Cranberry Meringue Pie

Ingredients

For the crust:

200 g butter

2 cups flour

3 egg yolks

2 tbsp sugar

For the filling:

3 egg whites

300 g sugar

2 cups cranberries

Salt

Mix the yolks with sugar. Rub the butter with flour until it forms coarse crumbs. Combine the two mixtures and knead the dough. Place the dough in a 26 cm diameter baking pan and spread it evenly over the bottom and sides. Prick the pan with a fork several times.

Bake in a preheated oven at 180 degrees Celsius for 10 minutes. While the crust is baking, mash the cranberries with 150 g of sugar. Beat the egg whites with the remaining sugar until stiff peaks form. Place the cranberries on the base and, using a syringe or spoon, spoon the egg whites on top. Bake for another 10-15 minutes, then remove and cool.

Enjoy!

Talent

.

Purpose. It's very necessary and has always been very necessary. However, there's someone who doesn't have it. When asked to list her talents, she remains silent. People are surprised, saying that everyone has some talent. But she doesn't! Why is it so hard to understand? She once walked down the street and heard: "If it weren't for the stage, I wouldn't want to live. I couldn't live." Every word, every statement, is hard for her. It's very hard. It makes her stomach clench, but her heart aches. They have everything around her. And she? Nothing. But she lives. Just who knows for how long. She often stares at the clock. The hands behind the glass move so slowly. As if they, too, want to inflict pain on her. She doesn't know why she lives. And if you don't know why, then why live? She's a human being like everyone else. She has a heart, eyes, a nose, arms, legs, but she stands out. A stray look, sick thoughts. To others, she's simply stupid, and there's no point in kidding herself about it. No one knows that every day is a struggle for her. An effort. And no one will know. I ask myself: why doesn't she have talent? Why doesn't she have a purpose? Why is she condemned to... well, to what exactly? To death? Death while still alive? A child condemned to death condemns herself to death, literally. And then they say: she was a psychopath. But that's not true! She wasn't a psychopath at all, she was simply... I'm at a loss for words, so I'll quote an excerpt from her diary:

I sit alone within four walls. The light is out. The darkness seems darker than black clouds. There are ropes around my wrists. The ropes of life. Eternal demands and grievances. Endless questions, seemingly simple, yet I don't know the answers. I feel like the sun shining on rocks. It's clear that rocks don't need the sun. A hot rock could hurt someone even more, could be an obstacle to someone. Yes, I am that sun. Although the sun has power within itself, and I don't even have that. I was born a nobody and remained at that level. Although no. When I was born, I was someone. I was the source of my parents' joy. And now? And now... and now... I'm a shadow. Although no. A shadow is sometimes friendly to someone. And me? God! Why is this so difficult? Why did you send me here? I know. I'm sorry. I wasn't supposed to ask why. I also know I have to move on, but I don't even know who I am. And it makes me laugh when people say they know me. Or maybe I'm making the mistake of comparing myself to the sun, a shadow... maybe I should stop at saying I'm human? But how? I don't possess human traits. Well, you're right, little Angel. No one has ever established them, but if everyone has them, then I guess we can say they are human traits. You see. So I'm not a sun, I'm not a shadow, and I'm not a human either. Maybe I'm here to write a protocol about this miserable world and return... and die. And the protocol? It will die with me. For humans, the world is perfect.

And that's the end of the fragment. Is this person a psychopath?

The Promise of Angels

"I don't want to write another story! I don't want to cry again!" She tossed the half-written page away. She took a deep, calming breath, then closed her eyes.

She didn't like herself in this state. Shaken, trembling, and prone to tears. She didn't like the lump in her throat and the heaviness in her heart. She didn't like the salty taste at the corners of her lips. Above all, she wanted to calm down now. To forget. To occupy her mind with something else, so that her fluttering heart wouldn't notice the passage of time.

She opened her eyes. Everything was still unchanged. She put down her pen. She wrote often. Some even said too often. She spent too much time in the imaginary worlds of her own fantasy to be able to cope with reality. And precisely because she couldn't cope with it, she wrote.

Subconsciously, she felt that there was no one in this world who understood her, let alone loved her. She felt so cruelly alone.

"I'm hoping for a miracle that will never actually happen because I won't let it," she whispered to herself. Slowly, she stood up and went to the window. She looked outside. It was raining. The leaves had already fallen, and the bare branches of the trees pierced the horizon of the sky, covered with gray clouds.

The sun didn't shine. Never. As she looked out the window,

he lit another cigarette. When he was nervous, he could smoke an alarming number of them. He inhaled the smoke as if it were a last resort. He nervously glanced around the street. No one.

Usually at this hour, this place would be bustling with activity. Like a flea market. The middle of the day, and yet not a soul. Just him and his cigarettes. He had been waiting for over an hour. And nothing. He would smoke the last cigarette in the pack and leave. He would be back tomorrow. As always.

"What's he waiting for?" she looked out the window. The rain was still falling. He smoked cigarettes one after another, waiting. For what? For whom?

