Experience

 

The frenzy has ended. Faith has died. Now begins a bloody existence, day by day. The spectacular tricks of my mind will begin another dance macabre. Now there is no tomorrow; the present moment remains; as aimless and fruitless as it is precious. Oh, dear moment, how many efforts and hours would be needed for you to harvest. Joy, spark of the gods; I abandon you, aiming to remain in sorrow. Delight; a few such precious seconds will escape in another vulnerable place of betrayal in my mind. Decentralization of the smile that graces my face in the form of a mask replacing thoughts for those close to me and for strangers for whom it doesn't exist anyway.

My power is absolute for every member of me. Controlled betrayal, called vice, is exterminated to silence the rebellions of the opposition. One day I will face a decision that will never bring peace; any answer uttered from the lips of someone possessed by his dream will be mistakenly accepted as the eternal damnation of a common unfortunate who came to the wrong time and with the wrong people.

Lack of conviction and courage in word and gesture, paralysis of nerves, panic, and the unstoppable wind from the center of the skull—these are signs of the end of time. Signs that herald a time of choice, a time of alienation of the spirit. It will be the beginning of dying. The dying of masses, countless seconds; each of them will be marked by a drop of blood and tears falling incessantly. Who am I to decide? Who called me to this? The helplessness of a moment of terror endured with perseverance and patience.

Mad boy, your perseverance and faithfulness to fallen beliefs have borne fruit; reap a bountiful harvest. The field of faith has yielded lethargy, the grove of hope is full of helplessness, the vineyards of sacrifice ripe for the harvest of resignation, only the river of faithfulness has dried up, leaving only the well of memory.

Let us go, then, for with me are people from my family, so alien and helpless in advice, possibilities, support.

It is done, and I remain alone. I will walk with my mirror as long as possible, the only companion who understands every gesture, every confused word, and the silence so beloved.

I am glad that I was given an experience like no other; it gave me so much, promised so much, was support, hope, and comfort; I am grateful that I was able to experience love.

Blanka - Cat

 

"We're not here, this isn't happening."

That day, Blanka appeared in front of the house. She looked like an unkempt puff of smoke and immediately won Bibi's affection. She looked at her lazily and casually, a little wary, but confident. She took up residence in the box that held the green sneakers she'd bought on vacation in Amsterdam. The box was originally intended as a box for letters and cards sent from friends around the world, but clearly it had a different destiny. A postcard with a mermaid with the face of a 16-year-old girl had landed on the windowsill and taken up residence next to the green bottles, decorated with Aztec motifs in a fit of blues.

Blanka slept peacefully, as if she had always been there, as if she'd been born in that brown box that held the green sneakers. Her fur was matted and tangled, just like Bibi's thoughts. The girl accepted her appearance as something completely normal, asking no questions, expecting no explanations. Earlier, moths had appeared around the lamp, birds on the windowsill, sometimes butterflies in cups—this time, Blanka in a carton. Bibi cracked the window and poured her milk.

At night, she dreamed of swallowing fireflies, which then sparkled in her eyes.

***

Blanka sat in the living room, carefully observing her sleepy roommate. She knew her face well, knew she squinted when she smiled, knew she drank coffee only from a white mug. Yet something surprised her this morning. Bibi sat down at the table where her observer was sitting and muttered a few incomprehensible words.

"Nowhere, Blanka, I'm going nowhere. I keep my dreams in that jar with the green ribbon. I don't need words. I lie down to disappear. Completely." The eternal mystery of humanity, Blanka—she spoke the words carelessly, as if oblivious to their meaning, but at the same time, the way a prepared speech is delivered—isn't "why are we here?" or "is there a God?" The question isn't how to cheat death, but how to cheat existence. How to cease to exist. Do you understand? How to disappear completely.

Bibi cut a piece of bread, reached into the refrigerator, and, taking out the cottage cheese, said,

"The point isn't to destroy this cheese, but to make it NEVER EXIST, even though it's already been produced. The point is to erase not only the future, but also the past and the present. We can, of course, eat the cheese and forget about everything." She swallowed a piece of bread spread with it. "But who will eat us?"

She left breakfast for Blanca. She put on a saffron-colored dress, brown glasses, and left.

She returned in the evening. She smelled of the sea (a mix of salt, adventure, freedom, and decaying algae), masculine perfume, and the sickly sweet smell of burnt fat and sugar (she loved the donuts sold on the pier), or perhaps exhaustion. And yet, she narrowed her eyes, smiled at her roommate sitting in a dark corner, sighed, and said,

"Complete dematerialization. Can you imagine that? We're walking along the beach, and I'm craving donuts. So we head toward the pier. He laughs at me and says I'm going to be huge (you know, like in that milk commercial)." She remembered Blanca, reached into the fridge, and poured some into a saucer. "And I said, 'I just want to disappear.'" He laughs and says that disappearing while eating so many donuts is only possible in a crowd of obese Americans. And I said, "Eureka!" She looked at Blanka, who hadn't moved from the corner yet, and encouraged her with narrowed eyes. "Come on, drink your milk!"

After a moment, the amount of white liquid in the saucer diminished. The cat hadn't become huge, though. Not yet.

Nothing is lost in nature, after all.

That night, she dreamed of a magenta bathtub. Pigeons were swimming in it with her.

***

The entire day was devoted to preparations. Blanka had been given a gray-blue (dove-print) ribbon around her neck to resemble a more ordinary house kitten, but the result was quite different. She looked truly avant-garde in it, though it was hard to pinpoint what gave her that impression. Meanwhile, Bibi was constantly bustling about in the kitchen, where she had found herself with an astonishing number of shopping bags right after returning from work. The house was filled with so many scents that even Blanka began to have trouble distinguishing the individual ingredients. Despite the countless spices, sauces, and perfumes, a note of anticipation, anxiety, and excitement pervaded the air.

