Soul Eater

I woke up in the middle of the night for no apparent reason. It was a bit strange, I'd never done anything like this before. I didn't think twice about it, though. I reached under the bed, pulled out my bag, grabbed my leather jacket from the chair next to it, put on my combat boots, and from the bag pulled out my treasure – a plasma pistol I'd bought before Judgment Day. I'd saved up for a long time before finally buying it. The next day, the world technically ceased to exist. I put the gun in my jacket's inner pocket.

Time to get ready.

I left the room, glanced at the clock in the dark hallway. 3:33, best not to wake anyone. I took the opportunity and climbed out through the hole in the wall. Why should I pay? For this... hotel... I emerged into the empty street. Some debris, carried by the wind, flew past me. I didn't notice what it was, probably nothing interesting. I headed towards the city center, I need to get a ride...

The streets were empty, people were afraid to go out at night, probably because of the rumors about aliens. They hide in the sewers during the day, and at night they go out hunting. I took out my gun, better not to take any chances.

In front of one of the buildings, I saw a transporter belonging to the Cleaners – the cleaners, good for their money... assassins supported by the authorities, probably taking someone to one of those camps where... what exactly? No one knows what's going on there. Next to the transporter stood two thugs armed with M16s, let's not be afraid to call them by their names. I hid in the darkness across the street.

I saw them leading the family away: children crying, a man hugging a woman who could barely walk, two thugs following them kicking them away. Why can't I do anything?

Too many of them, if there were only two, but not four... not four... One of the children started running, a girl, running towards me. I saw the terror on her face. The soldier raised his rifle... run, run faster, I thought, but she was running too slowly. The bullets tore through her body, a terrible sight. She fell to the ground, dead. Her mother fainted. What I did was stupid, but I didn't think about it at the time.

I quickly aimed my gun, I knew I would hit, I'd always been good at it. It literally dissolved, but that was how this weapon worked. I quickly aimed at the one next to me, facing me, and before he could raise his rifle, he too became a puddle of goo, flowing down the stairs. The other two stood still, as if they had turned to stone.

One dropped his gun and started running. Now the girl's father acted, grabbing the rifle, and despite a long burst, only managed to wound him in the leg, but that was enough. The soldier fell to the ground. I didn't care anymore, this guy would take care of him. During this incident, the last thug managed to regain his composure and turned towards me, but he didn't see me. Despite its aesthetic appeal, the black suit also has other advantages. I heard shots, and the man finished off the wounded man...

I looked at the soldier, he was terrified, and then I understood everything. They weren't murderers. If they hadn't killed themselves, someone would have killed them and their families. His fear split my skull. It was a powerful force. Sometimes I wonder if what I am is a reward or a punishment... In that moment, it was a punishment... He fell to his knees, whispered, "Please, don't..." and even though I was standing quite a distance away, I heard him clearly, heard his thoughts...

I've never understood people, they're strange creatures, but I felt sorry for him. The girl's father didn't understand this. He ran up to him, aimed, and shot... no, he didn't shoot, he ran out of ammunition... he dropped his rifle and started kicking the soldier. And me? I did nothing, I let him kill him, even though I could clearly hear his desperate plea for help. I hid in the darkness again, left them, walked away... We shouldn't interfere in people's affairs, but I had already done that, so I could see it through to the end...

I walked through the dark streets, passed a tenement building, and again someone called for help... screams, a gunshot, silence... I don't understand this world. They were punished, and they're still the same.

My thoughts were interrupted by some bum who suddenly lunged at me. I threw him to the ground, grabbed him, and bit into his neck. He wasn't tasty, but at least I'd satisfied my hunger and suppressed my human feelings. I was myself again, myself... so who was that? I reached the city center, the sun was already starting to appear over the buildings. I closed my eyes for a moment, touched the amulet around my neck. Some things never change, ancient magic still works, I no longer have to fear the sun...

I waited for the bus to arrive. It arrived, an automated vehicle. Strange, technology almost killed them, and they trust it again... I got in. The only improvement I noticed was the lack of a toll collection machine. At least that's what they've learned. The pursuit of wealth will be their downfall. It's a shame they learn so slowly. There was someone else in the vehicle, a sleeping old man. I sat down at the entrance, far from him. Old, withered, memories-filled feelings can be harmful. Only now did I begin to wonder where I was going, straight ahead, as usual... maybe someday I'd find out why we were here... but from whom? I'd fallen asleep.

