Lost For a Woman Whose Blue Eyes Overshadow Everything Else

The weather wasn't exactly encouraging that day. The late Gothic Church of St. Michael the Archangel in Goserting was shrouded in fog. Delicate raindrops bounced off the baroque gables of the building's facade to the rhythm of a Viennese waltz. The harmony of this charming place was somewhat disturbed by the numerous cars parked nearby. Michael Trent was very nervous that day. He wasn't entirely sure what he was doing there. His wife, Kate, whom he'd passed that morning at the door of their apartment, had mentioned a funeral, but Michael himself was too distraught by recent events to ask who had died. Just remembering his problems made Michael feel ill. Things weren't going well at work; the deadline for the project for Hibrid was fast approaching, and he was still far from finished. Because of this, he'd been pulling late nights the past few nights, and the numerous overtime hours he'd been putting in, which often left him a guest at home, had clearly shaken his married life. Admittedly, things weren't working out for him lately; frustrated with his work, he had less and less time for her. To make matters worse, Kate began to suspect he was having an affair. And rightly so. A young girl from the marketing department had effectively turned his head for a short time. It was more of an adventure than a passionate affair, a way to relieve his numerous stresses and breakdowns. However, it had provoked Kate's justifiable fury. A single forgotten, undeleted text message from his mistress had sparked a heated argument, forcing Michael to sleep at work for several days. After much effort and courtship, he managed to placate his wife, but things weren't working out between them, which only deepened his feeling of the futility of his existence.

He stood outside in the pouring rain, moodily finishing his cigarette. "Damn it," he cleared his throat, and threw the smoldering butt onto the wet ground. Instinctively, he smothered it with the sole of his shoe and headed toward the church. When he opened the door, his eyes met pointed windows with stained glass, starry crystal vaults, and numerous tombstones. The unmistakable scent of incense filled the air. Fascinated by the sight, he savored it silently for a moment. He was particularly captivated by the large crystal cross attached to the church's vault. A magical aura of mystery surrounded him. When he finished examining the church, his attention was drawn to the people gathered inside. He was furious when he noticed that the seat next to Kate and his daughter, Diana, was occupied. God only knows what Michael's parents were doing there. He decided to remain where he was, to endure what he considered a dull ceremony in relative peace. After a moment, however, curiosity got the better of him. Looking around, he noticed a multitude of friends and family. For a moment, he froze in horror. "Who the hell had died?" He'd been working hard for the past few days, keeping his head down. But could his drug and alcohol addiction have caused him to forget the death of someone close to him?

The priest began his sermon. A load of nonsense, blah this, blah that. He wasn't interested. He decided to move on and ask someone who the deceased was. The unknown gentleman with a fancy mustache and a refined black suit, however, didn't deign to respond to his question. "The devil with you," Michael thought, and headed toward Kate. When he saw her face, his body froze. The sight was horrific; the usually beautiful face was incredibly tortured and streaked with tears. Kate was leaning on the shoulder of a tall man, whom Michael after a moment recognized as his best friend, Greg. At that moment, his terror reached its peak. Greg was a tough guy, one who would even pull teeth without anesthesia to avoid being accused of effeminacy, yet his hard-edged yet noble face was also streaked with tiny tears. "What's going on here!? Who died!?" he exclaimed. His words, however, had no effect on his loved ones. For a moment, he thought his little daughter was smiling at him, but it was only an illusion. Putting this on stress, he instinctively ran toward the coffin to see what unfortunate person lay within. To his surprise, this hysterical reaction met with no response from those gathered. As he ran, Michael managed to catch a glimpse of his boss, Max Fryga, and numerous colleagues. His heart began to beat at the speed of light. When he reached the closed coffin, he realized with horror that he couldn't open it. His hands literally shone through it like flour through a fine sieve. He howled in terror, again without reaction. He was helpless and stressed. After a moment, he fell to the ground, writhing in pain and helplessness, wondering what nightmare he was in and when he would finally wake up. Suddenly, the entire church glowed with a bright, incredibly reassuring light. He heard words. "Calm down, Michael," a warm, melodic voice took over his entire mind. He froze in terror. A large gathering of relatives appeared before his eyes. It wouldn't have been surprising, if it weren't for the fact that they were all long dead. They were now standing a few meters away from him, smiling benevolently. "What the hell is going on here!?" Michael shouted again. He was definitely on the verge of a nervous breakdown. "Calm down, boy, it's time to move on," the melodic voice filled his consciousness again. He no longer had the strength to protest. He involuntarily submitted to its will, following the light that had such an incredibly soothing effect. Suddenly, all the recent events flashed before his eyes. Working late on a project over a bottle of Johnny Walker, driving in a terrible downpour, and the headlights and loud horn of a truck he'd cut off. These were the last things he remembered. Then came the emptiness from which he only awoke this morning. And it was at that moment that he realized what a ghastly spectacle he was taking part in. – Yes, Michael,"You're dead," the melodic voice once again entered his interior. "Calm down and follow me; you'll soon be with your loved ones." Intoxicated by the warm voice and soothing light, Michael submitted to its will. When he found himself among his loved ones, the light vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. Michael vanished with it.

Meanwhile, the priest continued his sermon: "We are gathered here to say goodbye to our beloved brother, husband, and father, the tragically deceased Michael Trent, may he rest in peace. Amen."

The rain intensified, simultaneously changing the repertoire; this was definitely no longer a Viennese waltz, but a funeral march dedicated to the tormented souls of the afterlife. 

Guest

 

Love came unexpectedly. I didn't wait for it. I always said I could live without it. And I did. When she finally entered my house, I couldn't show her the door. She sat down in an armchair and said she'd stay with me.

"Why did you choose me?" I asked.

"Because you don't believe in me. I want to prove to you that I exist.

