ANGELIC MADNESS

(...) because it all seems like it's just a dream, a nightmare

because it all seems like it's not true

because it all seems like it's absurd

because everything here is decaying, rotting, and there's nothing permanent here

except the longing for permanence

because I'm no longer of this world and maybe I never was,

because it seems like there's no salvation for me here

because I can no longer love with earthly love

because noli me tangere

because I'm so tired, indescribably exhausted

because I've already suffered

, because I've already been, even though it happened in madness,

crucified most literally and most physically, and how deeply

and truly it hurt me

because I wanted to save everyone and the whole world from all evil,

and if that didn't happen, then

I can't find my fault in it

because it seems like there's nothing left for me here (...)

*excerpt from "Letter to the Rest" by Edward Stachura

She sat down in the corner of the room bathed in darkness. The faint light of the streetlamp streamed majestically through the window, barely illuminating the high table where Anna's family ate dinner every day. She recalled the faces of her family members: her mother, father, and sister. She hugged her knees even tighter to her chest. After a moment, she felt herself rocking back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth, ignoring the fact that her hands, which clasped her knees, were scraping each other with their nails. Drawing blood.

She felt no pain. The snippets of conversation she kept hearing carried her away, causing her to lose her physicality completely and begin to float through unfamiliar landscapes. She gasped for air into her dematerialized lungs, and her hands flapped aggressively, mimicking the movement of birds' wings. Now, she felt free. Freer than the birds flying in the sky, freer than the grasshoppers hopping across the meadow, freer than the leaves that now, blown by the wind, flew from one side of the street to the other with every gust. She was free – for those few hours she was alone in the house.

Her mind was blank, and her mouth tasted of the green jelly beans, the packet of which she longed for every day.

"...Don't you think it would be better to leave?" she heard a soft, green voice.

"...You should have said it differently...it would have been easier to leave..."

"...That was supposed to be a question..." the green voice grew agitated and slowly faded to black.

"...And that was the answer..."

The conversation ended, but another quickly filled Anna's mind. The woman descended to earth and found herself back in the dark dining room, which always served as a room for entertaining and eating. Her leg began to twitch vigorously, and her eyes rolled upward. She always did this when the green voice spoke. He always had that something... that something green. He was different from all the gray-black figures that had passed through her life.

She accidentally bit her lower lip until it bled. A small voice began to sing in her ear. A lullaby, or a story about a happy dream. An eternal dream? It was the same for her. She dreamed of a happy dream—meaning, of leaving.

None of her dreams had been happy. Not since she was fifteen—since the last time an angel had appeared to her. To this day, she could feel that white robe and the fresh touch of the snow-shimmering wings in which she had found solace for so long. Now everything was gone; for five years she had had to navigate her paranoia without a helping wing.

She stopped rocking.

Back and forth. Now she lay down on the cold, parquet floor, smelling of floor polish. A strange twisting sensation in her stomach. Comparable to those sweet butterflies typical of being in love. Yet entirely different. Causing not happiness but retching. She made a snow eagle in the stinking polish. She flailed her arms and legs with all her might to wipe it away.

It didn't work. She got up and opened the window, feeling caged. Icy air filled the room. She took off her blouse and let down her hair. She stood before the mirror hanging on the east wall of the dining room. Black eyes pierced the equally black gaze of the half-naked woman on the other side of the mirror.

"Who are you?" she whispered softly, stifling the chattering of her teeth. Several leaves fell into the room – previously free, now trapped.

The figure behind the mirror brazenly repeated her question.

"You don't want to answer!?" she blurted out angrily. Hatred dripped from her lips and inflamed her gaze.

"...you don't want to answer?..." the Woman sneered.

Flames of anger ignited in Anna's eyes. The same happened in the eyes of the Anna on the other side of the mirror. The real Anna screamed and grabbed a vase of flowers from the wine rack. The other Anna did the same, terrifying the other.

"You want to kill me?

" "...you want to kill me?"

The real Anna broke down and threw the Chinese vase at the mirror with all her might. Water and glass sprayed across the room. She could have sworn the other Anna smiled triumphantly before Death. I wonder why?

It was a good thing she didn't sing anything. Anna didn't like music from her world. She didn't like any music from the other world either. Except perhaps for the Angel Music, which the Angel sang to her before bed. Even though she knew the entire lullaby by heart, she couldn't sing it, for it seemed to be in a completely different language.

