Diamond painting

 

Diamond painting

 

Diamond painting

 

Spread your elbows (2)

 

His friend sat down with a profound inner peace. His heart fluttered slightly between his ribs after running down so many winding steps, but now it was following him arm in arm again, step, stop, straighten, arm in arm. He asked for a tiny glass of the orange wine, inhaled deeply of the metallic aroma steaming from the icy glass, and felt as if someone he loved had kissed him. He took the first tiny, introductory sip and grimaced with the reflection that someone he loved could taste so bad. He drank the rest with obvious compulsion and looked around, searching for familiar, square faces. It was a bit early for warm greetings. The Condemned Man was still dozing quietly, positioned upside down next to the other chairs on the table. The music was soft and still good, though later only a low note and a steady beat. His friend had forgotten his cigarettes, so he searched first for them in his jacket pockets, then his pants, and now he sat there, unfocused. In his jacket pocket, the inside one, a rectangular shape was visible beneath the lining. He felt it again to be sure. The problem was, they weren't cigarettes. This was something his friend was supposed to take care of, he was supposed to, he wasn't supposed to lose, he wasn't supposed to, he was supposed to return it in time, and damn it, he hadn't. Now he felt very sick. The evening, once so promising, had shown its other, darker side, where it was best not to venture alone. He knew that such non-returns to others had once meant as much to others as a curb, steel-toed shoes, a cramped, stuffy trunk, and finally, a forest in the middle of the night. He had a vague idea of it, and that was precisely why he liked it, for that vagueness. He didn't even notice the third glass of orange distillate sliding down his tired throat. After all, he thought, if it had been okay for so long, maybe it would all fall apart, why talk about it, why think about it, he looked around and saw his lover, sitting with his back to the one whose name was not mentioned.

The lover was one of many young boys and girls who bestowed their first selfless love on the Philosopher, the blasphemer of all gates, burdened by a beer fatwa, pursued at every turn by the vodka anathema, who with his tobacco-yellow fingers bestowed upon everyone the sacrament of pepper chips, ennobled by his touch. The salt of our earth, in the form of swirling, pink, plump bodies, writhed ceaselessly around the one who paternalized this tangle. He stroked the unwashed heads of gorgeous intellectual boys and pinched the shapeless bottoms of ugly intellectual girls, thickened from sitting, always with the same gaze from his large, gentle, cow-like eyes. To become a respected and esteemed figure, the Philosopher spent many years of his life on various self-improvement activities. As a master of many useless talents, he was renowned and admired. But a cancer of bitterness had long been eating away at his weary limbs; sadness increasingly clouded his large, cow-like irises. The aftermath of boys and girls found him lifeless one morning on the gate's threshold, a cup of hemlock in his hand, a laurel wreath on his temples, and a trail of saliva on his rough cheek. Amidst this sobbing, snotty crowd, the loudest sobbing and wailing was his lover, a boy with eyes even bluer and hair even blonder than the rest. This boy the philosopher used to stroke especially long and kiss especially tenderly; now the boy wept the loudest.

Much time had passed since that fateful moment when the philosopher's corpse, like a less stylish Rejtan, lay across the gate. Boys and girls scattered through all the winding, romantic stone streets, pinching bottoms and stroking heads in the ivy-shrouded alleys. Only the lover remained at the gate, each evening chanting a short philosophical mantra over the thin, age-yellow corpses. Gradually, however, the lover's longing for the philosopher began to be displaced by a desire for something much more specific, like the here and now. And he felt with all his lover's heart that somewhere, in one of those philosopher-strewn gateways, sat a woman who would raise her large, calm eyes to him and ask, "Where have you been?"

The condemned man stirred restlessly in his sleep; several chairs fell from the table at the sudden movement of the condemned man. He slept fitfully, drunken, yearning dreams tormenting him. In these dreams, he pursued something very beautiful (it had a silver sheen and was enveloped in a heavenly glow), and he raced after it like a madman, unable to catch up, for anything. He stretched his arms out and spasmodically grasped the air that had formed into his Holy Grail, and all the early guests at that hour sympathized with him, understandingly, for they too had such dreams. As he leaped across a deep chasm, brushing the fatal shimmering with his fingertips, he arched dangerously, shifting his center of gravity over the edge of the table, and tumbled along the razor-sharp mountain ridges to the floor.

His friend was preoccupied with his own problems, so he automatically ordered a green one with a foul taste and returned to delicately probing the rectangular shape imprinted beneath the lining.

