Irreversible

He sat alone in his room, it was dimly lit. He was comfortably reclined on the sofa, sipping whiskey slowly. A revolver and a single bullet lay on the table in front of him...

"This all makes no sense," he muttered, placing the glass on the table. "It makes no fucking sense!

" He reached for the revolver, opened the cylinder, inserted the bullets, and twisted. "Well, let's have some fun," he said to himself. "Six chambers, five shots, if I'm going to die, I'll do it now." He concluded his "game." "

First for those words I never wanted to say," he said loudly, placing the revolver to his temple. "It's almost like winning the lottery," he muttered, smiling ironically.

And he pulled the trigger...

But this time the chamber was empty.

"So we only have four tries, hmm... now another sin." Thinking deeply, he put the barrel to his temple again

. "For those actions that caused her so much pain for a moment of my own satisfaction." With that, he pulled the trigger a second time... tick...

It was just the trigger flipping, turning the cylinder to the next chamber, and he?... he was still alive, though the first beads of sweat appeared on his face.

"They won't even let me die." He put down the revolver and picked up a glass of whiskey. "Don't you understand that it would be better that way!!!" He threw his words into space, because he was alone in the apartment.

He frantically considered what to do, or what to say, what arguments to support his decision. "You're not listening... you don't have to..."

He put down the glass again and picked up the revolver. "Do I have to hurt everyone?" Tears welled in his eyes. "I don't want to live like this."

He pulled the trigger a third time...

But again, the revolver didn't fire.

His anger and frustration were reaching their peak. He tossed the revolver back onto the table and frantically searched his pockets for a pipe. He found a bent cigarette that had probably been in his pocket for a few days. With shaking hands, he put it to his mouth and lit it.

He calmed down a bit, though he still searched his memory for reasons to end his life.

He took a deep breath, picked up the glass from the table, and downed the rest of the alcohol.

He finished his drink and stubbed out the dying cigarette in the ashtray his mother had given him for Christmas.

"Okay, that's it," he raised the revolver again and placed it against his temple, "just a moment and it's over..."

And he pulled the trigger again...

But the room remained silent, the revolver didn't

fire. "Can't I even kill myself?!?" He was overcome with anger again, he couldn't control himself anymore, he pulled the trigger for the fifth time...

"Why?!" He screamed pleadingly through his tears, "why should I live and continue to cause suffering!?"

He opened the cylinder and saw that it was empty - That's impossible, I was loading it - he had indeed put bullets into the chamber earlier, but now the cylinder was empty - It was your decision - he said, finally calming down.

At that moment, someone knocked on the door

- Please, not now...

From Sheina's diary... (50)

Five to twelve... (ninth month, third week, first day)

"Leganne is a herb with leaves that resemble a heart. They are light green or brown in color. They grow on small bushes only and exclusively in the Great Eastern Forest. It is not very common, but it has one fundamental feature that makes it very desirable. I have heard of it before. In human lands, it is used for the same purposes as alcohol, as it has similar effects. But in small enough doses, it can act as a remedy for fatigue. As well as sleep deprivation. Thanks to this, I am able to function relatively normally. I know that Leganne doesn't really help me with anything. It doesn't eliminate the problem. It only helps me not to feel it.

My Guardians are not with me. Two weeks after arriving in Evehre'ester, they set out for Lazanfill. They haven't returned yet. I haven't heard from them either. It may sound strange, but I miss them. I still feel alien here and Out of place. Kadekatz's actions only intensify this feeling. If something doesn't change soon, I'll run away screaming. I'm thinking about giving up more and more often. The only thing stopping me from making a final decision is the realization that I have nowhere to run. And the promise I made to Riviln. I promised him I wouldn't run away again… But if this continues, I won't stand it. He'll either go mad or kill someone. The test of strength and nerves came too soon.

"Sheina, you know what?"

Innae had a strange habit of bursting into my room without knocking. A light-hearted man with a perpetual smile, the life of the party with an inexhaustible supply of optimism. He's not a pure-blooded elf, but you couldn't tell from his appearance or his behavior. He sat down carelessly next to me on the bed, still smiling.

"You'll never guess what your tormentor has planned."

Innae was also one of the few people here who called me by my first name, and he treated me like anyone else. Varreta.

He looked at me more closely.

"You still look terrible. Those dark circles under your eyes… Is the Leganne not working?