She stroked her alabaster arm. She was so pale—almost as pale as the Angel.

She went back to the window, which had already flung open. Goosebumps appeared on the alabaster, and Anna felt as if her body temperature had dropped by several degrees. But was that a bad thing? She had always been far too hot.

She gathered up all the leaves, then with another gust of wind, released them. She was happy because it was wonderful to give freedom... but why didn't anyone want to give her that freedom? She walked around the room for a moment, her eyes lingering on every photograph hanging on the wall. She saw her parents' wedding photo and hundreds of individual photos from their marriage. There was little Cornelia, and even little Anna. There were even those photos she'd ordered hidden and destroyed a few years ago. She considered Marcin's phase closed. She hadn't seen him in five years. She hadn't seen any of her friends in five years... since her Angel had chosen a different path.

She didn't really remember Marcin anymore. She only knew he was tall, had a scar on his stomach, and loved having his ear bitten. She never did. Maybe that's why the Angel left?

She also remembered that he always smelled of his signature cologne and lavender. Probably from those round objects that kept moths away.

She stopped by the hot tiled stove. She pressed her naked body against it and finally felt warmth. The hard tiles against her skin and the flames blazing within. She drifted off again.

"...Don't you think it would be easier to leave it all and go to the morgue?" "

...No, I think I'd rather go into the fire... just like her...

" "Me?" Anna whispered into the darkness, clinging closer to the stove. She felt the boiling tiles searing her skin. She could feel it! But she wanted to know.

"...Yes..."

An almost mystical feeling filled the room and mingled with the madness that had previously filled the dining room.

"I'm not going into the fire!" she shouted into the silence.

The wood in the stove began to crackle, loud enough that Anna jumped away from it. Frantically, she ran to the window and began inhaling the frosty November air. Something began to sting her lungs.

She leaned her elbows on the windowsill. She looked outside. A wealthy house, from the ground floor of which a naked girl peered out—it caught the attention of passersby. They discreetly glanced toward the house, seemingly casually glancing around.

Again, a few leaves flew into the room. But she quickly released them out the window.

She began to cough.

Amidst the unidentified whispers and screams, she coughed her lungs out. She didn't close the window, however.

Someone started talking to her again.

The phone rang. She debated whether to answer it or listen to the voices. After a cool calculation, she chose the phone. Maybe it was an Angel?

"Hello..." but not an Angel. A rough, male voice came from the receiver.

"Hello!" she cried. A moment of silence on the line.

"Have I reached the Niepołomskis' apartment?

" "Man is a wolf to man! Man is a wolf to man!

" "Excuse me? Do Mr. and Mrs. Niepołomski live here?" he said, terrified. He probably thought it was some crazy housekeeper, a secretary, or simply a mistake. And here's the daughter. One of the two. The one who's been locked up for five years.

"But don't let yourself get carried away! But don't let yourself get caught!" Anna growled into the receiver.

"Goodbye," the man announced in a solemn voice, and then the receiver snapped and a dull tone rang. She simply wanted to be nice.

"One man is another man's sword! One man is another man's betrayal!

But don't let yourself be killed! But don't let yourself be betrayed!" she finished, still holding the receiver in her hand. "People react strangely to poetry," she thought, and lay down on the table. On a linen tablecloth with delicate blue flowers on the edges.

Then she heard the click of the lock and the door.

Just like the crack of an executioner's axe falling on the neck of its victim.

She pretended to be asleep.

A moment of fragrant silence. The voices of the strange beings faded.

A moment later, Anna's father entered the room with a bunch of keys in his hand.

"How did she get out!?" he shouted, oblivious to the fact that Anna was asleep.

A moment later, Mr. Niepołomski's wife ran into the dining room and instinctively put her hand to her mouth.

"I, I..." she began to stammer. "I didn't know she'd come out! She always sat in her corner and didn't move. I don't... I don't understand..."

"Look what she's done?" The man of the house pointed to a broken china vase and a shattered mirror. Then to the open window, and finally to his daughter lying on the table.

Her mother approached her, putting on her strictest mask, but when she saw her black eyes full of incredible curiosity and adoration, she gave in.

"Daughter, why?" she nudged her shoulder. The girl stood up. "Cover yourself!" Her mother handed her a sweater that had been thrown on the floor.

Anna got down from the table and looked at Father. She smiled broadly.

"Anna, why did you leave your room?" Mrs. Niepołomska began, while her husband stood by the stove, staring blankly at the two women.