The entire artistic and decadent elite of the club appeared: a young girl with a funny accent, whom Bibi quickly befriended as she regularly bought donuts and cornbreads from her, a friend from the editorial office, the man behind the pier, and a crowd of Americans. Perhaps twelve people in total. In the room, lit primarily by candles, Blanka's eyes sparkled as if fireflies were just beyond her irises. This, combined with her white fur, created an extraordinary impression. Unfortunately, it was so intense that nothing could dim it, not even the exquisite dishes Bibi had prepared. She was furious. All attention was focused on the ordinary cat. Finally, however, Blanka tactfully retreated to the cardboard box where she fell asleep. The guests slowly began to come back to themselves, as if some spell had been cast upon them, and everyone was completely enchanted – by the lovely cat, the wonderful food, and perhaps by the wonderful hostess.

Apparently, the highest death rate is in the morning, and 4 a.m. is called suicide hour. But she had an empty first aid kit, and nothing terrified her more than the thought of crimson ribbons entwining her wrists. So she lay still, letting the man who went shopping for donuts fill his entire being with her scent. He lay beside Bibi, filled with her, and she with emptiness. If he was there, and within her was pure space, was there anything that could fill it? The world suffers from a shortage of space. Why couldn't she let it out and transform into it herself?

"There is nothing but silence," she mused, reassuring herself, "Nothing can fill the void. Pleasure is only an escape from existence. Only nonexistence is bliss. There is nothing more. Everything beyond that is suffering."

In the morning, when suicides are most frequent, she fell asleep. Her eyes, previously illuminated by fireflies, attracted moths. They landed on her eyelids. Black butterflies flew from her mouth.

***

"You're awful!" she shouted at Blanka as soon as she saw her after waking up. "I told you. I don't want your tricks." She was shaking and frowning as she quickly moved from the kitchen to the living room. "Don't you understand? I don't need them, Blanka! They don't amuse me!"

Bibi finally sat down at the table, bit her lower lip, and began tapping her nails on the countertop. The cat stretched and jumped onto the furniture, sitting opposite her.

"Come on, Blanka! Imagine my own thoughts following me everywhere, each one screaming at the other. I take every step clumsily. Do you understand? Every single one! I bump into things and trip over them. My whole body is already sore. I really don't enjoy tasting colors and naming them. Don't you think I'm too old for this? The unbearable HEAVINESS of existence, damn it! If the tea is bitter, I don't want someone to give me sugar, but to take it away. Do you understand?

Snippets of conversation and the smell of cigarettes hung in the air.

"Cause nobody loves me,

It's true

, Not like you do."

The conversation had been on the same topic for a month. And yet, there was still no answer. What is it? There are questions we haven't been able to resolve for thousands of years.

"Bibianka, that's not the point. Throwing out the cat won't change anything. Besides, it's adorable! Why won't you admit that there are things that give you pleasure? After all, no one has to immediately fall in love with everything you see. Besides, no one can take anything away from you. What are you afraid of?

" "You don't understand..." she tried to interrupt.

"No, Bibi, you don't understand. Nobody wants anything from you. Nobody expects anything. Magda or Artur would be happy to take a kitten. I'd gladly take one myself. Do you know what I dreamed about after the party at your place?" she said suddenly. "I had wings and lived in a tomato made of caramel. We threw a wedding for strawberries!"

When she returned home, she noticed she'd received several messages. Friends were describing some extraordinary stories and dreams. Her head was pounding, and she fell asleep.

She was floating on an ocean of coffee. It was hot and her head hurt. She had a bitter taste in her mouth and asked for something sweet. Purple whales jumped out of the brown water. She hugged one and dived with it to the bottom. Blanka was sitting on a large nutty cookie.

"I'd like to sweeten my tea," she said to the cat, not knowing why.

Blanka got off the cookie and swam to the surface.

***

In the morning, the carton was empty. A curtain tried to escape through the open window. Bibi closed it. She stretched and started looking for Blanka. She was nowhere to be seen. She had clearly gone out somewhere. The girl took a jar with a green bow from the shelf and poured herself some tea. It tasted of strawberry, not bitter.

That evening, Artur called. He said he was very sorry he'd taken a liking to Blanka and would miss her. He promised Bibi he'd get the palest kitten in the litter.

"It'll be completely white, you'll see," he assured her.

He didn't give any details about the accident. She didn't want to know. She only said that cats have nine lives, so now she was only gone for a moment.

"She took a break," she laughed.

She dreamed of green sneakers. They danced and jumped. "I shouldn't have bought them in Amsterdam," she thought. Like everyone else in the city, they were giggling. They were giggling the loudest, in fact.

***

The palest kitten in the litter simply had a white star on its forehead. The rest of his fur was black. His name was Philip. He didn't bring dreams, didn't grant wishes (he claimed goldfish did that). He was a true nihilist.

The tea was sweet.

Therapist cat

 

She'd been drinking from that tin cup for 15 years. She drank milk or chocolate. She hated coffee. Once, trying it, she'd burned her lip. "Never again," she thought, and she'd stuck to her resolution her whole life. Until now. The little tin cup had disappeared. Without a trace. In despair, she searched every corner, looked under sofas and armchairs. The cup was gone.

Only now did she realize how old she was. Her hands began to ache. She felt as if there were tiny iron filings in them. Her bones ached. Nightmares came—tin cups giggled, tin cups danced, a huge whale made of tin cups opened its mouth to devour her. She didn't buy a new cup. She didn't drink anymore. She found solace in apples. Every day she went to the market, buying fresh fruit. She liked it, but with every bite, the pain and despair grew stronger. She longed for the cup. She knew something important had disappeared with him.