Good upbringing

"We bribed the judge to declare you the winner. We paid your opponent

to lose to you. The rest is up to you."

Marx Brothers, "Pensees, reliques et anecdotes"

My parents were very indecisive about my upbringing. Right after I was born, they insisted I be a priest, so my father used to read the breviary to me instead of fairy tales, and my mother dressed me in a tiny black cassock and stole instead of diapers. But little got through to me back then—I mostly cried, and besides, after about a year, my parents converted.

When I turned two, my father, fascinated by Westerns, decided I would make a great cowboy. From then on, instead of soft slippers, I wore miniature boots with spurs, a sheriff's star stuck into my bib, which I constantly cut myself with, and a felt hat adorned my head, which rubbed the back of my head dry and left it bald to this day.

The Western craze soon faded, but a fascination with black music followed, and my parents decided they would raise me to be a bluesman. And not just any bluesman, but a very specific one – Ray Charles. From then on, I was smeared with black shoe polish every morning, spent hours practicing rhythm and blues on the piano, and walked to kindergarten wearing dark glasses with a very distinctive gait. Thank God, my parents didn't even think of blinding me.

I went to school dressed in a policeman's uniform. In second grade, they dressed me like a truck driver. In the years that followed, I was raised, successively, to be: a mad inventor, an eccentric painter, an astronaut, a doctor, an actor named John Wayne, and a hockey player, also Wayne, but named Gretzky.

When, in my junior year of high school, my parents decided to raise me to be the Antichrist, I thought something was wrong with them and ran away. I didn't get far, however—my younger brother was being raised to be a bloodhound. Over the next few years of my education, I was raised to be, among other things, a mail carrier, a president, a train driver, a prima ballerina, a jeweler, John Paul II, and Kermit the Frog—despite the fact that my high school was a trade school and I was studying architecture.

One day, my parents had a serious talk with me.

"Despite our best efforts, we haven't managed to raise you to be anything worthwhile," they said. And they added,

"It's time for you to go your separate ways. We only hope you won't disappoint us."

I became a ticket inspector for public transport because I somehow felt it was my calling. My father hanged himself first. Later, my mother jumped out a window. My younger brother, who was considered a melancholic at the time, also committed suicide.

Night... another night

A train passes. Far, far away. The air is almost crystal clear, and that's why its voice carries for miles. It's probably an express train... or maybe an express. More like an express...

When was the last time I rode a train? I don't remember, it was so long ago. Besides, it wasn't that long ago in my life. I was going to a sanatorium. But that was back then, back when I was still able to move around relatively freely. Now I hardly manage to go beyond my own backyard, let alone on a long journey. It's a shame, those were wonderful weeks. And now, in return for those journeys, I've gained something else. God, so much time has passed. Time... what is it anyway? I used to wonder about it, but it always seemed to me that contemplation isn't my calling. Time compared to God's omnipotence... what is it? If God is omnipotent, then time is no obstacle to Him. But what if there were no time again? They say God is omnipotent and, what's more, infinitely wise. If God is truly like this... which is highly probable, by the way... then time is irrelevant. Because if I were wise, very wise, I would become a politician. If I were able to predict the effects of my actions by even a five percent accuracy, I would be an oracle for this entire crowd. After all, if people were able to predict even a fraction of what would happen to them as a result of their simplest decisions... where would they be now? Therefore, if I were infinitely wise, I would be able to predict all the effects, of all actions, both mine and those of each individual. If I were omnipotent, I would direct all matters so that they would end as best as possible. In this way, time has no significance for God, and yet, beyond that, God is eternal...

Therefore, time does not exist, and we humans are eternal. Because what does it matter whether it's a second, a month, a year, a hundred or a million years, if there is no time?

Sigh. I'm consumed with nonsense. Think about what touches life, not what denies it. Karol, what has your life been like? Are you aware of it? Do you realize you've lived for almost a hundred years? What have you done in the ninety years since you were born?