" "It's working, but I've already run out. "

The elf grimaced slightly.

"You're using too much. But don't worry, you'll get a proper supply for the next expedition," then smiled faintly.

"An expedition?

" Kadekatz moved the deadline to tomorrow morning. And you know what… you're going too.

"My fingers haven't healed properly yet!

" "Yes," he sighed. "We all know that, he knows it too, but he said that even with functioning fingers you won't be much help.

" "Really? Then why did he get me into this?

" "That's a good question," he feigned contemplation. "You sound like you don't know him.

" "Great…

" "There'll be an official announcement after lunch, so you better be down on time."

I just sighed. Passing… a test of one's ability to cope in a wild area, without significant supplies, for several, or perhaps a dozen, days. Simply put, a group of completely untrained children is left to their fate in the forest. For elves born and raised in the forest, this is nothing extraordinary, commonplace. The difficulty of this exam lies in the fact that with a small amount of supplies, one must reach another point in the forest, the finish line, as quickly as possible. The route naturally runs through the most difficult sections of the Forest. And truth be told, I'll only be a burden to my team.

"Sheina, dinner!"

And once again, Innae burst into the room, as if to himself, smiling innocently.

"By the way," he tossed a small bag in my direction; inside were the familiar leaves. "And don't use it up too quickly.

" "Yes, yes," I replied sleepily, heading for the door.

"Everyone present? Let's go.

This was supposed to be a dress rehearsal for our newly acquired skills." We exchanged dubious glances.

In my humble opinion, it was foolish to send a group of children—inexperienced youngsters, so to speak—who still hadn't found their Kainze'ghen. The youngsters were no older than fifty, which, by elven standards, was the equivalent of our twenty years of life. Which was very young. Admittedly, they'd been studying martial arts for several years, but the uncertainty in most of their eyes convinced me they weren't ready for a real mission. Neither was I.

"What am I doing here?" I muttered under my breath, struggling with my overloaded backpack.

My bow had been taken away, despite all protests from both me and my Guardians. Because that's the law. Although the new one I'd received wasn't much inferior in functionality and beauty, still… it was my bow, and it was hard for me to get used to this new weapon.

"Sheina, move. Don't delay your march.

" "I'm trying, but I'm practically running!"

The truth was, I couldn't possibly move through the forest as quickly or efficiently as the elves. And the one who was rushing me was also human. Kadekatz. I had grown to truly hate him. And it certainly didn't take me two months to do so.

"You're whining as usual," he muttered, smiling in his usual, ironic way. "Maybe you should finally give up?"

All I could do was shoot him a murderous glare. He'd deliberately put me on this mission to prove to me and everyone else that I was wasting my time trying to learn anything. From the very beginning of my training, he'd done everything he could to discourage me as quickly as possible. I still don't know where his dislike for me came from, but he didn't even try to hide it.

I could only sigh and continue trudging forward. Finally, we reached the starting point of the test. In addition to their meager supplies, which were supposed to last three days, each team received a map of the area with checkpoints and their destinations marked. Each team had a different route, intersecting only at checkpoints. Theoretically, the distances and difficulty level were the same for everyone, but… We didn't have much time to compare maps. After the starting whistle, each of us set off into the unknown forests, hoping for the best. My team consisted of four people, myself included. Naer was appointed captain, and the most important decisions rested with him. He was also the oldest among us, and it was said he was unlucky. Most of his peers had already left for the Weapons Search, but he was still "stuck," as he put it, in Evehre'ester. It was a sensitive subject, and no one seemed to broach it with him. The upside was that he was also the most experienced of all those who set off for the finish line today. Neruki was the most silent of the four of us. He simply walked forward, glancing around from time to time. Only at the beginning did he mumble something about being assigned a third wheel. It wasn't nice, but unfortunately, I agreed with him. Because it was also true. Every other team had exactly three people. You name it, I fit right in. Liam seemed like a typical representative of his race. He walked at a leisurely pace, whistling a quiet, peaceful tune under his breath. He seemed to have a positive attitude about everything. Although, as it turned out later, he wasn't blind to what was happening around him. I usually have trouble telling which elf was which. High elves look identical to me. But of the three, only Liam was a High elf. Naer was a Wild Elf, or as he preferred to call himself, a Forest Elf, and Neruki was a half-breed. Unfortunately, Nature had endowed him with a darker-than-average complexion and black hair, which carried negative connotations for his tribesmen, making his life less bearable at times. And indeed, the first moment I saw him, I thought he was a Dark Elf. But that would have been absurd…

I was trailing last, trying to keep up with the three elves. As a result, I tired faster than they did. With each passing moment, I grew more and more angry at Kadekatz for getting me into this. Liam was the first to notice I couldn't keep up. We stopped briefly to look at the map again.