The doctor had prescribed her black coffee. Strong. Surprising herself, she grabbed a container from the shelf, poured four teaspoons, and poured boiling water over it. The hot liquid filled her lungs, and the irritating smell crept into every corner of the apartment. She bit her lip until it bled, determined not to cough. She inhaled the pungent aroma.

Two hours later, she lay crying. She had broken her word. Now she was nothing, nothing. She bit her lip and swallowed blood. It was a childhood habit. She loved the taste of metal. She used to bite her hands, scratch scabs, but nothing tasted as good as blood from her mouth. She did all this out of pain. Often, she was surrounded by mountains of copper coins, scattered baby clothes, empty rice and chocolate wrappers. It hurt her. A lot. To relieve herself, she often went to the market and watched them slaughter chickens. They pluck feather after feather. Or fish. She longed to be a toothless fishmonger, killing carp on Christmas Eve. This dream fishmonger of hers always had cold hands.

She sat at a scrubbed walnut table. Coffee tears slowly welled up in her eyes. When she drank chocolate, they were chocolate. She didn't want to swallow them, but she did so involuntarily. One thought haunted her. Why, I have no friends, didn't I become a fishmonger? She couldn't remember who she was before drinking from the tin cup. Memory gaps were becoming more frequent. It didn't bother her. She was glad she could Not Remember.

Her hands ached more and more. She couldn't carry bags of apples anymore. She bought a fish. A live one. A carp. She placed it in a red bowl. She looked at it for a long time. She took a knife and cut the thread of life. The eye still looked pleadingly. Even when it was dead. Her white bathtub turned crimson. She dipped her hands in. They didn't hurt. She tasted blood. She smelled death. Out of despair, she fell asleep, slumped over the bathtub.

She had a fever this morning. She thought it would be worth visiting the neighbors. Maybe they would help her forget about the fish. At night, she dreamed of an eye staring angrily. A fish eye. She tied ribbons around her hands. Red. Her favorite color. Red. Scarlet. Blood. She tested what she would look like dead. Suddenly, she untied the ribbons. She couldn't be dead. Never.

The wind blew away the shutters. She stared out the open window. She played with an unsharpened pencil, jabbing it into her fingers. She put on a scarf and gloves. She went out. She walked through the barren fields behind the house. She loved the autumn wind. The slamming windows, the broken glass, the overturned trash cans. Sometimes she collected shards of glass. She made stained glass windows from colored glass. Someone told her they were pretty. She stopped. She went to a spice shop. She bought a vanilla and cinnamon stick. And some cloves. Everything was slightly bitter, pungent. She headed for the café. She grabbed a sugar cube and left. She always felt like she was doing something wrong when she took sugar.

She went home and ate a cinnamon roll. She sat down at her desk and took out her Memories. A card from Berkeley, an old car, a candy wrapper. Truffles. Her friend Nostalgia came. She hugged her tightly. "You're the only one," she whispered. She held Nostalgia's hand for a long time. Nostalgia helped her to bed, made her dinner. The next day, she disappeared. She didn't cry anymore; she had grown accustomed to her friend leaving. And to the fact that Memories were enough to summon her.

On the doorstep, she found a yellow note. She liked it very much and decided to put it in her pocket. On the note was a pencil drawing of a cat's head. She liked cats. She had never had one, but she used to feed stray cats. She put the note away and went shopping. She bought milk, cat food, paprika, cinnamon, and throat lozenges. After leaving the store, she wondered why she needed the milk and food. Completely unnecessary. Suddenly, her hands ached. She heard a purr. A cat. The cat was sitting by the store, staring at her with dark eyes. Her red scarf was reflected in those eyes. She was startled. The red scarf looked like fresh blood in the cat's eyes. She looked at the shopping bag, felt pain in her hands, and pulled out the heavy milk and food. She left it on the sidewalk. She quickened her pace. She turned around, and the cat was sitting on an overturned carton, opening the food with his paw. ABSURD, she thought. She walked away.

The next day, Cat was sitting in her window. He crouched quietly, waiting for her to notice him. She was just eating breakfast. She was drinking strong coffee, not flinching, acting as if she liked it. She was nibbling on wheat bread rubbed with garlic. Cat wasn't sure if she liked it. Her face was completely expressionless. Could he live with someone like that? He had a red ribbon around his neck. It contrasted nicely with his gray fur, and besides, she liked that color. He was an individualist, always wearing a ribbon around his neck. Cat watched intently, sometimes closing her eyes. The lady of the house where he was to live read Cortázar's "Stories." She could read them endlessly; they were never boring. Even though she knew each one by heart, she discovered new threads and meanings. She didn't take her eyes off the red book with its greasy fingerprints. Cat was patient, waiting.

She raised her head. Cat sat opposite her. The cat from the shop. It seemed to her that he was smiling and very happy. In fact, the cat was glad she had finally noticed him. A feeling of joy swept over her, for the first time since losing his cup. She gave the cat a piece of cold fish. He didn't care whether he ate the fish or something else. He wanted them to finally start talking.

It was hard to get her to talk. All the cat's attempts ended with either milk or sleeping on the porch. She would lie there for hours and purr. She would purr to herself, thinking the cat couldn't hear. She was wrong. The cat knew everything she did. He knew that she couldn't really stand his ribbon, that it constantly reminded her of blood. He knew how much she missed Nostalgia. He couldn't stand his reflection in the shop window. Yet, even though he knew everything, he couldn't get a conversation going.

He decided to bring on the dream. He worked slowly, carefully preparing. He wanted a tin cup. Lots of tin cups, colorful scarves. Not a single red one. And he. He would have the ribbon. But navy blue. Sad. Navy blue is a sad color. The saddest. Everything appeared in her dream.