You were born in almost the same place where you would die. You hadn't seen much of your life. Hard work was the essence of your existence. You had little time for other things. First, you worked for your parents to have something to eat. Those were hard times, when they counted every egg you ate, every cup of milk. How terrible it was then, when Soviet tanks passed nearby, when Ukrainians approached your house. Then communism and industrialization. Your first factory job, your wife, your first children. The grind continued. Children had to be clothed, sent to school, and saved for an apartment. Once again, you weren't working for yourself; you were working for an ideal, for a better tomorrow. You fought so that your children would have a better life than you had. How painful it was to hear from their lips that we were poor. How painful it was for you when your son's friends called you a village boor. Again, there were difficult days ahead. Your son went to college and suddenly started thinking you were a fool, as if you didn't know what the world was. But you knew it well; you're neither a boor nor a fool. You survived it and lived better than he did with his rotten knowledge. Schools don't teach what the world stands on. And the world stands on faith.

Do you know anything certain on this earth? Only that you exist and that you're aware of it. The rest is mere conjecture. There is only faith, more or less certain, but it's only faith. Or perhaps even faith. The first, fundamental one is faith in the existence of God. Without him, there is no second-order faith: faith in the existence of the world. Great, beautiful, multifaceted, incomprehensible, like God himself. Then there is faith in the existence of oneself in this world. And yet you found yourself in this world from somewhere, so you must believe in other people. Everything that surrounds them, everything that man has created, must also exist, and in this we must believe it exists. The rest is nuance. And these nuances are what man deals with. Sometimes he is uncritical; sometimes, God forgive him, proud; Sometimes only stupid, or worse, indifferent. And you, on the other hand, are probably neither of them anymore. Although the sin of pride still manifests itself. You are still proud. You once thought you were wise because you were young and knew what you were doing and for whom, then you compared yourself to your son, and now you think you are wise because you are old, yet you are still nothing in the sight of God. But what have you done to deserve such a high opinion?

I have lived my life consciously.

I know I was born for a reason. I was born to give back to God what I received. It's like a loan; you receive the body for the soul. You have to return the body, but the soul remains with you. And it can be either a treasure or an unpaid debt. What is mine? I will soon find out.

Old man! Give back what is not yours! I can already hear the voice of death.

God, I have sinned. You know what I have done in life. You know it wasn't always beautiful, and it certainly wasn't holy. After all, I killed, raped, and robbed. I drank, and I beat more than one of my brothers. You, God, know this, and you know that I regret my actions. I have been pulled out of the rut of life by Your help more than once. But God, it was so long ago... so long ago that I almost don't remember it all. For what is sin? God, You gave us free will, but nothing can hide from Your wisdom. Our will is, after all, inscribed in Your plans. So what kind of will do we have? How, God, is it possible that the chaos that is the human mind is inscribed in Your plans? How is it that chaos is an element of destiny? God, at what point does our will still exist, and when does it no longer exist? Can nothing surprise You? But do we, as humans, have this power? How great would we be if we could outwit the One and Only God Himself! So, God, how is this? I don't believe in human power, therefore... I don't believe in freedom. If You are God, then there is no freedom!

God, I have sinned! Freedom exists, since You have given us a sliver of it. Freedom can exist, after all. However, You have not entrusted it entirely to our reason. We can only rationally decide on a small part of our freedom. The rest is governed by chaos, our inner chaos.

God, after all, our chaos is Your creation; You created us this way. Thank You, God, for not giving us complete freedom. After all, if we were completely free and could fully decide for ourselves, we would destroy this world, and if You were not with us, everything would have collapsed in my lifetime. And yet we are, and we live.

Man is essentially good, because he was created in Your image, but good people, even wise and strong, refuse to use either wisdom or strength. When evil takes hold of man, even if he is foolish and weak, he will extract wisdom from his foolishness and use it, forcing his weakness only to commit evil. Is this why you created man, so that by remaining good, being wise and strong, he might become powerful, so that he might act for good? That's probably how it is. Therefore, our life consists in acting to do good. Therefore, God, my life has been wasted.

God, I have sinned. I have sinned by omission. God, forgive me!