She returned to the couch and burrowed under the blanket. She grabbed a sheet of paper and began to slowly leaf through it, constantly pondering the purpose of the stranger's wait. But before a minute had passed, her attention was drawn to something else. She tightened her grip on the pen and quickly wrote down the next lines of the story. She scribbled the words in uneven handwriting, ignoring the rules of spelling. She wrote exactly what her heart dictated. Another extraordinary fairy tale from a distant fantasy land.

This time, he arrived early. He lit a cigarette and waited. Patiently. For an hour. Two. It was the same as yesterday. And the day before. No one.

With a nervous movement, he stubbed out the last cigarette in the pack and left.

She glanced over her shoulder. Silence. She frowned. Still nothing. She returned her gaze to the half-written note. The thread had slipped away. She sat down with a resigned sigh and put down her pen. She slowly looked around the room. The floor was covered with sheets of paper. She couldn't distinguish any of them. She didn't remember writing them down. She picked up the first one closest to her. She read a few words. Nothing. She didn't remember the story. She picked up another. Nothing either. Another, and another. She began frantically leafing through them all. She scattered them frantically, as if searching for the right one. And each one was the right one, only she couldn't see it. She sobbed desperately, clutching the scraps of paper.

"I don't remember!" she moaned.

She turned and looked out the window. A storm was brewing. Lightning began to flash not far away. There was still no trace of the sun in the sky. It was as if she lived in a perpetual shadow. An impenetrable gray. She stood slowly, the pages falling from her helpless hands.

"I don't remember..." she repeated, stunned, watching them spread across the black-and-white carpet at her feet.

Each one was a separate story, a tale she had spun. All were important. Yet she couldn't recall a single one. She knelt down and picked up a single page. A completely random one. In crooked handwriting with numerous crossings out, only half of it was written. It consisted of anticipation mixed with cigarette smoke. She could almost smell the scent. She looked at the last line and read quietly:

"God, how long are you going to make me wait?"

She picked up the pen and slowly, unhurriedly, quite deliberately added:

There are three cigarettes left in the pack. That's plenty of time." He raised his head and looked up at the blue-gray sky. A day, like any other. Gray and unpleasant. The sun hid itself from curious eyes, and its gracious glow no longer warmed even the stone he leaned against, drawing in lazily.

He sighed and closed his eyes. He savored the momentary relief. Then he heard a soft, gentle voice:

"I don't think you have to wait any longer."

He opened his eyes. A woman stood beside him. She smiled faintly, almost joyfully. She didn't know what awaited her. She didn't know her fate… her destiny.

"Now it's your turn," he said, stubbing out his cigarette. "Wait for the angels."

The end of the Hadyniak marriage

Tuesday morning. It was almost six. Most people jump out of bed on a day like this and rush to work. Marian Hadyniak did something different that day. He got up, put on his boxer shorts—he didn't care that he'd been wearing them for six days now—and looked at the bed.

"Stupid, disgusting cow!" he hissed through his teeth. Marian was an unusually calm man; he wouldn't even hurt a fly, but lately he'd been hearing a strange voice calling in his head. In the park, in a bar, in church (though he rarely went there), everywhere he seemed to hear clearly: "Bitch! She wasted your life!"

Marian was jolted from his deep thoughts by a sound he hated, a sound so horrific that whenever Marian was allowed to hear it, he was always overcome with terrible fury—it was a sound that dug deep into Hadyniak's brain, Marian felt it rip open his skull—it was the sound of a buzzing fly. Marian took a slipper and slapped a fly that happened to land on the windowsill with all his might. The effect was astonishing – a disgusting, bloody, nondescript stain.

The newly minted murderer started work at seven, but that day Marian had no intention of going to work; he planned to wander around the city for eight hours and ponder his hopeless, stupid life. Besides, Marian hadn't had a job since yesterday; he'd quit, which was the most beautiful experience for him since he'd sweared at his teacher back in high school. He still remembers those beautiful words: "Do you know where my stupid house is? Kiss my ass, you nasty bitch!" Young Hadyniak, and old too, would never have dared to say such words if it weren't for the fact that he held his high school diploma in his hand. Hadyniak had always been a coward. But yesterday he behaved like a true man. He entered the boss's office, slammed the door, and greeted him beautifully:

"Hi, you idiot!"

"Please? Hadyniak, aren't you forgetting yourself?" The boss's surprise was immense.

"No, you faggot who stinks of herring and geriatrics!" Marian's voice trembled, not from fear but from surprise that he knew such colorful and wonderfully sounding bouquets.

"Hadyniak? Did you hit your head or something? Didn't your wife tell you you were aggressive? If I hadn't always had a soft spot for you, he wouldn't have worked here anymore!

" "You have a soft spot, but for goats in the field!" Marian seemed surprised again by his own eloquence. "Listen, you moron! I've worked for you for twelve years for a pittance, I put up with your idiotic talk, I smell your peasant odor, but that's it! I'm quitting, faggot, do you understand?"