" "Is it worth taking care of someone like me?

" "It is.

" "I won't go into detail. You can stay as long as you want.

" "Thanks. I'll settle in here for a while.

" "For a while?" I asked.

"Yes. There's someone who loves you and will stay for a while.

" "Someone. I don't know him yet?

" "No. You'll meet him tomorrow.

" "Have you planned everything?

" "That's my role.

" "Did you ask him his opinion?"

"No. Your role is to meet, and mine is to bring you together.

" "I understand that it's not appropriate to argue with you.

" "No.

" "Your tyranny is awful. Maybe I don't want to be in love?

" "You have no choice."

"Maybe she wants to be alone for the rest of her life. It never occurred to you that I could end my life like that.

" "You can't be alone forever.

" "Why?

" "You ask too many questions."

She made me a little angry. She came out of nowhere, sat in my favorite armchair in my house, and demanded obedience. It was too much. But I didn't want her to leave offended.

"Perhaps a cup of coffee?" I suggested.

"No, thank you," she replied politely.

"So when does your magic begin?" I asked

. "Tomorrow. Now let me rest, because I've come a long way to see you and I'm tired," she replied.

"Perhaps you'd like to lie down in the bedroom?" I suggested.

"I'd be happy to," she replied, and headed towards the bedroom.

I was astonished. I didn't tell her where my bedroom was. But I didn't object. I knew it was unnecessary. I also admit that I was intrigued by her behavior. On the other hand, curiosity about meeting my admirer kept me from asking the intruder out. I decided to wait until tomorrow.

"Maybe it's worth experiencing love again?" she asked, standing in the bedroom doorway.

"Maybe," I replied uncertainly.

I couldn't describe her appearance. I didn't even know what she was wearing. A single, transparent mass. Someone shapeless. I didn't go into the bedroom that night. I was scared. I thought I'd gone crazy.

"I think I was hallucinating," I said in the morning, and quickly started getting ready for work.

I was already late. I hadn't eaten breakfast. I grabbed my briefcase and ran up the stairs. There, I collided with a broad-shouldered blond man. My documents, of course, scattered all over the stairs, which made me angry.

"I'm sorry. Maybe I can help you pick them up?" the broad-shouldered blond suggested.

"I'd love to. I'm in a hurry. I'm already late.

" "Can I drive you to work? It'll be faster," he suggested.

"I agree." And when I looked into his blue eyes, I froze.

Nothing mattered. I forgot about being late for work, my documents, the important meeting. Those eyes shattered my loneliness. They destroyed the myth of the single woman. I longed for just one thing—to be together.

Cornelia

 

It was a really tiring day. I returned home after eight hours of school. I still had swimming pool to go to.

"No," I protested loudly, "I'm not going."

I lay down on my bed and tried to read. It was no use. I couldn't concentrate. Yesterday I had a fight with my boyfriend. As usual, it was about Iska. She was supposed to be just his friend. I can already see his friend! I couldn't stay home. I went out into the street. I didn't know what to do with myself. I wanted to go to the park, but my legs took me in the other direction. To the Children's Home. On the way, I entered a toy store. I bought a small, brown teddy bear.

As soon as I entered the building, I heard Kornelia's voice. Every time I came to the Children's Home, Kornelia was the first one I saw. The first time I came here, she ran up and asked, "

Do you have a punch for me?"

I said no, and she burst into tears. I picked her up and hugged her. From then on, I always comforted her, and she reciprocated. Her presence always brought me back to my senses. Four-year-old Kornelia had curly blonde hair and blue eyes. She was a sweet child. You couldn't tell she'd had a difficult childhood. Her parents died in an accident when she was ten months old. Fate had dealt her a hard time, but she was able to find joy in even the smallest things. In the sun shining, in the goodness of dinner. She had a smile on her face almost constantly. That smile was contagious.

When I gave her a teddy bear, she screamed with joy and threw her arms around me. I thought she was going to strangle me. I grabbed her hand and went to ask Mrs. Aga if I could take Kornelia for a walk. She let me. She always let me. She knew that nothing would happen to Kornelia. I dressed the little girl and we went out. Kornelia wanted to go to the park to "feed the pigeons." We bought bread and went to the park. About this one. We sat down on a bench and started feeding the little pigeons.

Suddenly, I noticed someone sitting next to me. It was Młody. My boyfriend.

"Sorry," he said.

I turned around.

"Oh, sorry," he repeated.

"Who's that?" Cornelia asked. "He's a nice guy ."

"I'm Młody. And you?" Młody asked.

"Kornelia. What are you doing here? "

"I came to see your friend."

"So why are you sitting like that?" she asked.

"Because we had a fight," I snapped.

"Then make up," she said, giving us a look that was impossible to refuse.

"Wild?" he asked.

"Yes, I'll make up with you," I replied, "but I'm mainly doing it for Kornelia."

"Okay," the little girl said, clapping her hands. "Now let's go get ice cream."

"Isn't it too cold?" I asked.

"No, it's for... shaved chocolate," she said, grabbing our hands.

"Okay, let's go," said the Young One.

In the evening, we walked Cornelia home.

"Come back tomorrow," she said.

"Okay," I replied, kissing her cheek. And together with the Young One, we went out into the street. The Young One grabbed my hand and we walked toward my house.

"She's cool, that little one," he said after a moment.

"She's fantastic," I said, "and what's special about her is that she lives in a slightly different world."

"What?" he asked. "

Is there time for joy in this world? There is, but people are busy, unhappy. And Cornelia knows how to be happy. She finds joy in everything. Even though she lives in an orphanage and her parents are dead. She doesn't deserve such a fate.

" "That's true," said the Young One.

I didn't even notice we were already standing in front of my house. I hurriedly said goodbye to the Young One and went home. A plan began to form in my head. Cornelia really is extraordinary and shouldn't suffer like this. She should have a normal home. I love her.