How terrifying is the prospect of action. How hard it is to even consider that we are called to wisdom, strength, and goodness, possessing only a sliver of freedom, an unskilled mind, and a frail body. How I sin by being aware of this, yet lying in this bed, exhausted, thinking only of falling asleep.

But we're not wicked. After all, we are Your children. How did You solve this problem? My first thought is that You somehow divided us and called us to different missions. Each of us received the plot of land You had planned for us to cultivate. God, did I find the right one? Did I fulfill my tasks well? What portion was I given, and did I bring in the harvest I should have? I don't know, but I managed to fulfill my mission. Was I an unfaithful servant? Perhaps that's why You kept me on this earth for so long, so that I would have more time to learn and correct old mistakes. I understand, but I won't be able to fulfill my obligations. All that remains is for me to apologize and beg for forgiveness.

But God, I thank You for the gift of life. God, I thank You that I could live so long. I may not have seen the world, but I have seen so much. Life held no secrets for me. Having lived so many years, I know what work, suffering, hunger, and poverty are, but I also know what friendship, love, joy, happiness are. I have experienced rest and compassion. I was cared for and cared for. Someone will weep at my grave. God, I did not waste my life. You gave me this body and I used it well. I enriched my soul, perhaps not much and not very noble, but it still met my expectations admirably. My needs are so modest. After all, I only had so few, and at the same time, such imperfect, tools. Today I am happy. Yes, now I know what happiness means. It is a feeling of fulfillment. I know what I was capable of, I know what I lost, but I leave that behind, because if I failed to do it, it means I couldn't do it... after all, I wasn't as smart then as I am today. Therefore, happiness is the realization that I finally did what I could. After all, I didn't mean to do wrong, quite the opposite. My intentions were not evil. And following that intention, I did as much good as I could. Therefore, I can be thankful for my life. Because I did it for the best, though only today did I learn that this wasn't the way to go.

What a strange night. I feel strange. I think I've already said what I had to say, but somehow, maybe differently... somehow so tired. It's late.

Of course, the express... to Krakow... that's how Ania gets home now.

Yes, it's very late, very late...

So I'll know the answers to all my questions today. So I'll meet Him today.

We must learn to die throughout our entire lives."

"

A ball of air rose to the surface. Water was about to pour from the bathtub—the only confined space suffocating me, trying to bring me relief. The first drop spilled from the chalice of my salvation, but was it also joy? The last breath was about to escape my soul when a thorn of doubt pierced my heart painfully. Dreams, memories, desires froze. With the last remnant of strength, I rose. It made no sense. In an eternal second, in a cosmos of nonexistence, the water began to turn warm. As if red flowers had sprouted, revealing the beauty and sublimity of the moment. Who would have thought… Exploring the organs from within with a blade, embellishing the bouquets around it, the remnant of consciousness guided the hand. My soul had already begun to ponder the pain of its form. Whimpering, it moved away from the mundane human structure. That which gives oxygen now takes it away. Greedy time claims the last moments of darkened moments for itself. Unconscious, in reality, I was only sleeping, slowly waking up in a different place. Disoriented, I lost track of time. Every fiber in my body began to rage mercilessly, then my body calmed painfully, beginning to move in the opposite direction. The darkness faded, the light radiated. There was no turning back. The biological scream of my cells, the determined protest of my mind, would no longer reverse what had happened. Like a stake, the last beat of my heart pierced my chest. I only stared with my nonexistent eyes at what was being shown to me. With a playful gesture, I stopped the last spark living within me. Why pave the way for passage with an even fainter hope than the prospect of my happiness? What remained of me no longer captivated with its beauty. A pale face, fear, blood, death, and more suffering shrouded in the helplessness of the heart; buttressed by the innocent plea of ​​touching hope. Another victim of the immutability of the actions taken, the inspired creators of murderous experiences. There's nothing left around me. Counted among the slave souls, nonexistent. Amidst the damning suffering, one can find the hole left by my burned-out heart... A desired candidate—recruited. Tota vita discendum est mori—I have finally learned.