The condemned man sat on the floor for a moment. His dreamlike fantasies alternated between romantic and real; the condemned man had long since ceased to notice the fundamental differences between them. In his small breast pocket, he felt for the once-sharp razor blade and went to the men's room to shave. For a long time, there came the sounds of the dull blade skimming across the condemned man's hairy, square muzzle, the rush of water in the urinal, the hiss of the air freshener, the smell of the spring forest. Finally, the condemned man emerged, ready to once again chase the flickering to which his now-shaven muzzle had condemned him. He walked to the bar, reached for a glass of the green, and sprinkled it on his neck, chin, and behind his ears. He straightened immediately and inhaled deeply, each cartilage sliding into place with a soft crunch. The Condemned Man instantly grew taller and taller, his fingers more slender, his eyes more hazel. From the right angle, you could mistake him for a friend; they were so similar in that respect, though, of course, they were diametrically different.

"Hello, friend.

" "Hi Condemned Man, I have a little problem."

The Condemned Man didn't like his own problems. He liked other people's little problems much less than his own.

"I don't like your problem. So let's not talk about it anymore. A lot of bad people woke me up today.

" The friend shifted uncomfortably.

"What bad people?

" "They were big and off-putting. Heavy-shouldered, square-figured. Their metal-toed shoes clattered as they walked. They woke me up with that damn clatter. Try sleeping while ten idiots walk across the room, each one clattering...

" "And what did they do?"

- Besides waking me up, they stood there for a moment, looked exactly at the place where you are sitting now and left, but they left as if they were going to come back.

"Did they look like they were going to look at this place again?

" "That's exactly what they looked like.

" "Damn, not good. "

The condemned man looked around.

"Oh, the lover is standing there somehow stupidly.

" "Indeed, he's standing there mysteriously.

" "Because once with a lover..."

Because once with a lover, on a clear moonlit night, the man condemned by his face to fame, he walked swiftly and bravely. They were looking for beer and two chairs, they wanted to smoke cigarettes and talk about unimportant things. Their intellectual posture was poor, they nervously walked, glancing over their shoulders every now and then. The local boorish element lurked in the dark alleys. Figures passed on the edge of their gaze, drunken giggles echoed in the empty streets they passed. On evenings like these, you have to get the hell out, not parade down the middle of the street.

"We'll have a drink soon, Lover, don't worry," the condemned man reassured himself more than his lover. "If only there was room. Because sometimes it just wasn't there."

Someone cleared their throat at the height of the lover's left ear.

"And even if there's nowhere to sit," the lover added quickly

, "we'll wait until there is. And then we'll have a drink, oh brother, you have nothing to fear." They walked nervously past the illuminated gates, which poisoned the industrial night with a corpse-like glow. The beating came from there so evenly that the hearts of the lover and the condemned man quickly picked up the dull rhythm, and now they walked, tossed along with a rhythmic hiccup. And in these gates stood girls truly out of this fairy tale, at least not from the terrifyingly tragic fairy tale of the condemned man and his lover. Girls with beautiful hair, ample breasts, and sad eyes sang urban songs about love and oblivion. With those eyes, they gazed at passersby with both tenderness and lust. But there was also a sense of dread in these girls, for behind them, in the shadows, stood their truly serious guardians. Stocky, blunt-edged figures ran up to unwary travelers who had been carried a step in the wrong direction, and struck them in the mouth with all their might. The condemned man and his lover would gladly have fallen into this trap, so they thought, looking at their eyes, their breasts, and wherever else their gaze had slipped.

But the instinct of self-preservation, concerned with their biological existence with a consistency worthy of a better cause, put Nelson on their backs. They walked, clinging tightly to the center of the street.

They had already seen their place on the horizon when everything fell apart in an instant. The hopelessly desperate night visitor brushed his calf with his nymph, clumsily pretending to stumble. The calf vanished faster than a sigh, and in its place appeared the evening companion, truly expert and professional in his mouth-slapping. Cursing, he slapped him savagely across the face, slammed him against the wall, and when he fell, he drove the metal tip into his soft flesh with almost musical mastery. It would have ended as usual: ambulance, duty, night shift, nose, teeth, please spit in the sink. But the night visitor's friend ran up to the companion and cunningly smashed a bottle of wine reeking of cork and yeast against the back of his head from behind. Without further delay, all the rabbit's relatives and friends began crushing each other's jaws, crushing testicles, jumping on each other's heads, and stabbing each other with cleverly concealed knives. Amidst the intense violence and aggression, the condemned man and his lover stood, afraid to move in any direction. One particularly daring competitor ran up to the condemned man and aimed for his famous face. However, the muzzle defeated him without a fight, causing him to retreat and pretend he had dropped something. Then he simply left.

