Darley-city. Waiton`s alternative

Chapter fourteen. "How Alex burned his the first album with a photo"

Do you remember at what point you stopped, what you read, what your thoughts were, and the reason for your reading? Electronic books, although useful for this lesson, but just like printed ones, have the property of not flexibility. Yes, there is something in the books that I don’t know about ... Is this the loneliness of the author, is it the achievements of him and his heroes, is this the desire to write down memory?

I can’t say for sure. But I guess from the fifth time about the plot, which will appear in front of me on the tenth page of the same third chapter. However, what the author wants to know from the reader, finally asking the reader directly or indirectly, is known only to two of them: not in the sense “Could you save him or her?” but “What is it? What feeling does it cause? you?"

Many writers and poets, publicists and artists of imaginative expressions are able to take the side of a loved one, for example, "the native father talks with his son or his daughter, or with them, and instructs them to behave diligently and help others." These are also very interesting cases. And there may be intriguing turns, as if the main or minor participant of the plot returns to the family or to the conversation suddenly, as if he forgot something or remembered something. Maybe this should also be taken into account in the description of situations and get acquainted closely with the psycho-type of each involved hero.

Sometimes the albums - with music, with photos, with videos, with their favorite works, and with anything, keep the secrets of life of their ultimate owner, and sometimes remind him of his bad deeds, which he also knows himself, it is not difficult to find out since everything has the ability to memorize information, meticulously, but thoroughly. Here the person himself makes a deal with his conscience: "How could I get to such a step? Why? What was the reason?" But he still does not receive answers to the questions he has created. If everything went differently to the scenario, there would not have been many mistakes that would later have to be regretted or for which one would have to pay. Conscience - a friend, an enemy, an accidental witness, it is not known what it is and how it is called. Just a conscience.

It torments and gives no peace at a strange time, stops you at the wrong stage, gives you concessions under inappropriate circumstances, and yet replaces your relatives, mentors, psychologists with you by proposing other moves. Deal with conscience - as a contract with yourself - you are in a hopeless situation, but it still makes you do it differently, and as long as you resist, nothing opposite happens.

Alex Ive knew about that, but he did not want Mr. Gregory Goodiear to find his memories of the Ivy family, that someone would publish the dates on the backs of the glossy sheets against the photographer, because there was something very personal there, he was afraid for his profession, and decided to avenge the pain, for the fact that he was forcibly forced to go to all those indecent acts, which are better not to talk about. All that remained was simply to give Jack Waiton something that did not concern his personal life, but to destroy the valuable, by all means, despite his regrets. It is impossible for someone with unclean intentions to get to the bottom of the night work in the basement of a private building. Any way you need, just need to permanently turn off the red light in the room so that no one sees, does not recognize.

So burned, charred to the limit, all the photographs and photographs from Alex Iive's first, most necessary during the hours of grief, because he so decided, he did so for the sake of his family, girlfriend, and a prosperous future. Or maybe someone in this day is studying the action, taking pictures through the window, leaning against the poster column? Rather! Burn what is left and as inconspicuous as possible!

They should not even know about it! He gathered all the pictures in a heap and threw them into a violet flame, directly into a furnace in the basement, where nothing but it could be. The flash, as in a camera, but only realistic and dangerous, and all the scatters randomly shone in the blink of an eye, dying down and burning again, like the light of a searchlight in a film projector. Soon there was not a single whole, not a single one.

Now it is necessary to close the flap imperceptibly, move the glass away from the frame, air the air, and get out of here. Alex for the third time lit a lighter above the burner, the burner lit up with a blue flame, and the guy put the kettle on, clean, not offended, made himself a paprika soup, as if by chance came, and ate a little to calm down.

How so, make an irreparable gesture! In any case, he regretted his deed. If someone comes in after him, he will have a chance to escape before something becomes known. Alex is gone. He slammed the entrance of the entrance with brick pieces and, wiping off the sticky and unpleasant pink dust, silently walked up the stone degrees, up the stairs, into the living room. It was night, but not yet morning, somewhere around six o'clock. Veronica slept, or read her favorite book until late? He did not think to go to her. Not out of fear, but just like that.