In the morning, she drank tea. The cat had prepared it first thing in the morning and sweetened it. She hadn't even noticed. She hadn't fed him. She left. She had intended to be hit by a car, but she quickly forgot about it. More and more often she wanted to kill herself, but suicidal thoughts immediately fled. As if there was a hole in her head. A big one. A huge hole. Or a door. It was the cat, she thought. The cat had opened the door to my thoughts. Now they go in and out with impunity. They never stay. Cat, why do you wear those ribbons around your neck? She realized she was standing on an island at a crosswalk, that she had already missed so many green and red lights. Only now did she notice that when the green light was about to fade, to give way to red, it flashed. It reminded her of something. Flashing... she didn't know what. She would never know.

She'd done something terrible again. She'd bought a live fish and killed it on the sidewalk. No one looked at her, no one asked why. She'd been thrashing the dead body against the sidewalk. She was furious. At the cat and at herself. She wasn't supposed to kill any more fish! She went to the store, bought cat food, milk, a gift box, hand cream, and a ribbon. She returned home and threw the cat breakfast. The cat watched her carefully as she went to the garden, took the fish carcass out of the bag, cremated it, and put it in the gift box. She tied the box with a ribbon. Navy blue. She dug a shallow hole in the ground. She buried her guilt. It was gone now. She cried at the grave. When she got back to the apartment, the cat was already waiting, an aspirin in its outstretched paw. "Thank you," she said. She fell asleep.

The cat knew perfectly well what a burden and a problem she was. Still, it refused to leave. It had thought about leaving many times, but this was never the right moment. He wanted to be with her, he felt he had to, that she couldn't cope without him. He was right—whenever he set off on short hikes, she'd sob, slumped over the bathtub, biting her nails and sharpening pencils. The cat saw her hands shaking, how she buried her face in her hands. Yes, I have to stay, he claimed, maybe I'll leave another time. Now I'm needed.

Winter had arrived, and the gray, ugly slough had turned into a beautiful, white fluff. The cat sat contentedly by the window, watching the birds. Such weather was perfect for walks and conversations, he thought, licking his lips at the thought of their first, honest chat. But it wasn't so. The cat, who could do anything, couldn't provoke conversation. Even when he brought dreams, they didn't talk about it.

They never spoke once in the winter.

Only one spring evening, she sat by the fireplace, took the cat on her lap, and told him everything—about the secret of the unsharpened pencils, about Nostalgia, about the fish. Despite the warmth in the room, Cat shuddered at the cold of her hands. He listened intently, his ears twitching with interest. He knew everything she said perfectly, but he knew his thoughts would not wander now. He decided to leave that night. He had opened the door with his arrival, and now he would close it with his departure. It would always remain ajar, so she wouldn't forget.

On March 20th, Cat died. She knew that Cats have nine lives, and she was glad that he would now help others. Finally, she understood that Cat had come to help her. And he had. She carried his cold body out into the garden and buried it in a shoebox. On the day of his funeral, Cat wore a green ribbon around his neck.

When she returned home, she found his tin cup on the table. She knew perfectly well that Cat had found it somewhere in the recesses of her apartment. She also knew why he had waited until his death to give it back.

10

 No one present in the apartment noticed that, at that moment, a huge snake had quietly and silently emerged from behind the bedroom door, slithered out of the apartment, unmolested, and slithered toward the open chute.

Sewers, yes, the sewers would get into the house.

Yes, the scarf was a lucky shot. They probably would have arrested him anyway; the letter—deliberately signed "M," after all—was proof enough, lying abandoned next to the dead body, a white, motionless, silent, accusing piece of ordinary graph paper, but the man knew better. It was always worth adding something to further incriminate the victim, to ensure they had no chance. No way, Marcel certainly wouldn't get away with this. And that was how it was supposed to be. Exactly. You got what you deserved. You both got it.

Oh Laura, Laura, it could have been so beautiful.

Nothing, job done.

You have to find the snake. It will come in handy...

Because now...

Now...

Now it's Maise's turn...

The laughter, the empty, dry laughter of a madman, hung in the air for a long time. Like a knife someone had suspended in the smog-thick air.

I had succeeded. And I would succeed again.

9

 

Cameras, microphones, tiny chips – Laura knew absolutely nothing about any of this. She knew nothing about it. If the letter writer had written that it was here somewhere, then it was definitely here somewhere. It was there because it had to be. And only Marcel had the keys to her apartment (Laura had long since forgotten that she had given them to Maise, and besides, what interest would Maise have in her death? Laura was far more valuable to her alive. Besides, for Maise, Laura and their so-called "friendship" were the perfect foil; she knew nothing of her double life, and through her friendship with Laura, Maise was safe. After all, someone like Laura would never be friends with a whore).