Suddenly, a strange and significant thing happened. Someone wanted to gouge out someone's eye, shatter their jaw, extract a tooth—it didn't matter, anyway, they missed, and by millimeters, but they missed. The swing, beautiful and imaginative, missed the head, and the momentum spun the fighter around. The opponent didn't budge and spun in the other direction, to which the former responded with a somersault. Then they passionately intertwined, and instead of breaking their fingers, they launched into the most stylish waltz the lover and the condemned man had ever witnessed. The waltz, like smallpox, spread throughout the blood- and sweat-drenched tangle. Every so often, someone wiped a rubbed nose and timidly asked to dance. An orchestra of four trumpets and an accordion formed at their side, fiercely playing a lively and bawdy melody. The condemned man called upon his lover, and the two, with inexperienced skill, reached the gate. Then the police locked them all up for disturbing the peace. Washing is allowed, dancing is forbidden.

QUESTION FOR FATHER

I

The church is cozily quiet. The vastness of this silence, imprisoned by the Gothic austerity of the walls and columns, tamed by the pitying gazes of the patron saints, gently massages the ears and temples of Father Czarek, kneeling in the second row of oak pews donated by the wealthier families of the parishioners. As a reward, the names of benefactors are carefully engraved on copper plaques.

Father Czarek rests his forearms on the back of a pew in the front row and leans forward in reverent concentration. "Donated by the Jamiołkowski family," he instinctively reads the beautifully calligraphed message. "Let not the left hand know what the right hand is doing," he recalls, as if on cue, Jesus' saying.

He sits more comfortably in the pew, pressing his back against the cool backrest. He looks at his right hand. The blood has cooled, but it hasn't yet dried. Father Czarek is disgusted by his right hand.

II

The bus shakes and bounces over the numerous potholes. The cracked asphalt challenges the tired tires to a duel. Czarek feels like he's about to throw up. Fortunately, the feeling of shame in front of the other passengers helps him swallow his undigested sandwich again and successfully keep it in his stomach. Just don't think about puking, just don't think about it... when I get off the bus, I'll run behind the first tree and... don't fucking think about it, it's not easy to find a place private enough in the city to... you don't want some fucking cop to catch you, you idiot, instead of going to the seminary, you'll end up at the police station! That's what you fucking want!!!

It helps. Bułka stops demanding release, lies calmly at the bottom of his stomach, knowing that he'll never be able to deal with this shame, this powerful shame, the Lord and Master of Czarek's life.

The dull pain in his right hand helps even more. Czarek opens it and sees a wound running down the middle. He felt nothing as he gripped the blade of the penknife he'd used to butter the bread.

An older man in the next row looks curiously at Czarek's blood-soaked hand. There's nothing in his gaze but curiosity. Not a hint of compassion. This makes Czarek, despite the pain, clench his fist again and tuck it into his pants pocket.

Czarek is ashamed of his right hand.

III

Who suffered wounds for us, Jesus Christ, have mercy on us...

Fourth-year cleric Cezary prays intensely. Usually, it's only at the fifth or sixth station that he manages to feel the first shiver of compassion for Jesus on his journey to Golgotha. Before that, the thought invariably comes to him that Christians exaggerate in presenting Jesus' suffering as incomparably horrific. After all, many people died in worse torments, such as St. Andrew Bobola. Before his suffering ended, he was flayed alive by a Cossack saber, salted, and dragged behind a horse on a leash. Or all those people burned alive on Nero's orders. It seems that many holy martyrs surpassed their master in suffering.

Except that he was God.

Could he be?

Certainly.

God, not an extraordinary man? He must be God immediately? After all, many performed similar miracles before and after him...

HE SPOKE TO YOU!!!

Yes, perhaps so, so why do certain thoughts come to mind...? Disgusting, haunting images with Jesus as the main character. Or Mary. Why, when I hear of something terrible, do I feel like I could do it too? The more inhuman these thoughts are, the more they fill me with disgust and unspeakable horror, the more they attract me. No, they don't, they torment me mercilessly, and at the bottom of my tormented soul, I hope that this torment is ultimately a form of perverse pleasure for my masochistic mind. I hope that not evil, but the fear and disgust they provoke, are the target of my tortured conscience.

I hope I'm not a monster.

You who suffered wounds for us, Jesus Christ, have mercy on us...

Cleric Cezary feels a sense of relief, growing with each word he utters. The sense of belonging to a community praying with him and for him gives him a semblance of security, reality, like a breakwater separating him from the roaring waves of fear and the depths of self-hatred roaring in his head, and from... I cannot hate him. He died for me. Now they strip him of his garments, exposing all his intimacy to public view. How will the Jewish women judge it...? Stop! This filth will pass, don't think about it... An organ unused... Jesus, Jesus!!! Your nakedness, like truth, enlightens every person when they come into the world. Just like that, naked and defenseless, enter my mind and judge the Evil that dwells within. May Your crucified nakedness annihilate the filthy orgies of my imaginations! Beloved Savior, judge me finally and tell me if I am a monster or a martyr. If You find me innocent, then I offer You all my suffering for the salvation of the world!