Where the Sun's Light Doesn't Reach... - Part 3

She lay on a perpetually white bed and stared into a small mirror. A crowd of people walked across the cemetery ground. In front were two coffins, two black coffins merging with black clothes. But the white snow and the delicate touches of sunlight didn't sit well with her. Not on the day of her parents' funeral, no, the sun had no right to joyfully warm the mysterious globe. It should be dark, it should be raining. She flung the mirror into the corner of the room, and blood gushed from her eyes again.

"Why?" she whispered, looking up as if expecting to see the old, kind, and blissfully secure face she'd so often seen in her imagination, to which she'd so loudly called for help when she was still alive... when she'd lost her bet.

"Nadine, the master is calling you," whispered the boy, if she could even call him that. She stood up and, dragging her dress along the floor, left the room. But she stopped and looked into his eyes.

"What...what's your name?

" "Darius." He grabbed her hand and led her, helping to destroy her self-hatred. When she entered that beautiful room again, she didn't look back. She didn't even raise her eyes, squeezing them shut at the sound of his chuckle. That awful man was laughing. He was simply laughing at how she suffered, how she crawled through the mud before herself, towards the path to hope.

"You did it. You're so sweet with those wings." He laughed so cruelly that she wanted to punch him, so that at least that hard shell of his would feel something. So that he couldn't speak anymore, let alone laugh. Unfortunately, that was impossible; simply talking back to him was beyond her capabilities. "But you have another task. This time, you'll kill your friends, one by one...

" "But...

" "Shhh..." he interrupted. "If you want to stay, you'll do it if you don't face eternal damnation." Nadine, I'm giving you a whole human day to think about it. She couldn't, she simply couldn't, she wanted to scream, but Darius squeezed her hand just in time and led her back to the chamber. She was writhing in pain, no, no one had hit her, it was coming from within, from her soul, from her own space. She sat at the corner of the bed, and Darius held her hand and whispered for her not to cry.

"Why? Why should I deprive them of this, even pathetic, important existence, huh? Mariah, Joel, and all the rest, why?! Why can't I hurt those I don't know?!

"That's the whole point..." He looked at her with cold eyes, like two ice crystals, yet she felt the warmth radiating from them. She let go of his hands and clasped them on her chest.

"Why are you helping me?

" "Because... I like you, and the Lord wants to deprive you of every last vestige of humanity by murdering your loved ones." Because you see, if…" A terrifying roar rang out, and the ground shook, though no more than the girl's heart. She opened her eyes.

"What if? What if?! Darius!" she screamed, thrashing around the room. The boy disappeared, dissolved. "Shit!" She slammed her clenched fist into the rough wall. Surprisingly, it didn't hurt, so she did it again. She slid down the wall and wrapped her arms around her knees. She was fed up with this whole other world, this "better world." She squelched the hope that this was just a bad dream teaching the value of life, that it had been created by a force protecting her from just such a world. She stared blankly at a single spot. Like a thirsty woman, she needed rescue. In life, she had wanted freedom, yet she had fallen from the rain into the gutter.

"How can you be such an idiot and abandon yourself to blind fate?!" Silence answered her, a silence she so desperately didn't want here at that moment. She clenched her fists, looked up, and whispered, "Get me out of here." There was no reaction, and the silence didn't match the sequence of events she had imagined in her mind. She imagined someone from above who would suddenly appear and show mercy. She buried her face in her hands, squeezing her eyes shut so no drop of blood would spill onto her cheeks. Whether seconds or hours passed, she didn't know. She didn't even know if time existed here. She heard quiet whispers interspersed with a sinister chuckle. Something told her to get up and go to the master's room. She did.

"You're a fast learner, my dear." She didn't look at him; it hurt too much. "Have you decided?

" "Y...yes." Even her speech was difficult. The words seemed to deliberately instill fear in her. As if she felt even greater respect for this disgusting beast.

"So? What's your answer?

" "Yes," she said through her teeth. "I'll kill them.

I don't feel;

I don't think;

I don't breathe;

I'm escaping the cursed silence;

I scream to drown out my thoughts;

Are you laughing?"

Spit in my face, and I will understand;

Do you despise me?

Strike hard, and I will remember;

If you will stand by me;

If you will not let me down;

If you will join hands and lead me to happiness;

Save me...

