This is the third part of my short story "Departure," please would you proofread it.

Although so many years had passed, he still remembered the day of his arrival. The black canvas holdall in his hand, he came out of the train station into the sunny spring day and saw the streets of the city bursting with traffic and people. A brief wave of dizziness come over him. He was not used to see so much hustle and bustle lately.

Some days before, he was still hiding in his home, awaiting solders to burst inside and cut his throat. He could still smell the overpowering stench of gunpowder, which had lingered in the town since the war started. He still heard the cries of the beaten neighbours and women’s pleading with the soldiers to let their husbands go free.

He knew that at this moment drunken and angry soldiers were thousands of kilometres away, but his fear was still present inside him. They could be in some of the speeding cars passing by or on the roofs of the buildings, pointing their rifles with a telescopic sight at him.
Walking the streets of this beautiful and clean city and looking at these busy people who would never hear the sound of grenades exploding nearby or gunfire, he was asking himself if they cared at all that in a little country in this very moment hundreds of women had been raped and hundreds of innocent men killed - victims of a horrific and prolonged torture. Not until years later he would understand that the majority of them did not care simply because they had their own worries which took all their time and energy.

As he was walking, some of the men gave him a hateful gaze, saying something which he could not understand. About two years later, when his knowledge of the new language became better, he understood that the words told by these men were actually insults. That hurt him deeply. He had escaped hatred in his homeland and now the same hatred waited for him in this country. They did not like him only because of the colour of his hair. What kind of human beings were they when they could project their own misfortune and failure onto a refugee who by chance they met on the street?

Could that mean that evil was everywhere in the world, in every individual, slumbering until the most suitable moment and then bursting and sweeping everyone and everything with its powerful wave?
On that day he saw many beautiful women. They reminded him of a Venus, with their blond hair, tall, slender bodies and fair complexion. How he yearned to spend a night with them. Just to feel the warmth of a woman’s body beside him. Later when he finally ended in bed with one of them he felt such emptiness he had never before experienced in his life. The woman was young and tipsy and was lying motionless under him as if she were a silicone doll. There were no feelings, not even passion, just a physical contact between two bodies which would always remain strangers to each other.

He tried with another one. Unfortunately, he felt the same, even if the woman under him was pushing his body towards her, pressing her fingers into his skin and moaning with pleasure. His organ was stiff, his brain excited, but still he felt empty and lonely as if he was the only human being on the earth at that moment.

He had a few more sexual relations before he understood that the feeling of emptiness had not appeared by chance. These women wanted only his body; they were not interested in his soul, nor did they care what was going on in his homeland and his personal worries.

When they sated their lust, he was not interesting to their spoiled minds, looking all the time for new attractions. To avoid more embarrassment and pain he decided to keep away from women - a difficult decision for a man in his early thirties. He convinced himself that sometimes it was better to abstain from empty sex than experience disappointment time and again.