The station "Jesus Nailed to the Cross" is presented symbolically. Jesus' right hand is attached to the crossbar of the cross, known as the "patibulum." Its fingers, especially the thumb, close in a reflex caused by irritation of the most important nerve in the hand. The main lines of the fingertips, barely visible beneath the rushing streams of blood, seem to trace the letter "V," as if, at this most terrible moment of life, when death and nothingness become the only synonyms for the future for the condemned man, a glimpse of a mystery has been revealed, in which the current, tragic situation is only a small element of a whole of salvation.

Cleric Cezary feels an overwhelming desire to kiss Jesus' hand. He surmises that if he now touches the Savior's tortured right hand with his burning forehead, Jesus will ultimately heal his mind. However, he is ashamed. He doesn't break away from the orderly formation of the procession, which, like a biblical snake, is already slithering toward a new station, burying the hopes of cleric Cezary under an avalanche of footsteps on the marble floor of the seminary chapel.

You who suffered wounds for us, Jesus Christ, have mercy on us...

Perhaps next time.

IV

. The showers are located in the vast seminary basement. They consist of a double row of cubicles, once tiled white. The cubicles have no doors, not even screens, so privacy is out of the question. For this reason, many seminarians, unconcerned about the length of their colleague's business, and even less inclined to reveal their own intimate dimensions, come to bathe at the most unusual times of the day, hoping to find no one there, or almost none.

Deacon Cezary chooses a time to go out, namely one-thirty.

Fortunately, his sacrifice pays off. He's alone in the bathhouse. A hot, intense shower massages his neck, shoulders, chest, and stomach. He feels relaxed. His blood begins to flow faster, not missing his penis. While Deacon Cezary's erection grows, his thoughts, as if on cue, focus on a certain alluring cook's assistant. If he met her on the street, she wouldn't even score a five on a scale of one to ten. But now, in his mind, the dishwasher exudes eroticism. She's alluring, wonderfully shaped, eager... a juicy apple just waiting to be sunk into. Deacon Cezary takes his time. The mixture of nostalgia and excitement is more than enough for him. He doesn't want to commit a mortal sin. He won't cross a line. He prefers to change the subject of his thoughts. The cook's assistant crumples, withers, and disappears, giving way to the practiced techniques of theological meditation. Grace builds on nature, which it perfects. The eternal problem of nature's deficit, stricken by sin, incapable of rising on its own from the mud of moral mediocrity. Intervention from heaven is needed. A Better One is needed, one who will restore man's lost dignity. You are incapable of being human, the Better One seems to say, therefore I will become human and make you a man worthy of God's expectations. Oh yes, Lord, one wants to reply, I am no good, increase my worth... the eternal failure. Although the Christian faith is wonderful news about God, the embodiment of goodness and mercy, it leaves no doubt about the value of man. We are children, loved indeed, but underdeveloped. Incapable of satisfying our father on our own, of making him proud of us as human beings. Only the Better Son has accomplished this: the new Adam, the fullness of humanity, the perfection of divinity. And we: disgust and shame. We teeter on the edge of yes and no, though ultimately it's "no" that is our domain, and for "yes" we beg God. Man, until the last moments of his life, is filled with uncertainty, the possibility of betrayal, and is rarely capable of sacrifice in the name of fidelity.

Deacon Cezary recalls a strange dream from the previous night.

In limitless space...

In impenetrable darkness...

He was hanging on a crudely crafted cross, nailed to it by a large nail piercing his left hand. Only his left; his right hung limply at his torso. Deacon Cezary saw himself as if from a distance. His body, swaying on the cross, seemed the quintessence of incompletion, calling for a resolution to its own dilemma. Either one way or the other! Space and time screamed. "Detach yourself from the cross, or hang on it as you must!" "This is the cross of salvation," added another, calm voice. "Sacrifice yourself!"

Deacon Cezary felt his fear growing with each passing second. Deep inside, he longed to share the Master's fate, to participate in his mission, to become a saving event, an episode in the history of salvation. At the same time, however, he became increasingly aware that if he allowed his right hand to be nailed to the cross, he would become utterly helpless. Can I still withdraw, be saved? No, what am I talking about? What am I saving myself from? This is the greatest grace for me! To save the world with my suffering, to be part of the Better One, an extension of the Statement, a saving echo of the Word, a sucker, giving my life, dying in agony, reliant on whatever emerges from the darkness! Once nailed, I will never be free again. I will never make another, perhaps better, decision. I will follow the path to death, beyond which... well, what? Spit it out. You mean: beyond which there is NOTHING? This waiting nail is the measure of my faith. All or nothing. Half-heartedness is pathetic, contemptible, and I am just like that: simply pathetically incomplete...