"Hadyniak, you don't work here anymore!" I just wonder who will hire you after forty and with poor qualifications? - the boss tried to look satisfied. -

You don't give a damn! You shitty, dickhead of dicks! - Marian shouted and then slowly left the boss's office.

Only on the way to the bar, because it was the first place he thought of, did Marian start to wonder why he'd done it and what he'd tell Jola? After all, he had two children to support, and his wife was also very demanding financially.

"The worst they could do is fucking work!" Marian thought, buying a beer.

That was yesterday, and today would bring new solutions. Marian had never been a believer in the "carpe diem" principle, but yesterday's events had triggered a new chapter in his life, a chapter that was undoubtedly groundbreaking.

The unemployed Hadyniak looked at the still-sleeping Jola. His wife looked divine, lying on the bed, covered up to her head, her face beautifully lost in thought. She would have looked divine to anyone but Marian; to him, she was a fat, ugly, nasty bitch he'd had enough of. He himself couldn't remember when he realized that nothing in life was going well because of her, that his children hated him, that she was just a bank they went to when they couldn't afford lollipops.

"Yeah! Lollipops! Those little brats must be buying cheap cigarettes and hanging out in the toilets and bushes!" Marian thought, and without knowing why, he was completely certain of this statement.

Marian dressed in his usual work clothes—a cheap suit, the same one he'd worn for five years—and left the house. He got into his car, a nice car, once a brand new family Ford. "Family car! Why did I buy that crap!!" Marian said to himself, then got out of the car and walked to the bar.

The Puma couldn't really be called a bar; it was a real dive, stinking of cigarette smoke and vomit. The place had once been quite prosperous, but the then-owner was caught by his wife having sex with a very underage girl, and then it all went smoothly—a divorce, and in short, she let him off the hook. Now even the beer tasted shitty—the place was shitty, and the beer sucked, nothing special. Marian looked around for an empty table, which wasn't difficult since there was no one else in the place except himself and the plump old barmaid. He ordered a beer and bought cigarettes. It was the first time he'd bought one in five years. Jola wouldn't let him smoke, repeatedly telling him he was stupid, irresponsible, and how could he poison himself while supporting her and his family?

"Fuck you!" was the first phrase that came to Marian's mind when he thought of his wife.

Lately, Marian had been increasingly wondering why he'd married Jola in the first place. He'd wanted a divorce, but he'd never enjoyed going to court, especially since he was terrified of government institutions. It was a veritable phobia. As a young boy, Marian had strange dreams, and in one of the most terrifying, he'd walked alone through the courthouse. This seemingly harmless dream turned into a veritable nightmare: the bodies of his relatives began falling from the ceiling, the walls were filled with blood, and whenever Marian had this nightmare, he'd wet the bed. So, for obvious reasons, Hadyniak couldn't divorce her. Another reason was his wife's faith; that stupid bigot claimed divorce was a sin.

And now, sitting with a beer, Marian contemplated his lousy life and found a solution: he'd kill Jola! He'd kill the bitch in cold blood and throw her body into the Oder River! This is how this perfidious plan began to form in Marian's head. He saw her slaughter his little wife with a kitchen knife, and this time only blood was coming from her always talkative mouth... This is how Marian saw it, and with horror he realized that he hadn't been as happy as he was today in a long time! He drank two more beers and slowly, with a devilish smile on his face, headed home.

He opened the door and, right from the threshold, joyfully called out,

"Dear Jola, I'm back!"

"What are you so happy about, you idiot!" Jola, as always, greeted him with overwhelming approval.

"But Jola, why are you so irritated today?

" "Why? Are you even asking why? Oh no, of course, as usual, in your opinion, we have no problems! Probably because you don't care and I'm the one taking care of the whole house!" Jola yelled at her husband, which made him a little nervous:

"Jolka, don't fucking shout, just tell me what happened!"

"What happened? Oh fuck, you two are determined to finish me off!" Okay, but when I die, bury me next to Mommy!

"Jola, what happened!?" This time Marian shouted,

"Don't yell at me!" Jola screamed furiously. "I didn't marry you for you to treat me like some scumbag!

" "You're the one yelling all the time!

" "Of course! You're making a fool of me! Sure! Just try yelling at me in front of the kids and you'll see!" Jola, as was her habit, yelled and waved her hands a bit wildly.

"Jola! Calm down and tell me what happened!

" "Nothing happened, of course! Leave me alone!"

Jola made a face of utter lese majesty and entered the kitchen. Marian was just waiting for this, following her and walking to the drawer where his signature knife was – a new, laser-sharpened knife he'd bought at the market two weeks ago for twelve zlotys. Marian opened the drawer and drew the knife, pretending to cut a sausage, but watching his wife out of the corner of his eye. Finally, the perfect moment arrived – Jola turned her back on Marian, and he took a swing and was about to deliver one quick, deep cut to the bitch's neck when Jola turned and said to her husband,

"Marian, do you know how much you're hurting me? What have I done to you that you're torturing me so mentally?"