Good night...

I'm sitting in a smoky, stuffy pub in the basement of one of the city's most important buildings. Despite the late hour, or perhaps because of it, the place is packed. Music completely out of place in the stark interior pours from hidden speakers. I fiddle with a black straw half-dipped in a golden-brown, frothy drink and observe the people sitting at other tables.

There's a young lady in pink and blue, wearing brand-new mukluks, pressed against the side of an elderly gentleman carrying on a rather loud conversation with the man sitting opposite him. "Daddy or..." The girl looks up, meets my eyes defiantly for a moment; but I also see pure desperation and utter sadness in her gaze. Ah, the situation is becoming clear.

I lazily drag on my cigarette and turn my head away from the young lady and her older companions. At the next table sits a group of young people: three girls and four boys. They're all thirteen, maybe fourteen, which doesn't stop them from drinking their sixth beer in a row. One of the boys hugs the girl closest to him and plants a rather passionate kiss on her lips, licking half the wallpaper off her face in the process. Disgusting. The girl laughs, and her friends joke that they wish the same. The boy, being a true gentleman, complies, and everyone is happy.

Disgusted, I finish my cigarette and crush it in the glass ashtray. I look up and meet the dark gaze of a guy sitting across the room. Noticing me looking at him, he raises his eyebrows and nods slightly at the other teenagers. I smile wickedly. I won't lie, he's handsome. Nevertheless, I lower my gaze, pull a pack of cigarettes from my pocket, and light another. After a moment, I forget about the guy, because another interesting object of observation enters the room: my friend with his girlfriend. He nods in greeting, and they both sit down at a table by the window. They look into each other's eyes, smiling at each other's thoughts... I'm almost certain they're thinking the same thing. I smile completely unconsciously, and at that moment I notice that the man with the dark eyes has disappeared. Strange, because I didn't see him leave... I shrug slightly, remove the straw from my glass, and dip my lips into the last of the beer, which is flickering in the light of the stylish lanterns. At the same moment, I hear a quiet whisper right next to my ear:

"Didn't anyone tell you that beer and cigarettes aren't a healthy combination?"

I calmly put down the glass, take a drag on my cigarette, and blow the smoke directly into the face of the man standing behind me. Gray smoke briefly obscures his dark gaze.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you it's rude to sneak up on people from behind?" I ask, without a trace of reproach in my voice. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

We leave the pub together. The moon shines with a bright, milky light.

"Are you cold?" he asks, looking at me sideways.

"No," I reply, gazing at the twinkling stars above our heads.

He suddenly grabs my hand; I tear my gaze away from the sky and look at him in surprise.

"You're not cold, and your hand feels like ice," he laughs, simultaneously embracing me and pulling me closer.

"What..." I begin, but I can't finish...

I enter the house, and my sleepy mother emerges from the room.

"Where have you been?

" "Out on the town. Goodnight," I reply with a laugh.

"You've been drinking." My mother gives me a disapproving look.

"Goodnight," I repeat, then lock myself in my room.

A moment later, I see the same word on my phone's screen. "Goodnight..."

A withering flower

What can you say about a girl who so suddenly ruined her life? That she had once been able to laugh so joyfully? That she loved coconut cake and vanilla ice cream? That she loved poetry as much as her boyfriend? Except that her love for him had led to an even stronger feeling for something else...

It was dark, a late winter afternoon, one of those you most enjoy spending at home under a blanket with a cup of hot cocoa. It all started with that cold, snowy evening...

She sat wrapped in a blanket, clutching what had once been a tissue in her hand, tears slowly rolling down her round face. She struggled to hold the phone and with even greater difficulty pronounced single words.

"I can't be with you. Someone once said that we should help the weak." Those words, spoken a moment ago, inflicted an incomparable pain. She felt herself shrinking, all the energy she had within her draining away along with any will to live. She knew it was cheap talk; he wanted to leave with class, but did it help? He thought she could buy it! He wanted to leave her because he'd finally gotten what he'd dreamed of for almost six months—the love of another girl. She let him go because what else was she supposed to do? She just wanted to save face, even though she cried and it hurt so much. She told him that if this was what he wanted, she would understand and wish him the best. She played games, lied like she'd never done before in her life, perhaps because she didn't want to burn any bridges? Deep down, she believed he would come back, even though she wanted to hate him with all her heart.