Suddenly, a shuffling sound reached the woman's ears. It grew louder, increasingly stronger. As if the beast knew she had finished reading and had decided to make itself known again. Or not so much to make itself known, as to force its way into the kitchen at all costs. No, it's impossible. I can't die. I managed to hold on that much, Laura managed to think, when suddenly a huge head appeared through the crack in the door, with red, glowing eyes. A snake. It had succeeded. It had finally caught its prey. Slowly, unhurriedly, as if knowing it had time, as if knowing that finally the woman wouldn't escape, that this time she wouldn't escape, the beast moved forward, swaying, repeatedly thrusting its tongue in and out with a terrible hiss. At the same time, its eyes, burning with the fire of hatred, never left Laura's. You've run enough. Enough of this game, it seemed to say. I've finally caught up with you. And this time I'm not going to let you escape. This time you won't slip away. You're mine. And Laura knew it was true. She couldn't escape anymore. She had nowhere to go. She sat, squeezed into a tiny corner from which she could only move in one direction—toward the beast. So she sat still, unable to look away from the beast's burning eyes, and helplessly waited for what was about to happen. She waited for death. And it finally came. After long, seemingly endless hours, exhausted to the point of exhaustion, Laura realized that now would come what she had feared. She knew she would die now. The snake slowly, almost imperceptibly, moved toward the paralyzed woman. So this is what it looks like, Laura thought. This is what the end looks like. A moment of pain, and I'll be gone. I'll be gone forever. Maybe Marcel will regret it a little, maybe even he won't... Because did he really love me? Does love exist? Funny—what a philosophical mood at such a moment. Laura lifted her head and took one last look at the kitchen. Then she turned her gaze to the snake, which, in one swift movement, lunged at her, tightening its grip around her neck. Desperately, instinctively, Laura began to thrash, trying to pull the snake away from her neck. But it was too late. The hour of revenge, desired by her mysterious pursuer, had arrived. Slowly, she lost all trace of resistance, until finally, her limp body froze in the beast's immense grip. There was no life left in beautiful Laura.

"Beautiful, wonderful," the man muttered to himself as the snake lunged at the woman. That was it. I'd waited so long for this, but now I know the wait was worth it. What a magnificent sight. Bravo, bravo, my little one. You did brilliantly. Now run. No one can find you.

As if hearing the man's distant whisper, the snake slid off the dead woman with a lightning-fast movement. Slowly, unhurriedly, the reptile slithered toward the opening and disappeared into the depths of the apartment. Where? Only he knew. Safely hidden, he waited 

to see how the situation unfolded.

Marcel was already there. He parked right next to Laura's car—well, the car in the garage wasn't proof, after all, she'd flown to Florida—and walked toward the guard. The guard knew him perfectly. "

Hello, hello, Mr. Marcel. Are you here to visit Miss Marshall?

Yes, Mike, exactly. Is she at home?

Unfortunately, I don't know; I just started my shift. But we can find out soon if you don't want to go unnecessarily.

There's no point, really. I'm sure she's waiting for me," Marcel laughed, a high, unpleasant chuckle. "

As you wish, Mr. Marcel." Even if the guard was surprised by the unusual behavior of a well-known and highly respected businessman, he didn't show it. His face remained a maskless mask. "Would you like me to take you upstairs? I'll call the boy right away..." With that, he made a slight movement of his hand, and suddenly, out of nowhere, a young man in an elevator operator's uniform appeared in front of Marcel.

No, really, it's not necessary—Marcel knew he had to see Laura alone, that no one could stop him. "I can manage perfectly well myself; I know the way.

As you wish."

Unaware of the guard's watchful gaze digging into his back, Marcel headed for the elevator. As soon as the doors closed behind him, the guard quickly turned to the phone. "I'll call the police, please. Yes, yes, I have a very strange case here...

What if I've made a fool of myself? What if she's not here? Nothing, I'll explain to her somehow that I missed her so much, that I got the dates mixed up," Marcel muttered to himself, getting off the elevator and quickly walking down the corridor. "No, it's no use, Laura knows me well enough to know it's impossible. Nothing, I'll think of something. I'll manage, as always..."

He didn't notice that the couple they passed on the way were eyeing him with great suspicion. ("He was all red and muttering to himself," the old woman would later testify. "'I'll manage, as always,' that's what he said," the old man would say in court...).

There it was. Finally, her door was there. But wait, what was that supposed to be? A white silk scarf hanging from the doorknob—a strange thing. You usually hang one like that in exclusive hotels when you don't want the servants (or anyone else) to bother you when you have a guest. Marcel felt a surge of rage. So that's it!! This bitch is cheating on him!! Definitely with that zero!! He'll show her now!!

Furious, Marcel ripped the scarf from the doorknob and kicked the door open with a single kick. He rushed inside, unconsciously noting that every possible light in the apartment seemed to be on. Dashing through every room, he reached the closed kitchen door. "So they're here," he thought. "How could it be otherwise? Laura never closes the kitchen door. It's somehow so cold in my apartment when the door is closed..." he mentally mocked his unfaithful lover.

In one fluid motion, he pushed the door open. "It's me, darling," he called, "and how are you having fun at my expense?" But Laura couldn't hear him anymore. Ironic, he was a fraction of a second too late. Just a few moments would have been enough, and who knows, maybe Laura would still be alive?

Laura? No, that's impossible." Marcel, distraught, knelt beside the limp body of his beloved. In his hands, he was unaware, he was still holding a silk scarf, wide enough to perfectly match the mark left on the woman's neck. Laura? Why are you doing this? I know, I know, I shouldn't be checking you out, come on, open your eyes, stop playing with me.

Police, please don't move.

Police? But how, from where—" Marcel stammered. "Anyway, it doesn't matter how or from where, it's good that you're here. My fiancée, she needs help...

You're under arrest." The officer pulled Marcel to his feet, simultaneously twisting his wrists behind his back and handcuffing them.

"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say from now on can be used against you in court. You have the right to a lawyer. If you can't afford a lawyer, one will be assigned to you ex officio." "Have you understood your rights?

But gentlemen, this is some kind of mistake, a terrible misunderstanding.

Have you understood your rights?

What rights are you talking about? She needs help.

Have you understood your rights?"

Yes, yes, I understood what you said. But what's the point, why are you arresting me?

Dead. Strangled. – the policeman who had just been leaning over the dead body of a woman – stood up and glared at Marcel. – Don't think that just because you are, you'll get away with this. ("He was involved, it was obvious we caught him at the last minute," the policeman will say in court. "So young and pretty, she could have achieved so much more," the other will testify. "He showed no remorse at all.")

But it wasn't me, gentlemen, I came in here and she was already lying there. Understand.