"We have a two-hour walk to the first checkpoint," Naer stated.

"Three," Neruki corrected, looking at me.

"It's not my fault I'm here," I muttered, sitting under a tree. "I'm just as dissatisfied as you are."

"Oh, don't worry, Guardian," Liam patted my shoulder, sitting down next to me, smiling. "If you weren't here, Kadekatz would definitely think of something else to make this difficult for us.

" "Call me by my name, please...

" "That'll make things much easier," Naer muttered, continuing to study the map.

Neruki wasn't convinced.

"Call me Guardian by my name?

" "Yes, you're supposed to call me by my name. It's very tiring when everyone treats you like a living deity."

"Okay," Neruki agreed, not entirely convinced. "And what's your name?"

Liam burst out laughing, and Naer dropped the map. For a moment, the atmosphere was pleasant and cheerful. But...

We actually realized something was wrong when the sun slowly began to set below the horizon. We all sat down by the map to take another closer look at it. Liam shook his head in disbelief. Neruki and Naer discussed the route they had taken and possible wrong turns. I could only conclude one thing: we were lost. We hadn't even reached the first checkpoint. How could three elves get lost in the forests they'd known since childhood? Unlikely.

Neruki rubbed his eyes and looked around. The same sight everywhere: trees, bushes, thickets.

"Let's find a place to camp," he said curtly.

"So," Liam began, "which of us will perform the ritual?

" "What ritual?" I asked, surprised.

"So the trees don't eat us at night," he smiled.

"I didn't know there was a ritual."

"Ritual is an understatement. You build protective symbols around the campsite with sand. That's all. I'll take care of it," Naer said.

Soon after, we lit a small fire. Everyone found a place to sleep. We ate a simple dinner and began discussing what to do next.

"An incorrect map is no excuse for failing a task," Neruki muttered.

"Maybe that's the difficulty," Liam suggested.

"The map is correct, the map is always correct," though Naer's voice held a note of doubt. "I've been on three expeditions like this, and the maps have always been correct."

The elf sighed deeply at the end. No one said anything more. Naer closed his eyes and lay down on his bed.

"We're too inexperienced to go without a map, that's one thing. Two, if this were a test of our knowledge of the Bor, they wouldn't have given us a map, that's all.

" "So how do you explain why we don't know where we are?" Neruki insisted.

"The three of us consulted the entire way on which direction to go," Liam began. "If the map were correct, we wouldn't have gotten lost." "Assuming the map is

n't showing correctly," I spoke up, albeit hesitantly, "what should we do next?"

"Back to the start," Liam stated firmly.

Neruki nodded.

"We'll have countless tests, but wandering around the Bor with three days' supplies is foolish.

" "Maybe that's the point," Liam muttered, a little amused. "What will you do if you find the map wrong?" But the decision rests with the team captain.

Naer smiled faintly.

"This will be the fourth test I've failed. But we have to turn around and retrace our steps first thing tomorrow morning. "

Liam whistled long and hard.

"Usually, you pass on the second or third try.

" "True. Usually," he added wryly. "The catch is, only the first four teams pass. The rest wait another five years to take the next test. Then three more tests, and you can go on the Weapon Search if it's not in the Keep." A Keep

was a term used to describe the camps of combatants.

"Five years? That's a long time.

" "Yes. In human Keeps, the tests are held annually, and they're much easier."

"That's why they turn out to be such dummies," Liam laughed.

"Most of them die within the first five years," Neruki muttered. "Not much use. Humans as Zen-Shai are some kind of evolutionary mistake.

Zen-Shai are Fighting Ones in their original form.

" "Humans in general are a huge mistake," Naer muttered. "They're short-lived, physically and mentally weak, and more susceptible to evil than any other race.

" "Hey! You have a human among you," I snapped.

