Security (The strange figure in the park)

I came across the strange figure in the park while taking a leisurely stroll with our dog along the benches. What caught my eye was the person sitting there wearing a loose-fitting coat, despite the temperature being over 25 degrees in the shade. In such circumstances, you might think it was either an exhibitionist or a junkie who was constantly shaking. But the figure tucked into that oversized trench coat didn't look like either of those things.

My dog sniffed his way towards the bench, which surprised me, as Oscar doesn't usually approach people. Taking this as a sign, I sat down next to the person in the coat.

First surreptitiously, then openly, I took a closer look at my neighbour. But I was rather thrown off balance. 'He' or 'she' – that was the question, as I couldn't tell for certain. Was this a tall woman with masculine, austere features, or a very slim, delicate-looking chap? After all, long blonde hair with wavy curls is worn by both sexes.

In any case, I cleared my throat and asked: 'Are you feeling unwell? Is there anything I can do to help?' Admittedly, not the most sensational way to start a conversation, but my pale neighbour looked as if he was about to topple over from his seat.

As the person slowly turned their head, I saw very light grey eyes veined with red, staring at me wearily. 'Thanks. I'm feeling pretty rubbish, actually, but no one can help me. It's just my job, you see.' The voice was very pleasant and somewhat matter-of-fact, but friendly.

I'd already given up on the idea of heroin and things like that. Whoever this person was, they were simply alarmingly tired. I introduced myself, and this was acknowledged with a nod and the words: 'Everyone calls me Gaby.'

'Oh', I said. 'From Gabrielle?' A strange expression flashed across my seatmate's tired eyes, but they shrugged as if it weren't important.

I then asked Gaby about their job, which was clearly very demanding. 'I work in the security industry. My job is to make sure nobody gets hurt.' I found that incredibly interesting. So I realised I was dealing with a sort of bodyguard and mentioned this. Gaby tilted their head slightly, revealing bright blonde curls, and nodded in agreement.

'I suppose you're on duty round the clock', I said sympathetically. After all, the immense exhaustion I could see was, to some extent, explained by that. 'You could certainly say that', replied the figure in the trench coat. They then continued hesitantly, casting a strange sidelong glance: 'Back then, I mean a very long time ago, it used to be far less exhausting. The people we were protecting were easy to guard. We could intervene quickly, and everyone was grateful for our service. But today', Gaby closed her eyes in anguish for a moment, 'today, the people we're supposed to protect are turning against us.'

'Turning against you?' I echoed, bewildered. 'Yes. Just imagine: there are so many dangers that at least three guards have to be assigned to every person under protection. And even then, we can't really protect them body and soul.' I briefly thought of high-ranking politicians, or even gangster bosses, who could die in a hail of bullets at any moment. But Gaby was already speaking again. 'From the moment they can move, every single person is striving to crawl towards their own death. Just look around!' With that, my new acquaintance pointed at the children munching chips and other snacks from the park kiosk as they walked past.

Then, their index finger swept around and pointed to a young man with a glazed stare who had just popped something into his mouth and was washing it down with beer. Next, Gaby pointed to a group of very overweight pensioners chatting about the patisserie they had just left. Another sweep of their finger towards a newspaper in the bin revealed the words 'Ozone Hole' in the headline of the lead article.

'You see', Gaby whispered hoarsely, 'unlike in the old days when I started this job, you can seriously harm yourself with every breath, every movement, and even with your thoughts. And almost everyone does. Many voluntarily. Many also do it because they have no other choice. And that's not even counting war and violence.'

I noticed that Gaby's trench coat was bulging considerably at the back, and wondered if there could be such a thing as a hunchbacked bodyguard, when the figure rose from the bench.

'The break's over. I have to relieve my colleague so he can take a short break. It was nice to be able to get that off my chest. People like us hardly ever get the chance to do so. Have a good day, and take care of yourself. We can't really do that in times like these.' The weary face took on a determined expression.

With slow movements, my companion unbuttoned his coat, paused and smiled faintly. 'Oh yes – Gaby comes from Gabriel.' With that, he threw off the trench coat to reveal the wings that were now visible. The image then faded and I found myself alone with a flimsy raincoat, which the dog was sniffing while wagging its tail.

© 'Security (The strange guy in the park)': a fantasy short story by Ilona E. Schwartz (translated by Izabel Comati, 07/2026. Image credit: A certain type of gangster, CC0 (Public Domain Licence).