Marian quickly turned around and continued cutting the sausage, saying nothing. He watched his wife and waited for the opportune moment. Jola left the kitchen, and Marian followed her. She walked down the hall and, just at the bathroom door, turned and said,

"What else are you following me around like an idiot for?"

"Honey, because I..." Marian was speechless. He didn't know what to say, turned around, and went back to the kitchen.

"You nasty, stupid bitch!" Hadyniak thought. He was at a standstill, unsure of what to do, and to make matters worse, he had the impression that this witch knew everything.

Marian waited an hour; the thought of killing his wife haunted him.

"I'll bury you, you whore, next to Mommy!" he thought, and smiled mischievously.

Jola sat down in the living room and turned on the TV. Of course, "M for something" was playing; according to Hadyniak, "M for murder" should be on that day. Yes, he would do it now. Marian calmly approached his wife and smiled, which Jola responded with a nasty grimace.

"Honey, can you stand up for a moment?" Marian asked in a gracious tone.

"Why?

" "I have a surprise for you," Marian said, still smiling sheepishly.

"I don't give a damn about your surprise!" Jola shouted back politely and turned up the volume on the TV. Marek was telling Hanka that he loved her; Jola couldn't have missed it.

Marian couldn't take it anymore, he furiously threw himself at his wife and began to strangle her. Jola screamed. This scream was elicited by utter surprise, but Marian ignored her cries. He pressed harder and harder against her throat, and with one hand began slapping her face. However, something Marian couldn't have expected happened. He suddenly felt a terrible, throbbing pain in his groin. As he grabbed the sore spot, he realized what had happened—that female dog had kicked him in the balls! Hadyniak's eyes misted over, and he fell to the ground. Jola didn't wait long, running to the kitchen and returning holding something in her hands. It took Marian a moment to realize what it was—a laser-sharpened knife worth twelve złoty. Marian tried to get up from the ground, but suddenly felt a sting in his stomach, looked up, and saw blood on his blouse. And that blouse was not just any blouse! He'd bought it when he was still single, and it was his favorite piece of clothing. Marian could endure anything but this! No one was going to ruin his beloved blouse! He stood up and, with his last bit of strength, punched Jola in the face. His wife fell to the carpet, which Marian took advantage of – he picked up a blood-stained, laser-sharpened knife (twelve złoty at the market) from the ground and plunged it with all his might into his beloved wife's chest. Jola's scream echoed throughout the living room, slightly interrupting Marek's declaration of love. Jola's blood splattered onto Marian's face, but he simply wiped it away and struck again.

He struck again, and when he was sure Jola wouldn't get up and yell at him that the whole house was on her shoulders, Marian dropped the knife and sat up. He looked at his stomach, from which blood was still slowly seeping. He felt visibly weak, feeling that this bitch had wounded him, perhaps even mortally. Marian was losing consciousness, reached for the phone and called an ambulance, not even knowing what he was saying. He threw down the phone and, falling to the ground, said:

- Get the fuck out, bitch!

Where the Sun's Light Doesn't Reach... - part 5

She wanted to satisfy her hunger as quickly as possible with the sight of a dead body. She felt like a blood-thirsty vampire, or a drug addict on a binge. The night was cold, but for her, it was the only pleasant thing. She stood by the window of Britney's room—her former "friend." Suddenly, she found herself in the room. She smiled to herself and looked at the girl quickly typing something on the computer.

"What are you typing?" Britney turned around, terrified. She quickly calmed down when she saw it was Nadine, and she was laughing at the sight; after all, her "friend" hadn't even realized what she was about to do.

"Oh, it's you, I haven't seen you in ages. Some kind of party..." Blood gushed from the lips that had interrupted the sentence, while laughter echoed from the lips of the person who had caused it. It was ecstasy, a fix for a drug addict, a young victim for a vampire, it was everything that was pleasant, yet doubts returned, memories of her mother and father. She also remembered Darius's words... Could he be right?

"That's nonsense," she contradicted herself and disappeared, hearing the clicking of heels.

Doubt returned;

In her heart, at the bottom;

She placed a scarf sewn with the threads of despair;

I thought it had vanished;

When she slept, I wrapped myself in the wind of oblivion and closed my eyes;

Now I opened them again;

Although I prefer not to watch her cry...

***

Again in her old house, again by the expensive mirror, she spun around, examining the slightly darker dress and the buds growing in her hair. Her complexion even paler, her eyes even bluer, sadder... She looked beautiful, and yet it wasn't enough to make her happy. She pressed her lips together and headed towards her old room. She had already killed two of her five friends, but that wasn't what pained her. The thought of being used again seared her far more. Just like before, just like always. She pushed open the wooden door and looked at the raspberry walls of the room. Several adorable teddy bears sat on the large bed. She grabbed one and tore it apart, scattering cotton wool everywhere.