The moment she threw the phone across the room, she appeared. She stood opposite the armchair, her thin, pale face twisted as if in a smile. Her hair was thinning, a dull color; it was scary to look at her, but there was something about her that was so compelling... "

Hello." "She whispered almost inaudibly in her hoarse voice.

"Who are you?"

"I've come to help you. With me, you won't be so lonely anymore, I promise you that."

She stepped closer and placed her bony fingers on the shoulders of the young, healthy girl.

Days of pain and suffering began. How many tears had she shed? How many nights had she lost sleep? Many, many... too many wounds at once, too much time to think.

A new friend came to the rescue; she knew how to use this suffering and her tightening stomach.

It didn't take long for weight loss to become her obsession, a remedy for her wounded heart. Another kilogram less brought her so much joy. All she could think about was how wonderful it would be to fit into a blouse a size smaller, when her buttocks were no longer so round.

The third day without food, the fourth... a week-long cleansing fast. She said she would lose some weight, and it disappeared so quickly... no food, just mineral water. Later, when she looked back on those terrible moments, she said that during that terrible period, she had fed on the pain she carried in her heart.

It was obvious that completely cutting out food for an extended period wouldn't do any good...

It was evening, or a late winter afternoon, when she felt truly ill, her heart pounding in her chest like crazy, and the world around her was spinning as if she were on a speeding carousel.

"You're getting more and more beautiful, my dear friend, getting thinner and thinner. Thanks to me, you got through this difficult period." Bony arms wrapped around her waist, a familiar, weak, hoarse voice whispering in her ear.

"Go away!" A silent cry...

She rose from the armchair and slowly moved to the kitchen. Standing by the refrigerator, her legs as soft as cotton wool, she fought one of the hardest battles of her life. She stared at the ham, cucumbers, and other foods that had recently become her enemy, the calories she tried to escape.

This time, she couldn't control herself; she reached out a frail hand for a tomato and a small roll, and ate, crying like a small, helpless child.

"Stupid! If you must eat, then something that's not so caloric! Are you craving a roll?! " A familiar, hoarse voice made her feel even worse.

Despite her inner contradictions, she realized she couldn't live without food; she wanted to be slim, but she definitely didn't want to die. She decided to eat one meal a day, dinner. The rapid weight loss stopped, or perhaps it should be said, it simply slowed down. Calorie counting began; she knew the energy value and fat content of every little thing she put in her mouth. How much did she eat per day? No more than five hundred calories was a high bar, one she rarely reached. Rice with yogurt, rice with apples, a bit of cooked meat, sometimes fat-free yogurt, a carrot or an apple.

"Maybe I went a bit overboard when I forbade you from eating, you're right, honey," she told her protégé. "If you have to eat, you also have to exercise, burn off what might be unnecessary."

And the obsessive exercises began, thousands of crunches, squats, and bends.

What did she see when she looked in the mirror? One day a slim girl who now wore a blouse three sizes smaller, and the next day a plump woman with a huge butt and a round face. What was the truth? A emaciated, bony figure with skin as white as snow, almost transparent, her eyes expressionless, staring at something unattainable...

But the human body has a way of rebelling, of demanding what it needs, and hers needed a lot...

When she began to leave more and more of her hair on her brush, her body made a last-ditch attempt to absorb as many calories as possible... she began to eat, unable to control herself, devouring everything within reach, then running to the bathroom and regurgitating it. At first, all she had to do was touch her finger to her throat and puke. The later it got, the harder it became to induce a gag reflex; she'd shove almost her entire hand in, cutting it at the knuckles. It was a nightmare; her face was parched to the bone; even a thick layer of cream wouldn't help.

What did she feel then? She hated herself for all of it, and in fact, she still does, because she can't help herself in any way. She wants to fight, even though she knows full well she's already lost. Her friend, whom she called Ana, won't let her out of her "protective" embrace. How long can her overloaded heart endure? One thing is certain: coconut cake will never taste the same again...