The warm shower had long since ceased to delight him. Deacon Cezary slowly steps out of the shower. His feet freeze immediately upon contact with the icy bath floor. A sharp pain of cramp pierces one of them. Deacon Cezary sits on the floor and waits for the pain to subside, then slowly, with effort, ignoring the malicious comments of his colleagues who have suddenly arrived.

"I want to be a priest, I want to be a priest, I want to be a priest," his lips whisper. "But can you?" his conscience asks.

I don't know.

"That's good," his Shame replies.

V

Father Cezary had never believed such stories could actually happen. His grandfather died in his arms. He looks, as if through a fog, at Grandpa Marek's corpse and at Grandma Iwona kissing the emaciated cheeks of the deceased.

Father Cezary hadn't believed anything could make him cry, and now he felt warm streams of tears streaming down his cheeks. And he couldn't help it. Or rather, he didn't want to stop himself. For he felt the toxin that had been poisoning his soul seeping out along with his tears. Now he experienced a wonderful lightness, a liberation from the bondage of something that was slowly robbing him of his joy in life; something that stood between him and God, feeding on his faith, hope, and love.

He couldn't feel any grief over Grandpa's death. Besides, no one expected him to. Grandma was calm, almost joyful. "You can tell how a man lived by how he dies," Grandpa used to say, and Newlywed Cezary agreed completely. "As life goes, so goes death," he used to hum a fragment of a song sung by Edyta Geperd. And my grandfather died holy, having confessed and professed his faith. To Him.

He takes the breviary from his coat pocket and begins reciting vespers for the dead. "From the depths I cry to you, O Lord, hear my voice." He doesn't hear her footsteps; only when she kneels before him does the priest break away from reading the psalms. Grandma takes his right hand and draws it to her lips. "Grandma, what are you..." he clumsily objects, confused and ashamed, picking up the fallen breviary from the floor.

"It's the right thing to do," Grandma replies, and kisses the back of his hand again. With the same lips that had just placed the last kiss of love and respect on her deceased husband's cheeks. Now this respect belongs to his grandson, the priest, the mediator between God and humanity, the true Charon who leads people from this world to God, by the power of the Risen Christ.

Father Cezary feels wonderful. He feels he has been the support of his entire family from its beginnings until this very day. Like Moses interceding with God on behalf of the inhabitants of Sodom and Gomorrah, he stands before God beyond time and space and asks for mercy for all his ancestors dwelling in the afterlife. And he knows that God will hear him, for that is why he called him and armed him with His grace. Now I understand the meaning of my life, God. I want to become a sacrifice in atonement for the sins of this world, for my wickedness and infidelities. I'm no longer afraid. Yes, that's what I want.

"Nail her," he says loudly. "Nail her now!"

Grandma looks at him questioningly, with a kind of compassion.

"Nothing, Grandma," he lifts her from her knees. "I love you."

"May Jesus always be with you," the old woman replies quietly.

VI.

Dinner has been going on for a good half hour when Father Cezary arrives at the rectory.

The priest and his friend from the neighboring parish have practically finished. They are discussing something heatedly, opening another bottle of Bols. "This is in your honor," the priest smiles warmly at the newcomer. "It's been a year since you were ordained, man. Come and have a drink with us!"

Father Cezary knows that, in reality, any opportunity for a drink is good for the two priests, but the honor bestowed upon him today, the scorned one, can turn into deep hatred. So he sits down at the table and downs his first glass.

After twenty minutes of heavy drinking, the neighbor has had enough. He staggers up from the lavishly laid table and sits down on a comfortable couch against the wall, on which hangs a large, rather well-made painting of the Merciful Jesus. At the Savior's feet hangs the inscription: 'Jesus, I trust in You.'" The priest, still able to speak, comments maliciously: "I trust he won't throw up on my couch." Then he bursts into drunken laughter.

A moment later he moves closer to Father Cezary, who has not had more than two glasses and does not share his benefactor's good mood.

"Father, I have to tell you something," the priest mumbles, nodding. "I... like you." Father

Cezary is in shock. He doesn't know what to say, how to behave. Disgust compels him to push away the pushy priest, who tries to put his arms around his neck, yet he's afraid of inciting his superior's anger. He's on his first assignment, and the opinion the priest gives him will determine his future priestly life.

Meanwhile, the priest doesn't give up. His huge, plump lips close over the lobe of the victim's right ear. Father Cezary smells the stench emanating from the priest's mouth: a mixture of vodka and the stench of long-unbrushed teeth. He's had enough. With a decisive movement, he breaks away from his attacker, stands up, and pushes him away with all his might.

The priest, who hadn't managed to rise from his chair, falls backward with a crash, striking the back of his head against the radiator ribs, and slumps to the floor. It all lasts a few seconds, but Father Cezary perceives them as if they lasted an eternity. Especially the elderly priest's fall, reminiscent of the clumsy plunge into the ocean of an old whale, whose enormous body momentarily emerged from the depths.