"How long are you going to lie about wanting this?" she heard a familiar voice, then felt a familiar hand on her shoulder. She quickly stood face to face with Darius. The glint in his eye betrayed that this time he wanted to get his way, that he was certain of his own, unlike her, because she watched him like a deer, then retreated to the far corner of the room.

"If you've come to convert me again, you have no business here," she said, her voice dispassionate and hostile towards him, and he looked at her, silently screaming that she was the most wonderful creature in the world. He loved her, and only now did he understand it. He wanted the best for her, and she kept pushing him away. She simply didn't love, didn't want to love, didn't know that feeling, not anymore. Or maybe not at all... Only once, as a human, had she loved one, wonderful, close... Tomek—that name sent cold shivers down her spine. He had fallen in love, hurt her, left her, thrashing her like no one had ever done in her short life. For a long time, she forgot, stumbling over obstacles thrown in her way, but for the most part, she had freed herself from him. Why only for the most part? He was her first and only love, someone important, even if deceitful and idiotic. She had handed him her heart on a silver platter, and he had taken it, then trampled it drastically. That was the first time she realized that when trouble arose, she was completely alone.

Darius grabbed her hand, and she quickly snatched it away.

"Nadine, it's for your own good.

" "I never knew him, and now I'll be fine!" she shouted in his face, then slammed the door shut. She didn't know what she was trying to achieve by this, but she ran down the marble stairs and sat cross-legged on the sofa. Hope grew in her heart, hope that Darius would soon appear on the stairs and take her somewhere far away, where she could do only what she wanted. Where she would be as free as a bird or a wildflower. She squeezed her eyes shut, motivating herself to remain calm.

"You won't fool me. Nadine, I want what's best for you, don't you understand?

" "You know what?! You want what's best for yourself, not for me. Don't interfere in my life, because I absolutely don't want that! I don't need anyone like you. I've been given a special assignment because I am special, and you? You're nothing, nobody." I don't need your care, I don't need anything from you! I hate you! I hate your meddling in other people's affairs. Why can't you mind your own business?! Get out and never come back. I don't want you here! He stood there, stunned. He smiled sadly and whispered,

"You'll regret this." She didn't hear it, just as she didn't hear the rapid beating of her broken heart.

With a wave of a cold hand;

I'll simply point to the door; With the

beating of an icy heart; I'll

simply point to the end of days;

I'll be a monster;

You've placed your heart on your hand;

Custom dictates that you take what they give you...

Marcus has no friends"

"John, what is friendship to you?

" "Oh, one too many," John thought. In high school, before they drank themselves into oblivion, they would have drunken conversations about serious, existential matters. Marcus would often confide in John, his voice breaking, about his romantic failures or problems at home. Often, these were matters too personal for John to listen to. But then they would both burst into wild laughter and fall asleep on the living room carpet, the memory of those conversations fading away as the whiskey steamed off their skin. Regardless, upon waking, they both felt better mentally, their only complaint being a terrible hangover. And so it was twice a month, when John's parents spent weekends in the country.

Today, both nearing forty, they sat on the porch of Marcus's single-family home. John in a deep, soft armchair, Marcus, paralyzed from the waist down, in a wheelchair. They were separated by a table, a bottle of whiskey, glasses, and a game of checkers underway. There was no ashtray; they simply threw the ashtrays, which would have accumulated in large quantities since the afternoon, into the grass.

"What we're doing now is friendship. Look, we're sitting together over a glass, playing checkers like little kids. We trust each other like no one else. And then there's the fact that I didn't tell on my old lady like you used to puke on her carpet every three weeks."

They burst out laughing.

"I've always had a clear criterion for choosing friends," Marcus replied. "Low on the level of scum, high on the level of humor."

They snorted again. Marcus pushed the board aside and filled their glasses. He became serious in an instant and continued:

"You're the only guy who's never once disappointed me on any of those criteria.

" "Come on... You've got me.

" "Exactly, John. I've got you." It's wonderful that there's someone who'll pat you on the back when everyone else has their asses stuck in their boots. You understand me perfectly; I've often felt like you were reading my mind. But you'll never understand what it's like to murder your own wife.

John sighed.

"I told you not to look at it that way..."

The conversation turned to a topic John had long considered exhausted. Less than six months ago, on their fifteenth wedding anniversary, John and his wife had gone on a road trip across the United States. Two days before returning to Cleveland, Emma fell ill. She was consumed by a mercilessly high fever, and Marcus had stayed up all night with her in a dingy hotel in the middle of nowhere. The next night, Emma probably didn't even feel their Ford crash into a tree. Marcus had fallen asleep at the wheel forty miles from home. Emma's parents had cut off contact with Marcus, blaming him for his wife's death. Only occasionally did Marcus's daughters go to visit their grandparents; they lived on the other side of town.

"A terrible experience..." John thought, and he felt genuine sympathy for Marcus.

"Tell me," Marcus continued, "how is it that you've lived alone for fifteen years and haven't become a bit of a selfish jerk?"

John smiled wryly.