II

"Seven o'clock, dear, you have to get up for school," Mom said, grabbing my bare foot peeking out from under the covers .

"I'm getting up," I said, yawning, and then added, "Mom, wouldn't you like to have a little daughter?"

"No."

"Are you sure? " "

I think so.

" "But we could adopt a child?" I asked . "And who do you

mean?" Mom asked me back

, "Kornelia."

"Oh, the one from the orphanage. I already know what you're getting at.

" "Yes...

" "Well, I don't know. I'll talk to Dad.

It's a flop. If Mom says she'll talk to Dad, it doesn't bode well. Dad definitely won't agree. Oh well. Oops... How late! I have to get up because Kiddo will be here soon." I got dressed. At a quarter to eight, Kiddo arrived. I went downstairs. When Kiddo wanted to go to school on the right, I grabbed his arm and steered him left.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I'm going to play hooky at Kornelia's.

" "If so, then okay .

" It was clear he liked her too. When we entered the orphanage, Kornelia was the first to run.

"Cieść," she said . "Hi,

" we replied .

Suddenly, Mrs. Aga came around the corner.

"Can we take Kornelia?" I asked.

"Yes. But wait, shouldn't you be at school now?"

"We should, but somehow it worked out," Młody replied

. "Okay. But Kornelia has to be back at four.

" "Fine."

We went out into the street. First, we went to McDonald's. From Kornelia's behavior, it was clear she hadn't been to McDonald's yet. Młody and I ordered food, and the little one went to play in the play area.

Once Kornelia had eaten enough hamburgers and fries, we went outside. It started to rain. I decided to go to my house. My parents had long since left for work, so there was nothing to be afraid of. For Kornelia, who was here for the first time, everything was interesting, captivating, and unusual. She approached everything, took it in her hands, and examined it carefully for a long time. It wasn't my first time here, and the little one already felt at home.

He sat on the couch and looked at the little one very carefully. He, too, probably considered her the eighth wonder of the world.

After Kornelia had examined everything in my room, she sat on my lap and pressed a storybook into his hand. The little one was reluctant to read, but over time, he enjoyed it more and more. I left the room to make something to eat. I didn't want to disturb them.

After a while, I returned to my room. Kornelia was asleep on my bed, and the little one was playing with a tennis ball.

"Would you like something to eat?" I asked in a whisper

. "Yes," he replied.

"Then come to the kitchen."

We sat down at the table. The young man began to devour bread with jam and gingerbread. It was clear he was truly hungry.

"Leave something for Cornelia," I said. "She'll be hungry too if she gets up." "

Okay," he muttered and continued eating.

"Would you like something to drink?" I asked after a moment

. "I'd love to," he replied. "Do you have juice?"

"I do."

I poured him almost the entire glass. He drank it in one gulp. The young man surprised me more and more. I thought I wouldn't be able to "inhale" so much food and drink.

I'd known the young man for almost a year, but I kept discovering new things about him that surprised and delighted me more and more. The young man is extraordinary. He has blond hair. He's a little taller than me. He's sweet, kind, and caring. I feel safe with him. I love being with him, and I care about him deeply. I don't like arguing with him, because although we always make up, he can be a real pain during an argument. I can't stay angry with him, even if he does something nasty to me. I only stay angry with him for a day, and then it's over. Maybe I love him... I pondered for a moment. I was interrupted by the clatter of Cornelia's feet and her shrill voice:

"Food! I want food!"

"Okay, you're getting food," I said, pushing the plate of food toward her.

"Delicious food," said Cornelia. "And you're not eating?

" "No," I replied.

"That's not allowed," she said seriously, and handed me a slice of bread, giving me a look that made it impossible to refuse. I ate it.

"That's better," the little girl said. "Has the little one eaten yet?

" "Yes," he replied.

"That's good. If it weren't for me, you'd all starve yourselves, and who would come to see me then?"

"Where does this child get these ideas?" I wondered. He must really like us if he cares so much about us. I glanced at my watch. "It's three-thirty. We have to take Cornelia home," I thought, and then said aloud, "Well, dears, we have to get going. Cornelia must be home any minute."

We got dressed and went out. It was almost dark outside. Winter, after all. A bit strange, but winter. Christmas is in three weeks.

After we took Cornelia home, we decided to go for a walk with the Young One. We went to the park. But after a while, we felt cold.

"Let's go home," the Young One said.

"To my house or yours?" I asked. "

To mine. Your parents are here, and mine are away."

I agreed. I really enjoyed going to the Young One's. There was such a "different" atmosphere in his house. Maybe it was because it was always in disarray. In the Young One's house, nothing had its proper place. Things changed places as often as they were used.

We entered the apartment. The first thing I noticed was the order. Everything was beautifully cleaned. The floors gleamed. The Kid explained that Mom had tidied up before she left and hadn't had time to make a mess yet because she wasn't there. Only the Kid's room was a mess, as usual. I sat on the Kid's bed, and he in the armchair. Finally, we had peace. No one was home. All his sisters had left with the Kid's parents. And the Kid was left alone in the house.

After a while, I asked,

"What do you think? Isn't Cornelia too smart for her age?"

"She's wonderful. When I was telling her a story and you were in the kitchen, she said I didn't read well. I asked her why, and she said Dzika read to her, role-playing. You heard her.

ROLE-PLAYING! And that's what a four-year-old said.

"For a child from an orphanage, she knows a lot. How does she know all this?" I asked this question, more to myself, but the Kid immediately answered.

"I think it's from you.

" "What?"

"From you. You talk to her, play with her. She learns many things from you."

Shock again. He's extraordinary. I looked into his eyes and smiled. He smiled back. Suddenly, I realized I loved him madly.