A halo of thick blood forms around the priest's head, seeping lazily from a wound, likely serious. Father Cezary runs to the wounded man and kneels beside him, soaking his cassock in his blood. The priest's eyes are open, staring at the ceiling, his lips moving as if he were whispering something very quickly. Father Cezary slips his right hand under the priest's head, lifts him slightly, and puts his ear to his lips, waiting for a confession of sins. "I...just...just...for a...joke...fuck," the wounded man wheezes and stops breathing. His eyes suddenly go blank, his face frozen in an expression half surprise, half reproach. "You killed me," say the Pastor's misty eyes. "You're a murderer and a coward," add his twisted lips. "

You've always been like this," pronounce Shame and Disgust, which have never truly left.

The Seventh

Church is cozily quiet.

How I, too, long to be quiet within, to hear God's voice at least once in my life. Right now, when I have become Cain, Judas, who wanted to be crucified. I am like this to myself and to the world, but...

Who am I to You...

Father? 

Saya the last Vampire (beginning part I)

The Beginning (Part I)

It was an autumn morning.

Saya was playing hide-and-seek with her younger brother, Per.

Her mother was weeding in her garden, where she loved to spend hours.

Her older brother, Terry, was spending time in his girlfriend's field.

Now Per was supposed to search, and Saya was supposed to hide. She kept changing places. Finally, she ran past her father's laboratory. He never let anyone near him. Yet, Saya went in. She always had to win; she loved it. She always schemed and cheated just to win.

She quietly entered and hid in an empty closet. She waited and waited, but Per didn't appear. She knew he wouldn't come because she was terribly afraid of her father. However, she hid and waited for him, so she could share her impressions later.

When suddenly her father entered the lab. He had a broad smile on his face. He was holding a box in his hands. He placed it, or rather threw it, on the table. He tore open the top and pulled out five test tubes containing some red liquid.

Saya leaned out of the closet to see what her father had in there.

Mr. Freek began pouring half of the liquid into each glass, marking them from 1 to 5. Then he added a green and white substance. He heated each separately, and finally added half a black tablet to each. The substances began to turn a very intense red, but very thick.

Mr. Freek stirred the first glass and took a sip.

The very thought made Saya feel nauseous. She covered her mouth to keep from vomiting. She thought her father was manufacturing the tablets here. He always said he was trying to find a cure for leukemia. What was he doing here? You can't drink something like that... that's supposed to be a cure for leukemia. A sick person has to drink it, after all. Or maybe he is sick? Saya wondered.

After two minutes, Mr. Freek, very angry, threw his glass against the wall. He began cursing under his breath. He drank another glass, doing the same as with the first. When he arrived at 4, he was already very angry.

However, when he took a sip of the fourth substance, he put the glass on the table and smiled brightly. He began to shake all over. His eyes turned black steel. He knelt on the ground and began to whimper. His veins began to stand out.

Saya sat shaking in the closet. She didn't have the courage to go out and help her father. She covered her ears with her hands and went deeper into the closet. She didn't want to hear her father scream.

After 10 minutes, Mr. Freek got up from his knees. He started laughing so loudly that Saya became even more frightened. Her father put his hands in his pockets and left the lab, still laughing loudly.

Saya quickly ran out of the house and started running. Her heart was pounding like crazy. She tripped over a rock and started sobbing.

"Saya, what's wrong?" Terry asked, approaching her with a sack full of harvest.

Saya stood up and hugged her brother. She decided not to tell anyone.

*** ***

The next morning, when she entered the kitchen, she saw her surprised mother and brothers sitting at the already set table. Mr. Freek was bustling around the cabinets, serving food to the steel.

"Hello, my daughter, please sit down."

Saya sat down obediently, saying nothing.

"He must have gone crazy," Terry said quietly.

"Shh," her mother shushed him. "Don't talk about your father like that."

When everyone had finished breakfast, Mr. Freek stood up and raised his glass of red wine, as he had said.

But something about it didn't sit right with Saya. The wine has a different color, it's not as thick, and it's not as red. She swallowed.

Father ordered everyone to drink it down.

They did this so as not to offend him or make him angry.

Only Saya sat hunched over the glass, observing the drink.

"What's wrong? You have to drink it immediately!" Father shouted furiously. "Don't you want to drink to your old man's health?! Drink!"

Saya, despite what she saw in the laboratory flashing before her eyes, raised the glass and drank it down. The drink had a very strange taste. Sweet, sour. Although at times it seemed as if it had no taste at all.

She looked at her mother and brothers. They began to choke, and their ears turned the color of black steel. They fell to the ground, their bodies convulsed with pain and shivers.

After a moment, she realized she was also lying on the ground... she felt like she was dying. She was shaking. She felt cold, and then as if she were burning inside.