"You, Sheina, aren't human anymore." Naer smiled at me strangely, then rolled onto his left side and added at the end, "Liam and Sheina, first watch. Wake us up if anything happens before then. Good night."

Well, yes. The elves have an interesting opinion about humans.

Liam said he'd be fine on watch and suggested I get some sleep if my eyelids were heavy. To tell the truth, I don't know when I fell asleep. A faint rustle woke me. Liam was already standing at attention, looking in the direction of the noise.

"What's going on?"

The elf shook his head.

"Whatever it is, it's circling the camp, on the line of sand.

On the line of symbols Naer made.

" "Wake them up?"

Liam thought for a moment and nodded.

"What's going on?" Naer, half-conscious, stared blankly at the dying fire for a moment.

Another rustle. This time very close. Still nothing could be seen.

"Hard to tell, but the symbols are keeping him at a safe distance," Liam muttered.

Neruki silently drew his bow and arrow and aimed wordlessly at the source of the noise. Liam did the same. Concentration was etched on all three of their faces. A deafening silence fell, one that stretched unbearably long. At the sound of a snapping twig, I jumped in place. I quickly did as the other elves did – I aimed my bow at the unknown creature.

“Perplexing,” Naer muttered.

Suddenly, a shuffling sound reached us.

“Unbelievable,” Liam whispered.

“It’s rubbing away symbols,” Naer added.

“It wants to get here,” Neruki said.

“Why?”

Two eyes appeared from behind the wall of darkness, but this time they didn’t retreat as quickly as before. They were well above my head.

“Big beast,” Neruki muttered, and released the arrow.

A whoosh and silence. No yelp, no sound to indicate the arrow had hit its mark.

“You missed.”

Neruki didn't answer, just notched another arrow.

"Is this a good idea?" I asked quietly.

I wasn't convinced that shooting at that thing lurking in the darkness was a good idea. What if the creature, enraged, started charging? Another arrow, a whistling sound like something small falling into mud.

I was right. It had been a mistake.

The animal roared shrilly. In a single leap, its tiny eyes shot up, landing in full glory right in front of us.

We all simultaneously released our arrows. All were accurate, including the first one, but just as Neruki's had failed to impress the creature, so had ours. Naer only managed to shout…

"Run!"

And we all, grabbing whatever we could in mid-air, began to flee into the darkness.

It was Karik, a two-meter-tall creature, resembling an oversized lizard, lumbering on two hind legs, supported by a powerful tail, catching its prey with powerful teeth and the enormous claws of its forepaws. A clearly carnivorous creature, hunting at night, it had come to us for supper. Its thick hide was covered in scales in places, so our arrows had little effect.

Running at a frantic pace in the Great Eastern Forest, with no moonlight or even stars, also proved fatal. It wasn't long before I realized I was alone. I couldn't match the elves' running speed, and I didn't. I stopped, disoriented. I heard nothing around me. No noise, no rustle of wind, no sound of breaking branches. Nothing. The sky was beginning to lighten. A new day was dawning. Thankfully.

How typical. I'd gotten lost again.

Beginning

*******

The terrifying sound of the bell roused Marta from her deep sleep. With her right hand, she instinctively reached out and struck the top of the alarm clock on the nightstand. However, it wasn't the cause of her awakening. She had no choice but to get up and find the object making that awful sound. After a painstaking search, she finally found her cell phone, which she had carelessly shoved under the bed the day before. However, the malice of inanimate things knows no bounds, and the moment she tried to answer, the phone went silent. So she returned to bed. As soon as she closed her eyes, she heard that awful sound again. Like a lioness, she pounced on her phone.

"Hello, this is Marta Kulik.

" "Hi Marta, are you very busy because I have a proposition for you?

" "And is it you, Tomasz? I'm so busy. I was just doing the most wonderful thing in the world, which is sleeping, and you interrupted me.

" "Forgive me. We absolutely must meet, and the sooner the better. I'll be at your place in half an hour."

Marta wanted to protest, but Tomek had already hung up. "I have no choice, I have to wait for this guy," she thought, placing her phone on the bedside table. She had known Tomasz for over four years. He was one of her instructors at the law school. But he wasn't like the rest. Perhaps it was because he was the youngest of the professors, or perhaps he was simply different from most people by nature. In any case, he was the only one she liked in the entire academic community. And he liked her too. And it wasn't surprising; after all, she was his best student, always prepared, observant, and ambitious. She was highly intelligent and quickly able to connect the dots and connect the dots. Sometimes even he was surprised by her reasoning. Besides, she was independent. He couldn't force his way of thinking on her. And that was what he liked most about her—she had the ability to say no to everyone and in every situation. She was incorruptible.