"If you'd spent those fifteen years buying food just for yourself, had no one to argue with about the remote, and washed the dishes only once every three days, you'd also feel the urge to make the world a better place."

They downed more glasses. Marcus looked deep into John's eyes.

"I owe you a huge debt," he said. "You've become a close friend to the girls over the month I was in the hospital. You're the best at keeping spirits up, seriously. I wouldn't be able to refuse you if you asked me for something. Anything. It

was mid-August, and by this time of night it was getting chilly. Cool and dark; the "bright" June nights were already a memory. John threw his sweatshirt over his shoulders. "Way too much alcohol for such a quiet and intimate evening," he thought. "Alcohol and tobacco."

"One last crazy party between two drunks?" he asked Marcus, who, with a wicked smile, was digging the last cigarette out of his pack.

"Sure." Marcus put the cigarette in his mouth and, with his eyes blearily, wandered around the table, searching for a lighter. John pulled his own out of his pocket. "But before I beat you up for the last time, bring me some socks from upstairs, okay? It's chilly from that damn lake...

" "Mhm..." John muttered, and only now, as he pushed himself away from the armchair, did he realize he'd had a bit too much. He leaned his hand on the table, the other rubbing his stubbled face.

"These woolen ones should be in the second drawer from the top!" Marcus shouted as John disappeared into the house.

Since Marcus sold his downtown Cleveland apartment two months ago and bought a small house in the suburbs, John had visited him twice. "So where was Marcus's damn room?" he wondered aloud as he climbed the final steps to the second floor. He leaned breathlessly against the wall and swallowed. "Okay, this was the bathroom and the toilet." He glanced at the two doors on the left side of the hallway. There were three on the right, and after a few faltering steps, he decided to open the first one he passed.

"Second drawer from the top..." he muttered, sniffing, and tried the doorknob. The door slowly opened; after a moment, 14-year-old Kate and 12-year-old Sara flinched as the door came to a stop against the wardrobe with a soft thud. The younger was making the bed, the older sat at the desk to John's left. Now they were both staring expectantly at John, who had leaned against the doorknob and assumed a crooked position.

"Good evening, beautiful... bye-bye," John smiled, but suddenly felt a disturbing wave of nausea sweep over his stomach. His sense of balance was highly unstable: the girls' faces, the desk, the lamp, and that colorful carpet swirled around him, all of them even more provoking him to throw up. But what disturbed him more was his feeling of interest in the girls. In the worst, most perfidious way he could feel about his friend's daughters. He stared at them, the adolescent girls bathed in bright pajamas, and felt an increasingly morbid desire creeping over him...

John hadn't had many women since he finished college. He often told his friends, who met him every six months and asked if he'd found a suitable woman yet, that he was too complicated for a long-term relationship, and that being single meant he enjoyed life more. But he was too lazy for that. His cramped apartment in downtown Cleveland and regular sex with the cashier at the supermarket across the street were enough for him. A mutually satisfying arrangement with no strings attached.

Today he wasn't himself. He'd been living with the girls for a month, but until now he hadn't felt anything like this. He hadn't been drunk around them. Until now, he'd visited the supermarket just before closing, made a few small purchases, and gone to the back with Caroline, but the slim brunette had taken a vacation two weeks ago.

"Kate, honey..." John finally spoke. "Isn't it too late to read books?" He staggered to the desk. Darker and darker thoughts were creeping into his mind. "Daddy sent me here... I was taking care of you..."

The girl looked at John's shaking hands and rose from her chair, alarmed. She opened her mouth to say something, but John suddenly pulled her to him and covered her mouth. Sara, who had sat down on the bed when John approached her sister, now jumped up, but she didn't scream; She gasped in terror, and before she could utter a sound, John raised his voice,

"If you scream, your sister will get hurt. If you struggle," he leaned close to Kate's ear, "I'll hurt Sarah, whom you love, right?"

Kate trembled. Her large, terrified eyes stared at Sarah, paralyzed with fear. Each inhale was accompanied by a loud whoosh. Her breathing was rapid and ragged.

"I'm not a bad person," John whispered. "I'm just a drunken bastard who's tired of fucking the same woman from the supermarket across the street. And your old man is another drunken bastard for whom the first one did a lot. Daddy let me take two such pretty girls..."

He slipped his hand under Kata's pajamas, the other still covering her mouth. His hand moved from the girl's stomach to her small, pointed breasts. Kate tried to bend down, to pull away; she began pounding her clenched fists on the man's thighs. John withdrew his hand and almost shouted,

"Mommy always told you to obey your father, didn't she?! He doesn't mind." He smiled benevolently again and fell silent. He was covered in sweat. "Don't you believe me?" he asked after a moment, then turned to Sarah,

"Open the window. "

The girl stood still.

"Go to the window and open it!" John hissed through gritted teeth. Sarah's terrified, doe-like eyes flicked from John's hardened face to the delicate curtain. The girl opened her mouth and walked numbly across the room.