III

I woke up at seven in the morning. I had nine lessons and a play ahead of me. There's no way I'll make it to Cornelia's. I won't ask the Kid to go to her. He's having a hard day too. Cornelia will have to do without us. I'll make it up to her over the Christmas break. I wonder how the children from the orphanage celebrate

Christmas. They probably miss their parents terribly. The Kid and I have parents, so we don't know what it's like.

During the break, I met the Kid. He was standing by the window with his friends.

I gently tugged him by the arm and we started talking. He said his parents wouldn't be back until after Christmas. I was happy. I was glad I wouldn't see his sisters until after Christmas. Not because I didn't like them. Quite the opposite. I liked them a lot, but they annoyed me a little. When I was at the Young One's, they kept coming into his room. They were very tiring. I was happy because I'd finally have some peace when I went to the Young One's before Christmas. On the other hand, I missed them. Despite everything, they were fun. They were great fun to be with. They were a bit crazy. I was never bored around them. They were the opposite of Cornelia. Cornelia was cheerful, but calm, composed, and serious. And the Young One's sisters were crazy.

They couldn't sit still.

The second news the Young One gave me was that he was going to Cornelia's today. This news also made me happy. She wouldn't be alone today. The Young One said he'd take care of her. Tomorrow, Kornelia will probably tell me everything.

And that was the end of our conversation. After that, I didn't see the Young One again for the rest of the day. That evening, I returned home terribly tired. I immediately went to bed and fell asleep.

I dreamed I was with Kornelia and the Young One in the park. We were walking along the paths. Suddenly, a black hole appeared in front of us, "swallowing" everything in its path.

At one point, I noticed the hole sucking Cornelia in. I couldn't hold her. It sucked her in. I looked back. The Young One was gone. He'd gone. He'd left only his footprints in the sand.

I knew he wouldn't come back. I started crying. I'd lost two people I loved.

Suddenly, I woke up. It was three in the morning. I couldn't sleep until morning. I thought about what the dream meant. I don't believe in dreams, but this one was different. Something told me to believe in the dream. I was terrified. What if I really lost Cornelia and the Kid? That would be terrible.

As soon as I got up, I looked out the window. SNOW! Real, cold snow was falling from the sky. I dressed quickly and went out into the snowy street. The snow was ankle-deep. I rang the intercom for the Kid, and together we went to get Cornelia.

We spent the whole day playing in the snow. The Kid devoted more time to Cornelia than to me, and I think I was a little jealous. I argued with him. He called me all sorts of names. I won't repeat those words here. I cried. I'll never forgive him. I'll never speak to him again.

That evening, I talked to my mother about Cornelia. She said she still needed to talk to Dad. I went to bed.

In the morning, I woke up with a strange feeling. I had a feeling something bad was going to happen today. I was right. After breakfast, I went to visit Cornelia. But all I heard from Mrs. Aga were these words:

"Kornelia is sick." He has a fever of 39 degrees.

"Oh my God, it's my fault," I said, and started crying.

"No, it's not because of you," Mrs. Aga comforted me. "Last night, while walking with the group, Tomek threw a lot of snow down her neck. Don't cry, it's not because of you. "

I calmed down a bit.

"What's wrong with her?" I asked.

"I don't know. But the doctor says she's in serious condition."

I burst into tears again. I was devastated. I'd love to go to the Young One right now. He would comfort me, but I don't talk to him. A bad dream was coming true. I'd lost the Young One, and now I was about to lose Cornelia. I mumbled goodbye and ran outside. It was dark and freezing. Everyone around me

was rushing somewhere. They didn't even realize that a little creature was dying inside.

I ran into the house, locked myself in my room, and cried. I probably cried for two hours. I fell asleep, very unhappy and angry at the world.

When I woke up, it was eight o'clock. I went to take a shower. Passing by the kitchen, I heard a conversation. When I looked in, I saw the Young One. At that moment, he looked towards the door.

"Oh, you're already up! The Kid has been waiting here for you for two hours. I'll leave you alone," Mom said, and left the kitchen.

I didn't approach the Kid, I didn't take a single step. I stood there in the doorway, staring straight ahead. I drifted off. I thought of Cornelia, and tears began to flow freely down my cheeks. Suddenly, I felt someone grab my shoulders.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. That's just how I am. Don't cry because of me. And don't worry about Cornelia, it'll be alright." I heard the Kid's words and hugged him. And he kissed me. I felt happy and believed that everything would be alright.

IV.

Cornelia was slowly recovering. When she felt worse, the Kid was there for me. He kept my spirits up. He was there for me. When I needed him, I could count on him; he was my support. He was not only my boyfriend, but above all, my best friend.

Two days until Christmas. Cornelia had completely recovered. She just couldn't go outside. I'd already bought presents for my parents, the Young One, and Cornelia. I myself wanted a bicycle and a computer for Christmas.

This morning at breakfast, my parents told me I'd get one of the presents this afternoon. My parents left for work, and I was home alone. I couldn't wait. I wondered what it could be, but even if I'd been a brainiac, I wouldn't have thought of it. I decided to make dinner. But since I had two left hands when cooking, the hard-boiled eggs were so hard you

 couldn't even crack them with a hammer. (I tried.) And the potatoes were sweet.

When my parents finally came home, I couldn't sit still with excitement.

"So," Dad began, "

maybe I should say," Mom interjected, "the point is that you'll have a sister, Cornelia."

"Yuuuhu!" I shouted so loudly I thought the neighbors would be arriving.

I quickly dressed and ran to the orphanage. On the way, I met the young man and,

 explaining what was going on, I pulled him along.

"Shit. What happened?" Cornelia asked as we entered the building.

"Kornelia, you'll be my little sister. From now on, we'll be together forever.

" "Really?!!" she asked.