*** ***

When she opened her eyes, what she saw terrified her. She saw everything clearer and better. When she looked at the table, she saw not only him, but also something more. She couldn't understand what had happened to her vision. Only after a moment did she realize it was night. And she saw as if the sun were shining.

She stood up and began to sway on her feet. She felt strange. She felt neither hot nor cold.

She heard voices coming from the porch at the back of the house. Still swaying, she decided to go there. When she reached the porch door, she saw her father sitting in a rocking chair. Next to him sat Saya's mother in a chair, and her two brothers sat cross-legged on the ground. Everyone except her father had their heads down.

"You're finally here," said the father seriously. "We are the undefeated and immortal people." He smiled to himself. "Sit down next to your brothers, and now I'll tell you what happened to you. Well, I found a dying man in the mountains. He was all scarred up and had two holes in his neck. I asked him what happened, and he only stood up on a stone near us. I went to him, but there was nothing there. He told me in a barely audible voice to pick him up. When I did, I found a box in the hole with five test tubes inside. He whispered before he died that one of them contained vampire blood, and that if I drank it, I would become one of them." The Cursed. You probably know what I did. That same day, I drank test tube no. 4. Of course, I had to clean the blood with my own preparations first. I wasn't 100% sure it was blood. I had to protect myself, as if it were acid or something. And in the morning, you drank blood, just like me. We are the Cursed now. We will live forever.... However, we are half-vampires and daylight doesn't kill us. Fangs appear when we feel thirsty.

*** ***

Days passed.

Saya became increasingly distant from her family. She went her own way. She avoided people. Unless, of course, she was hungry and needed to eat.

Mrs. Freek withdrew into herself. She neglected the garden. She sat in a rocking chair all day.

Terry was away from home all day. He began stealing and killing for fun. He went completely crazy. However, no one knew he was the one killing. No one ever caught him.

Per was the only one behaving as he always did. He laughed and played with the animals. Maybe because he drank their blood, not human blood.

Mr. Freek... grew gloomier every year. Sometimes he beat Mom and Saya because they wouldn't drink blood. They'd rather die than do it. However, their psychology always won out. When they saw the arteries in people's necks, they couldn't resist.

*** ****

Year after year passed.

Finally, Mrs. Freek became angry and complained to the law enforcement officers, telling them that her husband was beating her and the children.

Despite unpleasant rumors circulating about her family, she wasn't afraid to go to town every day and ask the mayor to help her get rid of her husband.

Finally, she prevailed, and they put Mr. Freek in jail. Although he could easily escape, he preferred to stay in prison. Because he was a famous chemist, he was allowed to use the laboratory. He could no longer sit at home and look at the grim faces of his family. He regretted having brought them into being.

From that moment on, the family somehow got back on track. Saya managed to convince Terry to stop his bloody murders. And Per started drinking human blood. Even Mrs. Freek began to tidy up her former "garden" a bit.

However, the happiness was short-lived.

One morning, Saye was awakened by a noise coming from the living room. She put on her white dress and went downstairs. She stood in the doorway to the living room. She saw the Demon tearing out her mother's heart. As she fell, she looked at Saye and said,

"Run, child."

The Demon looked at Saye, threw out the heart, and charged at Saye.

When Saya felt a threat, something awoke within her. She was shocked by what she had just seen, but for the first time she felt anger. She frowned and made a threatening face. She clenched her fists and, before the Demon could approach her, punched him in the stomach and eyes. She stepped back and saw a large kitchen knife. She took it and, before the Demon could turn to her, Saya punched him in the stomach. However, the Demon didn't even react. He punched Saya in the face. She hit the edge of the table. However, she got up quickly. She punched again, but it was to no avail. However, with the next blow, the Demon's opponent was horizontal. He howled, fell, and turned to dust.

Saya didn't even get tired. Thanks to her psychic abilities, she heard her younger brother's cries for help. She quickly ran to the field. She saw Terry impaled in the distance.

Two Demons surrounded Per. One grabbed him and sank his teeth into his stomach. The other began digging his fingers into his eye.

"No!" Saya screamed, slicing the Demon in half as it bit into her brother. However, she missed the Drogoum, who impaled Per. 

Nightmarish holidays in Zakopane

 

The camp counselor was terrifying, her eyes red, her nose like an axe. She looked like a bogeyman. Everyone was afraid of her, but one person was braver than anyone else. That heroine was Olga. She was absolutely unafraid of her. Everyone called her "Hero-Olga." One morning, Brunhilda (the camp counselor) came out into the hallway:

"Everyone, get up, now! Hurry, hurry!"

A terrifying screech rang out. It was the sound of Monika "Fiszka" being frightened. "

What's that noise!" Brunhilda became angry. "Who's screaming like that?!