"Daddy owes me a debt of gratitude, doesn't he?" John asked rhetorically. "And since he's a kindhearted man, he let me choose the form of payment."

With a decisive movement, he ripped the curtains apart.

"Open..." he whispered.

Sara grabbed the doorknob. Only now did tears fill her eyes. She hesitantly opened the window and burst into tears. John quickly pulled her hand away; the girl's back slammed violently against John's stomach. He covered her mouth with his hand and pressed her head against his chest, just as he had done with Kate earlier. Now he was pressing the two terrified girls' heads against his chest. He kissed Sara gently on the cheek and approached the open window.

"Both?" he shouted.

The girls' tears flooded his hands.

Marcus's heartfelt voice came from the porch:

"Yes, both. Thanks, man!"

"A Good Morning Story."

Magda, getting out of bed this morning, tripped and hit her head on the desk. And then her head hurt. But that's nothing, she thought to herself. So she got up and went to the toilet. And there was a surprise waiting for her. The yogurt spilled on the toilet looked like a real mess. It was Cimoszewicz—her pet elephant seal—taking a morning shower.

"Włodek!!!!!!" she yelled so loudly that the building shook.

"What?" a bored voice answered her from the toilet.

"What did I tell you about splashing around in the toilet in the morning?

" "What were you supposed to tell me, hrrhrhihihimuuu?

" "That you shouldn't splash yogurt on the floor because..."

"Shush, I'm feeling down, hrrhrhihihimuuuu!!!

" "Why are you feeling down??!!?"

"Because I love Jolcia , hrrhrhihihimu

... He was wearing a light blue shirt that Magda had given him for his 55th birthday, a black suit, black trousers, and a RED AND WHITE bow with a logo that read "Włodzimierz Cimoszewicz." "Well, well, you look divine. Now no girl can resist you. " "But I don't want girls hrrhrhihihimuuu!!! I want Jolcia hrrhrhihihimuuu!!!" And slamming the door (so hard it flew out), he left the house. On the way to the parliament building, he bought himself a copy of "Pani domu" magazine, which came with a free CD of '60s hits. He popped the CD into his mouth and continued on, bobbing energetically to the music. Meanwhile, Magda was wondering what to do with the door that had fallen out, but her thoughts were interrupted by a neighbor who had just come to pay her a visit. "Hello Magda!!! " "Wow!!!!!!!!!!!!! Lady... " "No titles, please!" I came here... ahem... to complain!! - What happened? - Please don't beat yourself up! A few puffs, the wheels in motion, but like an ox, sluggish and very sluggish. Your locomotive ended up in the middle of nowhere. Whose boiler has completely cooled down yet? - What???? Mrs. Szczuka, please don't make any allusions here! - A kind word is supposedly better than money. But you won't hear a kind word from me either. - Szczuka, you woman, speak normally, or I'll chop your head off!!!

"What oyster doesn't twitch anymore?" And Magda got angry. She went to the closet, took out her Gameboy, removed its case, and pulled out the axe Cimoszewicz had given her for her anniversary as a blonde. She didn't quite understand how it worked, but luckily, the instruction manual was lying nearby. She approached Szczuka. Szczuka was standing in front of the mirror, practicing her diction (the famous ®). Magda said, "I warned you! I told you I'd chop your head off!" and, swinging the axe, severed Szczuka's head. The head remained on the floor, while the rest of the body ran back to her apartment. Unfortunately, even the fact that the pike no longer had a head didn't deprive her of her voice. Quite the opposite—the pike's head screamed loudly, "Magda, you're like a two-in-one shampoo, the Best and the Weakest Link." Magda took a band-aid and taped Kazimierza's mouth shut. Then, taking out a hammer, she nailed her head to the wall, thus adding to her collection of "Famous and Disliked." The collection already included several impressive pieces, including Marcin Meller, Andrzej Lepper, Martyna Wojciechowska, Doda, Goli-Kinga, Monika Olejnik, and now Szczuka. Satisfied with herself, she went to the doctor. On the way, she met Olek, a classmate.

"Hi Magda!" Olek shouted from the other side of the street, then crossed to the same side.

"Oh, man, I've been a while!" she replied, and... slapped Olek's face (that is, slapped him). Olek, with a satisfied expression, slapped her back, because that was their way of greeting each other. The boy took Madzie to the clinic and went to buy an extra tire for the tractor, because tomorrow he had to go to his grandfather's in the city, and in this city, no one had ever seen what a tractor looked like.

The girl sat down in the waiting room and began leafing through glossy magazines. One of them had a photo of Włodek standing at attention before the investigative committee for Jolanta Kwaśniewska. The article's title was: "Włodzimierz Cimoszewicz - in love with the First Lady, or in love with her money?" Magda thought it would be nice to have such a photo at home, so without thinking, she bit off Cimoszewicz's photo from the rest of the newspaper and put it in her pocket. The doctor called her into the office.

"Hello, what's wrong with you?"

"You know, I fell this morning and hit my head on the desk.

" "So what?