I said yes, and she threw her arms around my neck in joy and looked into my eyes. I'll

 never forget those blue eyes.

The Rumble of Battle

surrounded them. Their only chance of escape was to break the ring that surrounded them. From the very beginning of this battle, it was clear that it would be difficult, and only a miracle could save them from defeat. The superiority of the Allied Elven and Dwarven Forces was overwhelming. According to scouts, for every Novilgard soldier, there were two elves and three dwarves. Not a happy situation.

Especially for a novice mage. Randalf had come to Novilgrad two years ago, when he began his studies. Now he deeply regretted it. His father had been right; he should have chosen the Academy in the capital. There, he wouldn't be fighting for his life now. He just sat in his room and studied for the exam. Well, there's no cure for stupidity, and besides, he couldn't have predicted that Novilgard would be attacked during his third year of studies. It was too late for regrets now. He was snapped out of his reverie by the commander's shout:

"Hold formation and head east. Anyone who flees because they fear death will find it here. Understood?"

With a trembling heart, Randalf marched after the others. He had to fight, as a tall elf approached, sword raised. Randalf sheathed his sword and quickly uttered a spell, hurling a fireball at the attacker. His hit was flawless; the elf fell with melted armor and a mangled face. He actually did quite well, and he only had four in war magic. Just three thousand more, furious and bloodthirsty, and he could safely return home. He would have to work hard. The dwarven axemen had just begun their attack. He sent a few bullets their way, but it wasn't enough. He was too weak; his magic couldn't protect anyone but himself. He watched helplessly as the enemy forces slaughtered his unit. Hatred and anger grew within him. Rage fueled his strength. Levitating, he rose high above the raging battle and began searching for the elven commander. He found him as a tall, well-muscled elf mounted on a beautiful black steed. He was dressed in the finest dwarven armor and rode at full gallop, leading his cavalry in an attack.

Randalf concentrated, recalling everything he had learned at the Academy: how to concentrate his energy into a single spell to amplify its effects. He pronounced the spell carefully, and vortices of power and lightning began to appear around him. He summoned a great storm; lightning began to rain down from the clouds, striking the allied forces. Randalf flew into a rage, blindly hurling fireballs at the terrified dwarves and elves. Hope began to smolder in the hearts of the Novilgard soldiers that they might win after all.

A chant of praise to the gods rose like thunder from hundreds of throats. Randalf slowly weakened

and began to fall into the darkness. Why? He wondered as he fell further and further. He remembered in his anger that he had expended too much energy. It was hard, but he knew he had done the right thing. It was probably meant to be. He hit the ground and lost consciousness...

 

Expandable apartments

 

The last few years hadn't been the best. Moving, lacking a clear purpose in life, jumping from job to job. All of this had exhausted me. With weary eyes, I watched the trees leap past the windows of the Kwikbus. Worst of all, I hadn't expected that the job recommended by a friend in Wagga would bring the solution to my problems. The station, as is typical in small towns, was spotless. Benches coated with Teflon, the arms of attached vacuum cleaners persistently searching for nonexistent dust particles. Well, whatever you say, it was a new chapter in my life, a new exploration, and theoretically new possibilities. I decided to seize this slight burst of energy before it inevitably turned into simple fatigue from the monotony of repetitive days. I searched for the gravity line stop.

My new place of work and residence was several dozen kilometers from the town center; the good half-hour commute was of no practical importance anyway. I didn't expect to come here more than once a month. Staring at the shadow of the small, half-open gravitoplane car racing across the red earth, swallowing dwarf shrubs, I seemed to drift back into a half-sleep. At that moment, another car, slightly larger than mine, carrying a cheerful family, entered my field of vision. Slowly, it obscured the shadow I was observing and, accelerating, receded, leaving behind an image of children jumping on their seats. Another memory: I'm ten years old, we're sitting at the table as a family, I'm winning at some long-winded board game, a stack of fake money causes understandable elation, and even my brother's half-friendly, half-envious banter doesn't faze me. Ah, that was life.

Only once I arrived did I learn I'd be living in a marvel of modern technology, an experimental phenomenon of stretchable apartments adapted to desert conditions. I was informed of this by the automated receptionist at the entrance gate, as the lively staff had apparently gone to the pool. The house didn't look particularly unusual from the outside. Just a quadrangle with a flat roof. Clearly curious, I opened the small door that concealed a narrow corridor. There would have been nothing unusual about it, except that the corridor ran along the exterior walls of the house, surrounding another, slightly smaller quadrangle with no windows but four doors, one on each side. A small metal plaque attached to the wall read:

AAF 13.1 Housing Complex .

Multiplication Factor: 4.

1A: 2B1B+S

2A: 2B1B+S

3A: 2B1B+S

4B: Restaurant.

Note: Inter-space sound transmission threshold: 84 dB.

This sign, fascinating in its very potential for unverifiable speculation, didn't answer the fundamental question—where would I sleep tonight? I pressed the handle of the nearest door, marked 1A. The interior was a standard apartment, the likes of which are found in thousands of modern housing developments. A three-room, quite comfortable space with a separate study area, filtered by sunlight streaming from ceiling-mounted windows. In the center of the largest room sat an open red travel bag. I recalled the few instructions the machine had given me, particularly the fact that I would be sharing the complex with two other single men, and, more importantly, both had arrived several hours before me on the same day. So I decided to go directly to room 3A and then to the restaurant. Only now did I feel an unpleasant stomach cramp, undoubtedly caused by hunger. As I left my unknown neighbor's apartment, something made me freeze. Yes, definitely, something wasn't right here. The source of the discrepancy was the length of the external corridor, comparable to the size of the apartment. I crossed the threshold several times, each time testing my hypothesis. The size of the apartment was comparable, aside from the thickness of the walls, to the size of the entire complex. So that's it!