"Mom, leaves!" Anna rushed to the window and began gathering the yellow or discolored leaves lying on the polished floor. "Look! They're already free! I wish I could be that free too! The voices sometimes promise me that... but I don't believe them anymore! They only know how to lie!" She threw them out the window, drawing indulgent glances from two pairs of eyes.

"Enough!" Mr. Niepołomski shouted.

Anna walked up to him and began staring at him with her eerie, pitch-black eyes.

"One man is a puma to another! One man is a plague to another! But don't let the puma! But don't let the plague to you!" she recited directly into his face.

"Don't play games! You're ruining my reputation!"

Anna turned her head and looked at the stove. She ran to it quickly. She pressed her whole body against the old tiled stove.

"Reputation! Never mind! Look how warm it is here!"

"Marek, do something!" Anna's mother shouted.

"But what!?

" "I don't know... I'm calling Dr. Mttschilman! It's his turn today!" Mr. Niepołomski nodded, and she went to the phone.

It was already dark outside, and the house was full of loneliness. Anna definitely preferred to be alone... she could have stayed in her room and not opened the door, because a strange world lurked beyond. The phone, the strange, ill-mannered woman in the mirror, her evil parents... but there was a warm stove and icy air. In her room, the window couldn't be opened. It was nailed shut.

"Anna! Go to your room!" he shouted, exasperated. The vein in his forehead popped out.

The girl stuck her tongue out at him. This was too much. He decided to force her into her room. Her sanctuary. Her world—a world so far unexplored by any highly paid psychiatrist.

"Don't touch me!" Anna screamed, recoiling from the stove. She sat down in the corner and began rocking again. Back and forth. Back and forth.

"Enough! You're coming!" Her father pulled her up by her wrists. Not only were her hands scratched raw, but his grip was also scratching the wounds open with his strong grip.

She braced herself. She refused to get up.

He lifted her by force. He hit her once. Then twice.

In the face, then in the stomach.

"Marek! For God's sake! What are you doing!?" Emilia Niepołomska ran up, trying to pull her husband away, screaming for him to stop hitting her.

But he was throwing punches like crazy. He was unleashing his anger and love, which had built up over the past five years. She was hit in the face again – blood was dripping from her nose, and she seemed to be slowly losing consciousness. Her eyes were so distant...

"Daddy... I love you, you know?" she whispered softly, wiping the blood that was running down her lip. He stopped hitting her. "Thank you for being here.

No one understood what was happening. Strange behavior—even for a madwoman!" Marek Niepołomski looked into his wife's eyes. Almost identical to his daughter's.

Anna seized the opportunity. She leaped to escape, and before her parents emerged from the shock, she was already running out into the yard. She ran, blindly wiping her blood-soaked hands on her green sweater.

She felt butterflies in her stomach again.

She felt free—like the leaves she'd been giving this gift to today.

She was exhausted when she reached a terribly crowded street.

She sat down on the gray, dirty tiles in the middle of the sidewalk. Everyone gave her a wide berth, giving her strange half-smiles.

"I love you, Dad..." she repeated like a prayer.

"...Are you sure?" voices rang out. So these weren't the inhabitants of her house! These were the inhabitants of her head! She hadn't expected that when she escaped from her prison, they would still be with her.

***

It's beautiful. Friends. True friends who will never leave me! Until death!

Suddenly, I felt a chill.

A sweet chill, taking over my entire body.

A feeling I hadn't experienced in a long time.

I turned my head and saw something smell of innocent freshness. I narrowed my eyes and inhaled that blissful scent. He was back. After five years of loneliness.

Without a word, I nestled into the soft, cloud-like feathers and inhaled the Angel's freshness.

"Man is a crowbar to man! Man is a thunderbolt to man!" he said gently, his voice so beautiful and melodic I'd never heard before.

"But I won't let myself be deafened! But I won't let myself be crushed!" I looked straight into his sky-blue eyes.

"Man is a neighbor to man! You can heal with your neighbor!

" "I don't want to. I can't. I can't."

"because not even madness has been spared me

because everything hurts terribly

[illegible text here]

because I am suffocating in this cage

because my soul is lonely until death

because the last piece of paper is ending in time and there is only one step left and let

Life live

because I stood at the beginning, because the Father drew me and I will stand at

the end and I will not taste death."

*fragment of "Letter to the Others" by Edward Stachura