" "Well... now I have this mark, right here." She pointed to the wound in her head.

"Oh, it looks like a classic brain fracture. But wait, are you a natural blonde?

" "Yes, and what does that have to do with anything?"

"A lot, because it's common knowledge that blondes don't have... brains!"

- But Mommy said my brain would grow when I got older!

- Well, your Mommy probably has as much to do with medicine as an elephant seal has with politics.

- Just so you know!! My elephant seal is the MINISTER OF FOREIGN AFFAIRS.

- What sea elephant?? Wait, wait, is that Mr. Włodzimierz Cimoszewicz?

- Yes.

- Oh my gosh!! Really, do you really own Włodzimierz?

- Yes, because what?

- I love him, he's my idol, he's simply brilliant, I'll vote for him in the elections, or... or... could I have your autograph?

- MY autograph?! And why do you need it?!

- If you see Włodzimierz, then you're blessed by him, and since you're blessed by him, then your autograph will mean almost as much to me as the autograph of my guru and master - Mr. Włodzimierz!

- Oh my, if you love Cimoszewicz so much...

- Please call him Włodzimierz.

- Fine, if you love "Włodzimierz" so much and you care so much about that signature, I'll give you "AUTOGRAPH." J

- Aaaah... my dear, what would I do without you!! I love you, and I love Włodzimierz even more!! I love you because you gave me your autograph, and Włodzimierz because he's so brilliant and wise, because he's changing Poland for the better (actually, "for the better," author's note).

After leaving the office, Magda needed a moment to calm down and gather her thoughts. A constant echo in her head was: "Włodzimierz, Włodzimierz, Włodzimierz." She grabbed her bag and headed home. On the way, she encountered Olek again. He was rolling a huge tire along the sidewalk and wanted to shoot Magda with a leaf, so he let go of the tire and shot Magda in the face. Unfortunately, as befits bad luck, the huge tire rolled on its own, flattening several pedestrians. Then all those slapped pedestrians approached Olek and started throwing punches at each other. The boy bravely apologized to everyone and said that if they didn't want to be slapped, he could inflate them. The passersby agreed to this solution, and Olek was interrupted from his chat with Magda and had to go to the nearest gas station to buy oxygen and inflate the moaning passersby. Meanwhile, Magda went to the house, where she found Cimoszewicz.

"Włodek, what a mess you were today! Usually, this doctor has a crush on you. I had to give him an autograph, and what a mess, Olek..." She started from the doorway, but didn't finish because Włodek looked at her with a deadly glare.

"I have a guest, so to put it simply: SHUT UP!" roared the seal. Suddenly, a woman poked her head out of the living room. Magda thought she was shouting at her owner for some woman, but when she looked at the woman's face, she froze. In their living room sat Jolanta Kwaśniewska in all her glory. Madzia thought it would be appropriate to start apologizing to the president's wife, so she began:

- Dear Madam, I... I'm very sorry - but then Cimoszewicz interrupted her again:

- It would be best if you left here and came back... someday. - But "Kwaśna" immediately put Włodzimierz in order:

"Włodek! My heart bleeds when you torment that girl like that. We'd like to invite you for coffee—we'll get to know each other better, we'll talk." Magda didn't feel like talking to Jolanta K. at all, but since Cimoszewicz was so mean to her, she decided to be mean to him too and sat down at the table with Kwaśniewska. She didn't know it would be so pleasant. They drank coffee, ate cake, and talked all day about... politics :P. Halfway through the meeting, Kwaśniewski came over and first yelled at Kwaśniewska for not telling him where she was going, then beat Cimoszewicz for dating his wife, and then did something that was the height of impudence—he sat down, poured himself some coffee, and ate a cake. Well... the Kwaśniewskis made up that evening, and Cimoszewicz promised himself he'd never invite Jolanta K. over again (unless, of course, her husband went on a long business trip). Around 7 p.m., Włodzimierz's favorite (or rather, Jolka) grabbed her husband by his tie and, tugging, said,

"Come on, Oluś, we still have to do some shopping!

" "But... honey, it's vacation time now, the president should be relaxing in the shade of palm trees, not wandering around the shops!

" "Oh, clichés, you promised you'd buy me a fur coat.

" "But why do you need a fur coat in the summer?

" "So I don't have to freeze when winter unexpectedly arrives.

" "Stop it, I'll buy you a fur coat some other time, right now I have to negotiate with Włodzimierz about a holiday abroad!"

"So maybe I'll go shopping with your wife?" Cimoszewicz interjected.

"Hmm... and will you promise not to hit on her?"

"I promise!"

"Okay, go get that fur coat now, because she won't leave me alone, and I'm going to Belvedere, I have an urgent meeting with the Minister of Finance." And they left. Kwaśniewski went to the White House, Cimoszewicz and Jolka to the shopping malls, and Magda? Magda was left alone, looking at the collection of "famous and disliked," she peeled the band-aid off the rat's mouth, and to her monotonous chatter... she fell asleep.

THE END