I left my suitcase in apartment 3A. Almost identical to the previous one. The only slight difference in the color of the walls turned out to be insignificant, considering the small knob located by the entrance door that adjusted the color. Well, I definitely needed something to eat. A moment's hesitation at the fourth door, the word "Restaurant" printed in Gothic script on a small piece of paper pinned to the door. Should I knock or come in now? I turned the doorknob and stopped, surprised by the open space of the large room. The sounds of soft music reached my ears. At that moment, I noticed two men whose engaged conversation had been interrupted by my entry. It was then that I realized these were the first people I'd encountered in this place. A place that would likely be my home for at least the next few months. A moment later, I was sitting at the table exchanging basic information about myself with my neighbors, who turned out to be my neighbors. I tried to eat more than talk, naturally reluctant to make myself a topic of discussion. The strangers turned out to be friendly scientists who had just discovered a common interest. The older of them summarized the conversation:

"You see, my colleague, actively involved in the construction of this facility, was just explaining to me the principle behind it all."

"I mean, why do our apartments 'overlap'?" I asked.

"Exactly!" he exclaimed, delighted. "Of course, we've known for a long time how to reuse a section of space by dividing it into quantized regions in the Wajman subspace. As we know, we can only perceive, occupy, and simultaneously use one such region at a time. So, with a slight shift, we can cram in, well, how many such regions?" He turned to the other man.

"In theory, an infinite number." The slight man, no older than 40, smiled in response. "In practice, however, well, you know the theory, the penetrability of sound increases exponentially with the number of subspaces used, i.e., W regions, he improved." "With the fifth region, the neighbor's nighttime snoring breaks the windows in the other apartments. And so, until recently, we didn't think that implementing this theory had any chance of success due to the cost of building a converter—an apartment-size converter, I might add. Only this project utilizes a small trick that could be a significant breakthrough." But you'd better tell us about your project, it seems quite promising." He turned to the older scientist.

"Hmm, this is just the beginning, preliminary research, so to speak. And, strangely enough, the subject matter is quite similar. Well, we've been wondering for a long time how to transfer our "spatial" successes into the domain of time. You know? Squeezing time into time. Multiplying our moments, or, if you prefer, reliving the same moment over and over again, retaining memory and awareness of what's happening, of course. Technically feasible, but incredibly expensive. The fundamental question is whether humanity needs it? And here we enter the essence of my research – the justification for such a project.

" "But everyone would probably welcome the opportunity to relive their moments multiple times," the younger man interrupted.

"Yes and no, you see, the problem is the quality of time spent; few people effectively spend more than one percent of their lives on anything more than so-called leisure." broadly understood administration, planning, analyzing the past or even ordinary worrying, there are few moments worth repeating...

I've been listening for a while now. With over a decade of experience working in various centers and institutes, I've grown accustomed to the enthusiastic speech of scientists. I've also learned to tune out. My consciousness has been dominated by a standard train of thought: bills that will come and those that have – the hopelessness of monotonous work. Worse still, I have no idea what to do to break this boredom – maybe I'll invest in gambling, but even if I didn't have to earn a living, what else is left for me – sport? – That's a thought, maybe I'll learn to dive – but what's the point of spending my life underwater? I don't have a place to live – which may be a good thing, either an apartment or freedom of movement – however, I'm tired of the predictable standard of municipal housing in institutes – maybe I'm spending too much money instead of saving; I'd have both an apartment and freedom – and anyway, I have a pimple under my left shoulder blade, maybe it's skin cancer – what am I supposed to do?!

My stream of thoughts was interrupted by the silence that had fallen at the table for some time. The younger scientist was carelessly poking at his plate with his fork. The older man froze with a strange half-smile, his fascinated gaze fixed on my face. He was embarrassed when our eyes met in midair.

"I'm sorry, sir, a professional lapse," he whispered.

Lance

 

He found the lance in the tall, yellowed grass. Buried by the earth, it showed no signs of serious damage; the point, not significantly chipped, gleamed in the sun. He thought of luck, or an incredible coincidence. Or both at once. With a deft movement—despite the searing pain throbbing between his ribs—he plucked the shaft from the ground and, with a spectacular flourish, placed the weapon on his shoulder, thanks to the sling. "This is a sling, a piece of junk, not a rope or a loop. A fucking sling, understand?" rustled through the frayed scrolls of his memory. He cursed softly and headed toward the trees.

The stench of charred flesh sickened and darkened him, mingling with the smell of burnt trees and undergrowth. He walked slowly, breathing heavily. He wiped his forehead, beaded with sweat and cut by a trickle of blood, with the back of his hand. The clot had already matted his hair, trapping clods of earth between them like hardened lava. The bloody setting sun cast long, distorted shadows across the dry earth. Dusk was fading. Dust hung in the air, dancing lazily over the corpses and remnants of waving vegetation. And falling over everything in a thin layer. In time, it would cover everything, he thought.

He walked north, despite everything. Now it was completely irrelevant. From behind the crooked teeth of the snow-covered mountain peaks, the moons were slowly emerging, both faintly red. His grandmother always said that this foretold war. No wonder no one had seen a moon other than red for a month now. Besides, few people were still looking hopefully at the sky. There was no help there anymore. He looked around for a place. A place to stay. Something comfortable and safe, if possible. Placed somewhere high above the ground, in a tree, for example, or among the rocks. Especially after he passed the first traces of ghouls.

He bandaged his foot, first staunching the blood and cleaning the wound. He looked at the bayonet inquisitively. It wasn't magical, and it didn't look as if it had been coated with any poison. He'd heard that sometimes they dipped them in ordinary shit when they placed them in traps. It was possible it would never heal, or that infection would set in before it did. It would all come to the same thing: I'd have to walk slower now anyway, he thought, so I'd probably starve to death before I caught the infection. He adjusted himself on a wide, old branch. He fell asleep easily. He was used to it. It was like sleeping on a back, after all.