Sure, sure. And the shawl was just hanging on the door, wasn't it? And you took it without even knowing why? And on top of that, by some strange, incomprehensible coincidence, it fits perfectly with the marks on that poor woman's neck, right?

Yes, yes!" Marcel shouted. "It was exactly as you say. I arrived here and that shawl was hanging on the door." When I walked in, Laura was already dead. I swear!

Man, that was ironic. Let's go. You're under arrest.

But for what? For what?

We're charging

 you with first-degree murder.

8

 

The man sitting on the couch stared at the screen in front of him with growing satisfaction. First, Laura's desperate, frantic efforts to get rid of the snake at all costs, her frantic escapes, each time ending in failure. The idea of the burnt matches also proved to be a bull's-eye; that fucking bitch had almost gone mad. And finally, the letter. He knew how afraid Laura was of mice, which was why he'd resorted to this very trick. And now she was going to read it. She was going to find out. And that was the point. He wanted her to find out what he wanted her to know. Was she really so naive that she thought she'd find out the truth? Well, in a sense, it will be true for her. So it will be some kind of truth. Laura Marshall's truth. But, as someone once said, there are as many truths as there are people. So, for her, the truth will be what she reads. Because it will be the last thing she reads in her life. In fact, she doesn't quite know with her eyes yet, but she surely senses it subconsciously, it will be the last thing she does in her miserable life.

The woman picked up the letter she had just dropped on the dresser. The words, its very beginning, reeked of hatred. Who could be so cruel? Who could hate her so much? And why? There was only one way to find out. She began reading again.

"Laura.

As you can see, I've decided on the most neutral beginning possible. I've decided, that alone might tell you you're dealing with a man. But that's probably nothing new. You've probably already guessed that much. After all, you're a very capable and quite intelligent young woman. I'm curious what else you've managed to guess by now. Let me guess. You probably know you're going to die. Oh yes, you know you're going to die, that there's no hope left for you. You probably also guess that this death won't be easy or pleasant at all—is there such a thing as an easy, light, and pleasant death? People seem to think that simply falling asleep and not waking up is precisely such a death. But what do we really know about this? What do we know about what a person experiences when they sleep and never wake up? Are they suffering? Are they asking for help? We don't know, we know nothing about it. But shh, enough about that. It doesn't concern you. This is just a little digression, perhaps to force your frantic brain into the effort called thinking? You'll see if it worked. Well, me too. You probably already know that I see your every move."

Laura glanced around nervously, as if her enemy might be lurking somewhere in the corner, the one who had brought all this upon her, the one who had made her where she was now, the one who had made her what she was. As if someone—she claimed to be watching her—had been with her in this apartment the whole time, was with her now, in her kitchen. He probably is—she thought, but certainly not in the sense I'm thinking of. Cameras, of course—she muttered to herself. Why didn't I think of that? I wonder if there's a microphone here, then...

"Yes, yes, don't look so surprised. What, haven't you figured it out yet? I don't believe it... I thought you were a truly intelligent woman. Well, it seems you haven't quite lived up to my expectations. Anyway, let's get back to the letter. I just wanted to add that I not only see you, but I can hear you too... You like that, right?"

I knew... but what good is knowing that to me now?

"You're probably wondering who has any reason to hate you as much. You see, there's someone you've hurt. Yes, I know, that won't tell you anything either; you've hurt more than one person in your lousy life. I'll try to put you on the right track. I'm a man. You've known me for a while now. The circumstances in which we met—well, I won't reveal that to you, because that would be too easy. You claimed you loved me, that there was—and never was—no one else in your life besides me. A lie, like so many others. Right? You claim you're not lying? And what about the date of your return from Florida? And about your mother, who is alive, well, and definitely not going to the other world? The only thing ailing her is a slight "mental disorder," right? Or, to put it simply—Mommy has a problem... And you're not supposed to admit it to the world... That's why Mommy had to die." And about Daddy, who doesn't want to know you, who's hiding from the police of the entire world somewhere in the mountains... wait, where was that? Well, you know that... No, I'll just write this so you don't think I don't know. The Alps, right? Should I also tell you the reason he's hiding?

"A small child, small, tiny...

Kiss me, Daddy...

That's not Daddy, that's a stranger..."

I don't think I need to write more, do I?

I wonder if you know this too? You know it? I mean, I'd actually like to know if you know this firsthand, or just what Daddy did in his life? Yes, I wonder if one call to the police would have been enough to get him taken care of? But that's a topic for later; I'll think about that after I've dealt with you, bitch!

Well, it's time to go. Both this nice—you have to admit—letter and your miserable, worthless life. Goodbye, Laura, and believe me, this decision didn't come easy. But it's better this way. Better for you, because you won't be able to hurt anyone anymore, and better for me, because I'll finally be at peace. At least I hope so.

M."

Laura sat frozen, the letter long since dropped to the floor, and she still couldn't believe what she'd just read. What cruelty, what brutality, what a complete lack of humanity emanated from every word of it. Whoever wrote it, he hated her as much as possible. "M"—that meant nothing to her. Marcel? No, that was impossible. Marcel loved her, not hated her. But that "M" at the end was haunting her. You'd better admit it, it's more of a few details in the letter that are troubling you—a few minor details, as the author put it, that only Marcel could know. Unless it was someone Marcel had told. But that was impossible. Marcel was the epitome of discretion, a typical representative of his class, a typical resident of the City, and they never gossiped. I'll go absolutely crazy if I don't stop thinking about it. But the intrusive thoughts wouldn't leave her mind. It was as if she had suddenly become powerless, as if she had no influence whatsoever over what was happening to her. As if she had suddenly found herself outside her body, and certainly outside her mind, passively observing what was happening there. If we assume it wasn't Marcel, then who? No one else was possible. Only him.

