in his hands and continued up the stairs without raising his head. He felt completely uneasy, and each step was difficult, as if his movement was slowed down, and the internal tension only increased due to awkwardness.

Not wanting to attract unnecessary attention to himself, Mark made another attempt to climb to the second floor, feeling his tension increase with each step. He held his cap in his hands, as if this object could become some kind of talisman for him that would protect him from everything that frightened him in this environment. It seems that he thought that if he held it tighter, he would be able to curb his fears and feel at least some confidence.

But when he was almost at the bottom of the stairs, before he could even comprehend what had happened, he suddenly bumped shoulders with someone, and his fragile composure crumbled. The world around him seemed to freeze, and he cried out in panic, feeling his body lose its support. Instinctively, he leaned against the white railing, trying to grab onto something to keep from falling, but his legs lacked confidence. At that moment, he felt the ground slipping out from under his feet. As if in slow motion, he saw his cap slip from his hand and, after making several circles in the air, fall to the floor.

A crowd immediately gathered around him. The aristocrats, in suits and moustaches, who had been pulled out of their conversations, looked at him as if he were a strange phenomenon, and several ladies with haughty expressions on their faces immediately froze, their gaze pierced by undisguised curiosity. However, there was no sincerity in these glances - rather a cold observation, as if his presence in this place was inappropriate.

Mark couldn't help but notice how his world began to distort smoothly through his pince-nez glasses. The faces of everyone around him began to blur and become ghostly, their expressions becoming distorted, sinister, as if they were not people but the faces of the devil himself, holding him in a trap. Ladies, men, old people - all these faces began to melt into a faceless mass, and for Mark, watching them became unbearable. They were not just observers. They were judges, pointing fingers at him.