"Oh, you're here," Marta said, opening the door to her apartment on the fourth floor of a building on Łukasiewicza Street. "Come in! I need to make myself some strong, hot tea, otherwise I won't be able to have a coherent conversation with you. Once you've unsaddled your boots, come to the kitchen."

She was dressed in a dark blue, almost navy, dressing gown, the color of which beautifully complemented the color of her eyes, framed by thick lashes. Her long, unkempt hair fell delicately over her shoulders. To Tomasz, she seemed incredibly beautiful.

"Sit down! Would you like a sandwich?" As she spoke, she extended her left hand, which held a plate of food, toward him.

"I'd love to sample your creation. I hope I'll be able to leave your apartment afterward—without an upset stomach."

"Oh, you ungrateful creature! I'm the one worrying about whether you're hungry, and this is how you repay me. So why did you come back? I already gave you my work, and I think we can discuss it in the lecture hall.

" "Why did I come back... I wanted to see you.

" "You couldn't have waited another three hours, I would have gone to your lecture. You dragged me out of bed just to watch me. You're pissing me off. Jokes aside, either I'll find out the real reason for your visit soon, or you can go and don't expect me at the lecture, because I need to sleep off the time you wasted.

" "Easy, little one, don't get so angry. Don't you know that anger is bad for beauty. Now listen carefully. Do you know Paweł Jasiński?

" "Yes, you introduced him to me once. He's your best friend, and what's more, he's one of the richest men in Poland. His fate interests almost all lawyers and successful people." Sometimes his actions are even cited in some lectures as an example of how cleverly and legally our imperfect law can be circumvented. He recently seems to have bought a house somewhere in our neighborhood and intended to move in with his family. It was reported in the newspaper. But why are you asking about him?

"Because this early afternoon, between 2:00 and 2:20 p.m., he was murdered.

" "What do you mean, murdered," Marta repeated, surprised.

"Truth be told, the police believe it was suicide. They say he shot himself in the head. But I don't believe it. I knew him too well to be fooled so easily. Paweł wasn't the type of person who would commit suicide in any situation, so I want to investigate this matter myself. However, I'm afraid I might not be able to handle it myself, and secondly, I don't know if I'll be able to be completely objective. I'd like you to help me solve this mystery. We would work on it together as partners and completely privately; there would be no possibility of any lecturer-student arrangements." You don't have to answer me now; consider my offer carefully. This is very important to me; I owe Paweł something, and now I can finally repay my debt of gratitude, although I'd prefer him to still be alive. I'll be going now; I'll see you at practice, and then you can tell me what you've decided. Well, that's it for now.

With that, he left as suddenly as he'd arrived. Marta was left alone in her apartment. Such disappearances and reappearances without warning were his specialty. At first, it had unnerved her, but over time, she'd gotten used to it. She instinctively felt he was doing it for her own good, to teach her to make quick decisions in unusual situations. A clear question and a quick, simple answer, without beating around the bush, was all he truly wanted to teach her.

Marta had a tough day ahead of her today. Wednesday was the worst part of the week for her, the most demanding day. First, three hours of lectures, then four and a half hours of exercises in the gym, then seven and a half hours of sitting around the university without a single long break. The only thing she could enjoy that day was the exercises with Tomasz, but this time it was different. She had to tell him what she'd decided. Although she'd already made her decision, she wasn't sure if she'd made the right choice. After the exercises were over, she stayed in the classroom. She sat at her desk, waiting for Tomasz to approach her. She didn't want to go to him herself; she preferred to wait. A moment later, he arrived. He sat down next to her.

"So, have you decided yet?

" "Yes," Marta replied quietly, her voice lacking either enthusiasm or certainty.

"What's your decision?" Tomasz looked at Marta intently. "You don't have to answer; I know everything. You agree to help me, otherwise you wouldn't have stayed here, because you'd feel you had nothing to say to me. I've known you for a while.

"Yes, I agree," Marta agreed. "Now, if you want to work with me seriously, you have to tell me everything you know about this Paweł and his life.