Marcel raced through the streets, deserted at this hour. Just a few more minutes and he'd be at Laura's. He'd then discover that his beloved hadn't deceived him at all. That this was all, in fact, some terrible mistake, some bad dream. Or perhaps he was about to wake up from that afternoon nap he'd so enjoyed? Despite the proof in the form of the passenger list, despite the call to the airport confirming that, yes, Mrs. Laura Marshall had been on today's 7:30 a.m. flight from Florida to California, despite all this evidence, so obvious, Marcel still harbored a lingering hope that this was just a bad dream, some mistake. "I think I'm getting melodramatic and repeating myself," the man muttered to himself. "I'll soon find out who's right." But he knew it would be a mere formality. In his world, in the City, in the circle he moved in, everyone knew him, from the cleaning lady to the nice lady at the airport to the CEOs of major corporations, no one dared to make fun of him. Hearing who was calling, everyone immediately began to behave as if the king himself had graced them with his attention. Because that was exactly what he was, wasn't he? He was a king, even if only in his own backyard. But he was. That's why he knew what he'd heard today was true. The only question was how this anonymous figure knew so much? And why wasn't there a hint of servility in his voice, so pervasive in everyone he spoke to? No, it seemed quite the opposite, that he, Marcel, was impressed, that he was the one submitting, that he was the one asking. He'd never encountered such a situation before, had never been faced with such a fact. It was a new, strange feeling, and Marcel knew she definitely wouldn't like him. I'd know soon. I'll deal with you in a moment. I'll show you what it means to deceive me," Marcel muttered under his breath, completely unaware that he was talking to himself. If anyone who knew him saw him now, they would surely be horrified. Marcel was nothing like the serious, dispassionate businessman he once was. His impeccably styled hair was all windswept and disheveled from nervously running his fingers through it, his suit was rumpled from constant fidgeting and impatiently straightening, his tie, which felt like it was about to strangle him, had long since been forgotten in a dark corner of the car. But that wasn't important; suddenly, somehow, he no longer cared about his appearance. He had to know, he had to, at all costs. Nothing else mattered, everything else ceased to matter. Only that one burning, restless desire remained. He had to know... Otherwise, he felt he would go mad...

7

 

...And that's exactly the point. – The man sitting on the other side smiled the venomous smile of a lizard waiting for its victim, who knew that victim was already its own. That's the whole idea. To drive you almost to the point of losing your mind. Almost, because you have to know what will happen to you when my child catches you. Almost, because you have to feel. Almost, because then you'll know who did this. Almost, because Marcel has to suffer just like you...)

Trembling all over and sobbing desperately, Laura tried desperately to calm herself. Each time, with each outburst, with each scream, it became increasingly difficult for her to maintain her mental balance, increasingly difficult for her to regain her composure. I open, she decided. “No matter what, I open.” She gritted her teeth, full of apprehension and fear, but at the same time full of hope. Hope for rescue? Hope that the box would turn out to be empty and not filled with something disgusting? For whatever it was, I open.