A storm. It pounded mercilessly, and he was soaked after only a few seconds of downpour. Somewhere on the hilltop, an old tree burst into flames. Night blurred the shadows, the rain washed away the night. And the shadows... The shadows kept moving, silently and gently. But he heard them. Despite everything. He heard the smacking and crunching, heard the purring and the scratching of flesh. He tightened his grip on his sword, drew up his lance. He also sniffed. Cold, damn it.

Mud. A quagmire. His foot had begun to bleed again. He had nothing to clean it with. He shivered and panted, unbuttoning his clothes, then putting them back on. He was sticky with cold sweat, with old and new filth, and he stank. He feared most that he stank. The intense stench, in a strong wind, could carry far and draw beasts even from the eastern ravines. He limped and hobbled, the sun taking shape. It was going to get really hot soon, he could feel it. Not just from the temperature.

He sat up, or rather, slumped against a rock. He lay still and must have even lost consciousness for a long moment, because when he opened his eyes, he found himself in full sunlight. Emptiness swirled in his swollen head, his blurred vision filled with shadows. Streams of blood gushed from his foot. Black, stinking. He headed toward the summit, where he could hear the source.

The clearing was brightly lit, the green grass smelled of the crystal spring winding between the stones hidden in its tufts. He drank long and greedily, until the ice of the water began to sting his gums. Then he dipped his head. And then he undressed.

He heard the dragon before he saw it. It flew from the north, majestically reflected in the sunlight. It roared with a rhythmic, rumbling growl. It was quite handsome, a handsome creature. He estimated the distance. He jumped to his clothes and armor, hastily fastened the breeches and clamps, and quickly pulled on his boots. He gripped his gloves between his teeth and buckled his belt, drawing up his sword. His hands were sweating slightly. He surveyed the clearing, watched the approaching dragon. Black smoke still curled from its nostrils; it must have been breathing fire a moment ago. Hidden among the pine trees, the tiny meadow by the stream was too narrow for the dragon to land without risking an accident. Although hungry, it would probably have risked it anyway if it saw a human in the open.

The dragon flapped its wings, placing the grass flat on the ground. It hovered in the air, purring softly. It tossed its head, flicked its tail. It presented itself, preened. So it watched him for a moment, pulling its hood, torn by the gust of wind, tighter. The pennant on its lance rustled yellow and blue. It leaped confidently and purposefully at the dragon, though it was still limping. It wrapped its hand in the loose reins, right next to the horse's bits. The dragon, with a practiced, cavalry gesture, jerked its head upward, slightly diagonally. Straight onto its back. It looked uncertainly at the human, its large eyes grimacing. This one, however, sat straight and confidently. In a hard, wide, armored saddle, fastened with a yellow-and-blue caparison. He sat, spurring the dragon for flight.

Powerful flaps of wings spurred them forward, sharp tugs on the bit forced them south. He settled more comfortably in the saddle and breathed heavily. He adjusted his lance, pulled up his sword. He lowered his hood, let the wind tug freely through his hair, and opened his ears to the song of the monotonous roar. He rode, as usual, without the regulation helmet. Despite this, he was back in the saddle and master of the skies. A heavy regimental sword hung at his side, his lance fluttering with a yellow-and-blue pennant. As yellow-and-blue as the regimental banner. He held the reins firmly, listening calmly to the wind. He smiled, despite everything. He was still alive, though mercilessly tired. He was wounded. He was hungry. He was still very young and had already been in the saddle for two years. He was a lieutenant in the Fifth Squadron of the Imperial Dragoon Cavalry. The sun was shining brightly, and the snow-capped peaks glittered in the distance. He was flying south, to the last known positions of his headquarters. He flew because he felt himself slowly fading, and he desperately wanted to report back.

Elegy

 

This process had been going on for several years. A process that was destroying me from the inside. Do you know that overambition is dangerous? Especially with parents? I know. I learned it the hard way. It's not pleasant. Plus, my entire life is one long series of failures and losses. I'm not happy. And I don't think I ever have been.

I thought my parents would relent when I went to high school, where they wanted me to be. I hoped they'd leave me alone. I took a beating every day for my brother, who had the sense to run away and never show up again. But they kept putting pressure on me. According to them, I should go to law school. So what if I hate law and don't want to become a damn lawyer or take over my father's business! I want to be an actor... Make a life in the theater. Or a writer... Writing is my escape. I wander through perfect worlds of my own creation... I'm surrounded by perfect people... In these worlds, I love and someone loves me... What a shame it's only my imagination...

And if that weren't enough... I fell in love... I fell in love... God, how it hurts... I'd rather have a heart of stone than feel what I feel every time I look into those deep, almost navy blue, almond-shaped eyes... And I know they'll never look at me with the same devotion I do. Sometimes I want to scream at the top of my lungs, drowning in that bottomless navy pit: "I love you! May the sky fall on me and the earth crack beneath me for those words, but I love you!" I wouldn't dare...

Since I was seven, my time has been planned from start to finish. Piano lessons, private tutoring in English, German, and lately even French. Zero time for myself. For friends, whom I practically didn't have anyway.

This state of affairs lasted a long time. Dangerously long. Because, in the end, I was sent to a private, elite boarding school. There I discovered the taste of friendship and platonic love. Even though there was a ton of cramming, I felt freer and happier than ever... I shared a room with two boys. Looking at one of them, Mateusz, I often wondered if it was possible for anyone to have eyes like his. Unearthly. Unreal. The color of the western sky when the sun rises and pushes the night beyond the horizon...

We were performing a play at school. Written by me and my friends from the drama club. A play about death, oblivion, hope for a better tomorrow, and a broken life. One day, as I was falling asleep, I half-consciously thought that this play was about me...