" "Yes, I know that. But I can't right now, I have another class in ten minutes with another group. You know what, let's meet at your place tonight. What time does your class finish?

" "At six.

" "Okay, I'll be at your place, say, at eight. Maybe?

" "Maybe.

" "Well, for now."

When Marta reached her apartment, she was so tired she didn't even have the strength to undress. Just as she was, she threw herself on the bed and fell asleep. A sinking feeling in her stomach woke her. She glanced at the clock. The merciless hands showed that it was long past 7 p.m. She got up, took a quick shower, and went to the kitchen. In the fridge, she found only a few slices of dried-out yellow cheese and a single tomato. "How am I supposed to be healthy and content with life when I don't even have time to do proper shopping? It's hard, when you don't have what you like, you like what you have," she said to herself. She took the poor little vegetable out of the fridge. At that very moment, a blood-curdling ding… ding… ding… rang…. It was Tomasz banging on the door of her apartment.

"It's open, come in. I'm in the kitchen," Marta shouted as loudly as she could.

"I brought you dinner. Here are the casseroles and here are the doughnuts. What do you want?" As she spoke, he held out both hands and gently shook the paper bags up and down.

"I'll take everything. I'm terribly hungry. You just saved my only tomato from death. Go rest in your room now; you've already done a lot today. I'll join you in a moment, I'll just throw the food in the microwave."

Tomasz obediently left the kitchen. He didn't have much choice – Marta's apartment was a studio apartment. This single room had everything she needed: a bed by the window, a large kitchen bench that served as both writing and eating space and a computer desk, a large wardrobe large enough to hold her entire wardrobe, and a bookshelf that took up an entire wall, with a television in its center. One large window had openwork curtains, and a gray rug on the floor. Marta wasn't one to overly care about order. On the contrary, she believed that artistic disorder was essential for maintaining inner peace and made life much easier, so Tomasz wasn't surprised to find shoes, a purse, and some books scattered on the carpet. He bent down and picked one up. It was "The Godfather." "

I didn't know you were into such books. I thought you weren't particularly interested in crime novels," he said to Marta, who was just entering the room with a tray in her hands.

"Because they're not interested. I had to take a break from studying the Civil Code yesterday for a moment, and all I found on the shelf was this book, probably a relic from the previous tenant," she explained quickly.

They sat down for dinner together. Marta placed two plates of warm casseroles on the coffee table and a glass of hot tea. This didn't surprise Tomasz, as he knew well that she never drank while eating because, as she claimed, it was unhealthy. It dilutes the stomach acids. They ate in silence. Then the girl collected the dirty plates, made herself a cup of hot tea, and, taking her writing kit, sat down at the table opposite Tomasz.

"Now I'm listening. You can finally tell me about this whole Paweł and the murder."

"It was like this," Tomasz began, "I met Paweł in elementary school; we were in the same class. He had wealthy parents, I didn't, but that didn't matter to us. We became friends very quickly. Although our paths diverged after high school, our friendship endured. He got into economics, and I got into law. We saw each other regularly and called each other often. Paweł became independent very quickly. During his first year of college, he started trading the stock market. He succeeded; within 24 months, he earned enough to buy a failing flower shop on Klonowa Street. That's how it all began. Thanks to Paweł's efficient organization and entrepreneurship, a nationwide network of flower shops was established. Then Paweł invested in other sectors of the economy. As a result of his successful ventures, within six years he became the owner of three large companies: the "Nasturcja" flower shop chain, the "Manhattan" video and DVD rental company, and the "Tygrys" Chinese restaurant." He was also co-owner of the Pelikan construction company. Despite his wealth, he led a normal life. He lived in a small single-family home with his wife and their children, eight-year-old Artur and five-year-old Ewa. They were a wonderful, loving family. His wife, Urszula, was completely absorbed in him. He was everything to her. She did his laundry, cleaned, and cooked for him. She was overjoyed when he returned home from a business trip.

"So you're telling me Paweł was perfect. He had no problems, no one wanted to kill him. He lived a peaceful and happy life, and then, suddenly, disaster struck," Marta interrupted, a little irritated by his sugary tale.