She opened it. She looked at what she held in her hands. The box was empty. Frantically, chaotically, she began opening another, and another, and another. And each one proved empty. Empty, empty, empty. As empty and dead as only a matchbox can be. Or rather, a matchbox. She reached for the last one. It felt heavier than the others. She gently lifted the lid... She held her breath... There it was, there it was, something inside!! Matches!! Finally!! I'm saved. But the sea of euphoria quickly turned into an ocean of despair (it's amazing how quickly a person can shift from one mood to another, noticed the probably no longer conscious part of Laura's mind, over whose thoughts and considerations Laura no longer had any influence. Or maybe she never had? Maybe she just imagined she did?) when she saw that the matches, every single one of them, were... yes, burnt out!! Quickly, without thinking, without the slightest trace of hesitation, Laura, like a madwoman, as if in a trance, began blindly opening the remaining boxes one by one. Each one, however, turned out to be filled with matches, every last one burned out. Desperately, she scattered the boxes' contents across the kitchen, digging through them on her knees, desperately hoping that at least one match would turn out to be unburned, that the madman who had locked her in there had missed at least one, that she still had some glimmer of hope. As the boxes in the drawer dwindled and the pile around them grew, as the clean kitchen floor became covered with burnt-out matches, Laura began to understand that her last hope had failed. That there was no hope left for her. That she would die now, in a moment, in a few hours—what difference did it make, after all? She would die because it was her destiny. She would die because someone had planned it. She would die, and she would never know why. She would die, and it would not be an easy or light death. It would hurt. Like never before in her life. Only two boxes remained in the drawer. The woman reached for the second-to-last one and—though she had never been particularly religious—began to pray. Or rather, she began to whisper isolated sentences and words from various prayers she remembered from childhood. I beg you, God, save me. Don't let me perish. Hail Mary, Our Father, O Merciful Allah, and the like crowded the lips of the distraught woman. At moments, she didn't know what she was saying, whether the words she was uttering made any sense at all, whether the sentences she was stringing together actually came from the same religion, whether what she was saying wasn't just a figment of her sick imagination, driven mad by terror. But none of that mattered, if only God—or any God, really—would agree to save her. With the last vestiges of her consciousness, Laura realized that this wouldn't happen. A familiar knocking sound from behind the door made her decide to open the second-to-last one. The result, she had been convinced from the start,It was the same as with the previous boxes. Burnt-out matches lay at the bottom, sneering at the terrified woman. "See," they seemed to say, "see? You failed again. We're on top again." Laura, as if in a trance, reached for the last box. Slowly, with the practiced movement of a madman, she decided to open it. For a moment, she held her breath, for this time there were no matches in the box. Something white flashed before her eyes. A mouse? Dead or alive, it didn't matter, Laura was terrified of mice. She was terrified of animals in general. Probably all of them, anyway... With a disgusted movement, she shook the contents of the box onto the floor, far, far away from herself, simultaneously jumping back to a safe distance. The white fragment didn't move, didn't even twitch. Somewhat reassured by this, the woman moved a little closer to the thing. "Even if it was a mouse, it was definitely dead," she told herself. If she were alive, she would have moved by now, right? She tossed the question into the distance and fell silent, as if expecting an answer that would never come. As if she still held onto some hope that this was all just a bad dream, that she wasn't alone. She wasn't. In fact, the increasingly louder, stronger, and more impatient knocks coming from behind the door made it clear to Laura that she wasn't alone, that there was someone else with her, someone who hadn't forgotten her, someone who was still trying to find a way to get to her. Fortunately, the beast seemed to be stuck in one spot, because for some time now, the knocks had been coming from the same spot constantly. This wasn't much consolation, but it meant that either there weren't any holes in the kitchen wall—which Laura didn't really believe—or the holes were well hidden. Too well, if even the snake hadn't managed to find them yet. Laura knew, however, that if only one was out there, sooner or later the beast would find them, and then she, Laura Marshal, would end her young life. What if? There was no "if" here. There was definitely a loophole. Laura didn't believe anyone who wanted to kill her would overlook such a detail. Why would he bother with such thorough preparation of a trap if he were to forget the most important thing—that Laura could safely wait out the danger in the kitchen? No, that was impossible. Even if he hoped she would go mad or starve to death, it made no sense. After all, someone would be curious tomorrow about her whereabouts, why she hadn't shown up for work. Besides, Marcel was coming tomorrow. The thought of Marcel made Laura start sobbing again. A small, innocent lie, not really a lie at all, but a slight twist of the truth, a concealment, a change—a tiny, single, single detail. Who would have thought it would cost her so dearly? She didn't want anything bad, she just wanted to rest, to show herself to her beloved rested, radiant with beauty and prettiness, just the way he liked her best.She meant well. Why had it backfired on her? Why? But now was not the time to dwell on that. Laura knew she had to move and see what had fallen from the matchbox. It seemed it wasn't a mouse, as something still hadn't moved, but perhaps the animal was simply asleep? Or unconscious? Or fainted from being locked up for so long and having a significantly reduced supply of oxygen? For a moment, Laura felt sorry for the potential pet. Even if she didn't have much affection for the mouse—assuming it was a mouse and not something far worse, she muttered to herself—she saw no reason why the animal should suffer so innocently. Besides, that wasn't important. Whatever the reason, the contents of the box, sprawled in a rather obscene position, were still motionless, Laura had to check it out. And she had to do it as quickly as possible. If that thing were to wake up and move any moment now, she was sure to have a heart attack. Maybe that's for the best, Laura thought with unexpected irony. "It'll spare me suffering. And the anticipation of death." Gently, as carefully and quietly as she could, the woman, almost paralyzed with fear, crawled over to the piece of fur lying on the floor. First, she gently nudged it with the box she held, but when she saw that the fur hadn't even moved, she decided to turn it over a bit more boldly. Beneath the fur, which, fortunately for her, turned out to be fake, she found a note attached. A plain, blank, folded piece of paper. She lifted the fur and unhooked the note, simultaneously tossing the fur into the sink. She automatically picked up one of the overturned chairs and sat down at the cabinet. Gently, as if afraid to disturb something unknown, she unfolded the densely written piece of paper. A letter. It was a letter. Addressed to her."It will spare me suffering. And the anticipation of death." Gently, as carefully and quietly as she could, the woman, almost paralyzed with fear, crawled over to the piece of fur lying on the floor. First, she gently nudged it with the box she held, but when she saw that the fur hadn't even moved, she decided to turn it over a little more boldly. Beneath the fur, which, fortunately for her, turned out to be fake, she found a note attached. A plain, blank, folded piece of paper. She lifted the fur and unhooked the note, simultaneously tossing the fur into the sink. Automatically, she picked up one of the overturned chairs and sat down at the cupboard. Gently, as if afraid to frighten something unknown, she straightened out the densely written piece of paper. A letter. It was a letter. Addressed to her."It will spare me suffering. And the anticipation of death." Gently, as carefully and quietly as she could, the woman, almost paralyzed with fear, crawled over to the piece of fur lying on the floor. First, she gently nudged it with the box she held, but when she saw that the fur hadn't even moved, she decided to turn it over a little more boldly. Beneath the fur, which, fortunately for her, turned out to be fake, she found a note attached. A plain, blank, folded piece of paper. She lifted the fur and unhooked the note, simultaneously tossing the fur into the sink. Automatically, she picked up one of the overturned chairs and sat down at the cupboard. Gently, as if afraid to frighten something unknown, she straightened out the densely written piece of paper. A letter. It was a letter. Addressed to her.

Subconsciously, she noted that the tapping suddenly stopped, as if the snake had decided to give her time to read the letter. But consciously, she didn't pay much attention. The letter was more important, suddenly the most important thing in the world, more important than anything had ever been. It's funny how a person's priorities can change so dramatically in such a short time. How insignificant things become things that overshadow the entire world. How something usually done automatically, something you don't pay much attention to, begins to require more and more effort. To the point of madness. But she didn't have time to think about it. She had to read the letter. She knew she would find out now. That she would finally find out who had done this to her and why.

"Dear Laura," she read. "Or maybe I should have written 'Dear Laura'? Or maybe 'Slut? Whore? Fucking Slut? I don't know. Take your pick. You can cross out what's not necessary. Well, you don't really have anything to think about. And I guess you're not capable of thinking much anymore. Well, I guess we should start from the beginning, this time properly

."