It's because of you!" Olga suddenly spoke up. "It's because of you, Monika is crying so much!!! It's because of you!!!..."

"Shut up if you haven't been asked!" she screamed loudly.

"And that's a witch!" Olga replied in her thoughts.

"Did something happen?" You have such a disgusting expression on your face." Brunhilda turned her eyes towards Agata, known as "Mądralińska – Agacia."

"You're disgusting," Olga said boldly.

"I say, shut up!!!

" The teacher yelled again. "Then shut up! You're taking too many liberties. This isn't a vacation at all, it's some kind of prison for convicts!!!!" Olga said quickly and firmly.

"So that's it? Fine, you'll stay in your room until further notice, you little mouthpiece. Paweł!! Lock Olga in her room and watch over her. You won't get lunch or dinner, you. Take her away! I don't want to see her again!" Brunhilda ordered. "

Yes, mother," Paweł said.

"I can finally finish what I started, and now there won't be any defense," the teacher thought. It was clear she had achieved her goal, as a devilish smile appeared on her face. Moments after the argument, she shouted,

"To the gym, right now!!! Now practice!!! Monika! Don't delay!!! "

It's a pity I'm not as brave as Olga," Ania "Fashionable" thinks to herself. "

If I were like Olga, I'd punch that witch. What does she think we are to her? Outcasts or something? We have the right to freedom, too," Iza "Dreamer" muses. "

I wonder if she has a heart and any feelings." Julka "Little Black Girl" says to herself. "

If she had any feelings, she wouldn't treat us like that. She's made of ice and stone. She's a witch, not a human. If Olga were here, she'd punch that woman." Monika "Squeaky Voice" interjected. "

Silence!!! No talking, and don't you dare complain, or you'll end up like your run-of-the-mill heroine!!! Practice, now!" –Brunhilda shouted.

An hour had passed. Everyone was exhausted, exhausted, but Brunhilda was pleased with it. It amuses her greatly to see others struggling and looking like the dead. From all this, one can conclude that she wants her unknown children to work like a dog. And why? You'll see. (...) Meanwhile, after the war:

"Company, attention!! Paweł, bring the tools!!!"

"Yes, mother!" Paweł brought the rake and shovels.

"Kaśka, step forward!! Distribute the tools to the others!! Come on!!!" Brunhilda urged.

"Yes, I'm coming." "Kasia, the Fair-Haired One," grumbled. "

Now go outside. Clean up every nook and cranny!!! You have until ten. And it has to be clean!!! Get moving, don't slack off!!!" Brunhilda ordered. "When you're finished, you'll clean the whole building. So I advise you to hurry!!!..." Suddenly she thought: "And now I'll take care of the boys. Okay, now you creepy boys. Heh, heh... Michał "Fikuśny" and Zbysio, and Kajtek to the barn. Jasiek and Kazio will clean the stable. Grzesiek, Przemek, Kuba, and Rafał

will join you .

Radek, Dominik, Maciek "Jakutka" (Heh... what a stupid nickname! she thought) you'll clean the Szelc family estate. You better hurry up!!! Paweł! Let Olga out. She'll be cooking.

After a while, there was a sound of footsteps, and the sound became more distinct. Paweł opened the door and said,

"Come out, Olga! Hurry, there's no time! You'll be cooking, so don't hesitate and put on an apron.

" "You and your damn mother, that's fine... only a cage for you... ha, ha..." Olga joked and continued. "You know what, Pawlina? You stink, and I wonder if you're from a test tube.

" "Shut up, you devil, or your mother will kill you!!! I'm not kidding!!!" Paweł threatens "Hero-Olga."

Two weeks passed, and Olga had an escape plan. "

Listen, I know what we're going to do. It'll be awfully easy." First, one of you will glue Paweł and Brunhilda's chairs together, and when they sit down, they won't break away.

"And what's next?" asked Marta "Wavy Eyes." "

Then we'll tie them up and run away, and finally, my friend Hajnak, who lives not far from here, will take us by bus to Warsaw. All this will take place before dinner... So, in ten minutes. Everything's ready. So what? Are you in?" asked Olga.

"Sure!" they all exclaimed in low tones.

And so they all quickly got to work. Monika, known as "Fiszka," and her brother, Michał "Fikuśny," hid the ropes under the table. Olga ran to her friend, and he took the bus and drove it to the front of the building. Julia "Little Black Woman" taped up Brunhilda and Paweł's chairs. It was time for dinner. The main course and the main course were already on the tables. Everyone sat down in their seats. At one point, Brunhilda appeared with her spoiled son. They sat down and glued themselves to their chairs. Suddenly, everyone

stood up, tied up their enemies, fled to the bus, and left. During the ride, everyone breathed a sigh of relief that they were free and could return to their families.