This is the first part of my short story "Departure", please would you proofread it.
He came to the river to say good-bye. He walked on the quay until he reached the wooden bench and sat down putting his black suitcase beside him. He had waited for this moment for almost two decades. He had prayed to God for it and he would think about it every morning when he woke up and in the evening before he went to sleep. He held that hope inside himself like something sacred. Without it, he would have probably been dead.
After so many years in this city, he was feeling like a prisoner leaving a gulag. There were no guards around who would force him to work hard in a mine or in the woods, there was no fence to prevent him to escape, but still all these years he was his own prisoner, shackled with his own thoughts and feelings.
He knew that if he ever came out alive and started talking to the people about his experiences nobody was going to believe him. They were going to laugh at him and call him a madman, so maybe the best would be to keep silent, to try to erase from his mind everything what had happened in the past or at least push these thoughts in the remotest part of his brain where they would never come up again.
This peaceful river was his only friend. He would come here and cry, pray and watch the water flowing to the south. He would see fish swimming under the surface and felt envy. He wished he could jump into the water and swim and swim with them for days until he reached the freedom. In the summer he used to watch yachts sailing away, their dazzling white sails billowing in the wind.
He played with the idea to swim those few metres and climb on board begging the crew to let him stay with them, at least for a day or two. But he knew he was too proud to ask anyone for anything. They would not understand anyway and probably tell him to swim in the opposite direction to the mental hospital.
He was watching cars and people on the other side of the river. It was early in the morning and everyone was rushing in all directions, everyone struggling to come in time, reach the goal, realize oneís dreams. They were marching like a powerful, invincible army and if someone of them suddenly died, his departure would not even be noticed, because there were others who were ready to take his place, to continue the struggle.
TO BE CONTINUED