The long-awaited day of the play's premiere had arrived. Our big, groundbreaking evening. Everything promised to be wonderful! The elaborately crafted sets, our costumes, the props...

We began. I was just delivering my monologue, sitting cross-legged on a large oak table, when the door burst open and my father stormed into the room, as nervous as I'd ever been. A shiver ran through me, and only a loud whisper from beside me reminded me that I'd stopped mid-sentence. In that scene, I was supposed to be moved, not to cry or despair… but despite that, real tears were streaming down my cheeks in a steady stream… I was afraid.

In that moment… everything ended… everything…

When the play ended, my father wordlessly dragged me to the car and drove me home. When I heard what they had to say… it was like a death sentence… They said, "You're going to school in Warsaw. No talking." I protested! But it was all for nothing… My fault. I ruined everything myself… I wasted it… When I think about it now… I feel like disappearing, never having been born…

God…

"Adrian?" – my father's sharp – uncaring – SHARPNESS voice resounds behind me. I ignore him. I continue standing motionless by the window, clenching my fists tightly and cursing silently.

"Son," the old man repeats. "You know very well..." Oh, his tone has softened a bit. "Mom and I..." He almost touched me! He reaches out to put his hand on my shoulder, but I recoil and growl,

"Don't touch me..."

Dad sighs,

"What am I supposed to do with you?

" "Utterly ruin my life! You're so close," I shout suddenly.

"What are you...?"

"Send me to Africa! No... to...

" "Stop," my father says in a warning tone.

"I know! The North Pole! There's no theater there, no teachers, no stupid schools! There's nothing there! Just ice and snow!"

Suddenly, the old man jumps up and slaps me across the face. It hurts, it stings, but it has the desired effect. In that moment, all the steam, all the anger, escapes me. I don't want this, but I start to cry. I can't stop myself.

"Believe me, son. You left us no choice," says my father, his voice as cold as ice.

"You could have grounded me," I begin in a trembling whisper. "You could have beaten me... But why... why...

" "It was the only way out. We have many plans for you, many hopes. You know that in the future you'll take over my company. You'll be its CEO. But for that to happen, you have to try. You have to get a thorough education, understand?

" "But I don't want that kind of life! I want to decide for myself! Take care of my own fate! Others have it better! Their father doesn't send them to private schools, and in the damn capital, at that! No one plans their lives. They have a normal... home..." and here my voice breaks. I can't say anything, I can't. I struggle to force a few feeble words out. "Dad... please! Everything, everything! Just don't send me there... Have mercy... Dad, please...!"

It doesn't bother me that I'm begging him like a starving dog for a scrap of meat. It doesn't matter now. It doesn't matter to me. Whatever he does—however he reacts—I hate him with all my heart.

But he won't soften, oh no, quite the opposite. He has a sense of power, of superiority. It wouldn't be like him to answer, "YES." So he says curtly,

"No," and leaves, closing the door quietly behind him.

I feel anger surge through me again. I grab a pillow, press it to my face, and start screaming, screaming, screaming... I can't stop, and my screaming turns into a pitiful cry. Yes. I think I'm pathetic. Because I can't stand up to my father. But I'm just... I'm too weak... Now I understand I can't appease him.

If only I hadn't pushed myself into this stupid play, hadn't written this damn script, I'd be sleeping in my room right now, in my beloved school. In the morning, a quick chemo review with Mateusz, breakfast with the boys, and...

When I think about it, I feel like I'm going crazy! But instead, I'm overcome with the blues.

Various thoughts race through my head, but one prevails. And nothing will stop me now...

The red letters on my alarm clock glow in the darkness. It's 1:57. God, where did all those hours fly by? But... yes... This is a good idea, a good time...

I go to the bathroom. I lock the door from the inside. I search the shelves. I look for something...

There it is. The razor blade reflects the lamplight. I take off my shirt. I look at my hands. I look closely at the thick veins clearly visible under my skin. I press the sharp edge against the thick palm of my hand. I press lightly, and with manic fascination, I watch as my skin bends and cracks under the pressure of the blade. It hurts, but I ignore it. A purple drop escapes and runs down.

I press the razor blade harder. I see it slide smoothly into my flesh. I pull toward myself, slicing the vein lengthwise, not across. Blood flows in a thick stream. It hurts like hell. I bite my lip hard. I reach my elbow. A pool of blood forms beneath my feet. I start to cry. But I've gone too far to stop now and live as if nothing had happened.

My head spins. I transfer the razor to my other hand. I sit on the floor. My feet are immersed in the crimson of my unwanted blood.

I slit the veins in my other wrist. I rest my hands on my knees. I watch the blood trickle down my legs. My vision blurs. I put the razor down.

Just a moment... Just a moment and it will all be over...

I lie down on the cold tiles. I don't have the strength to rise. I close my eyes. I begin to drift off. In my mind's eye, I see the face of the person I could live for. And for whom I have truly lived until now... And those eyes... those beautiful, wonderful eyes... what a shame I won't see them again...

I cry. I don't have the strength to fight anymore.

I will watch over your sleep... - I whisper silently.

I'm dying. I'm not afraid of that.

Before I breathe my last, before I look at the bathroom ceiling for the last time (God, why does everything wobble, spin, and lose color?), the will to live still resonates within me; I scream in my mind: " I DON'T WANT TO DIE! "...

...but it's too late... Too late to fix anything... Too late to turn back time... Forgive me my stupidity... forgive me, all of you I've loved... And you, my blue-eyed Angel... You especially forgive me, for I love you most... Farewell...

" Before you fell, you crossed the earth with your hand .

Was it a bullet, my son, or was it your heart that broke? "

(KKBaczyński - "Elegy about... (a Polish boy)")