"That's not quite the case. Keep listening and don't interrupt, and you'll learn something that might interest you as a detective. Well, I don't know exactly what happened, because when Paweł has problems, he's reluctant to talk about them, but about six months ago, he had problems with the other co-owner of Pelikan." They had a huge argument, probably about changes in the company's management. The guy wanted to bring in a new member, which Paweł didn't agree to. He claimed the move would put a huge financial burden on the company and they would go into debt. Besides, he'd been bored with his quiet family life for some time. He decided something was still missing and found himself a mistress. As soon as I found out, I tried to talk him out of the affair. After six months of telling him over and over again that he was doing something wrong, I managed to convert him. Fortunately, his wife didn't suspect a thing, and everything returned to its previous state. I don't know any more details about his life. This will have to suffice for now.

"It's a beautiful story, a bit spicy towards the end, but I can buy it," Marta opined. "Perhaps you know the names of the people you mentioned earlier?

" "You mean Paweł's mistress and partner?"

"Yes, those are the ones. What did you think I was asking for? Personal information about sports stars."

"Of course I know. His partner's name is Mateusz Kociakowski, and his ex-lover's name is Paulina Lubiniecka. She's a decent girl; she just foolishly fell in love with Paweł. I can also tell you that she's one of Paweł's employees. He did a lot for her. Paulina comes from a poor family. She's very resourceful and easily got into her dream university program. Not wanting to give up her chance at an education, she decided to earn her own money for her studies, as she couldn't rely on her parents for financial support. However, finding a suitable job wasn't easy. When she was disappointed and despaired of her future, she sat down on a park bench and burst into tears. It happened that Paweł was passing by. He felt sorry for the crying girl. When he learned the reason for her sadness, he decided to help her. He hired Paulina as a saleswoman in his flower shop. Paulina still works there and lives with her parents. I think that's all. If you have any questions, I'm here."

There was silence. Marta was deep in thought. After a moment, she nodded.

"Tell me more about the accident itself. That is, under what conditions the crime occurred. Where it was committed, and what Paweł was doing moments before.

" The deceased Paweł was found by a housekeeper who works at his house. He was sitting in a chair at his desk, his head and right arm lying limply on the counter, holding a gun in his hand. His left arm hung at his side. Scattered on the desk were some documents relating to the Pelikan company. The door to his room was locked, but that's not surprising, because Paweł always locked the door when he worked so no one would disturb him. That's all I know.

"Was the hand with the gun lying very close to the deceased's head, and was the door locked?" Marta asked curiously.

"The door was simply locked, not locked. Yes, the hand was lying right next to Paweł's skull—there wasn't much of a gap, maybe a centimeter or so. Why are you asking?"

Tomasz didn't receive an answer to this question. It was well after one o'clock when Tomasz left Marta's apartment. Despite her exhaustion, Marta couldn't sleep. She lay in bed, thinking about today's conversation. She wondered who she should talk to first. She didn't know why, but she felt a certain sympathy for this poor girl who had decided to take fate into her own hands, perhaps because they were somewhat similar. Marta was also self-supporting. She had been working as a legal advisor at a Warsaw law firm for a year. She had an internship there after her third year and then landed a permanent position. They needed a new employee at the time, and they already knew Marta a little. However, she knew she couldn't rely on her subjective assessment. She sat down on the bed and turned on the bedside lamp. She grabbed a piece of paper and a pen from the table to make a list of suspects. She listed Mateusz Kociakowski, Paulina Lubiniecka, Urszula Jasińska, and the housekeeper. She realized the list could grow, but for now, that was all she could do. She decided they would talk to the housekeeper first, but there was one problem: she didn't want this conversation to take place at the Jasińskis' house, because it might scare his wife if she were afraid of discovering the truth. Marta already knew it wasn't suicide.

Clock

He turned the doorknob. The hinges creaked softly. He slowly entered the room, filled with the gray of the evening. He closed the door behind him and sat down heavily on the bed that stood against the sloping attic wall. The room was as it always had been; he couldn't remember anything having been changed. Not to mention renovated. Dirty yellow walls, a heavy pre-war wardrobe, a Socialist Realism-era bookcase, a fiberboard desk. As a child, he would often perch on the desk instead of a chair and swing his legs over the windowsill. Then he could almost touch the branch of the cherry tree growing under the window. He loved its scent, so he headed for the window and flung it open. The heavy, sweet scent of white flowers filled the room.

Adam took a deep breath, staring at the darkening sky, then turned and leaned against the edge of the desk. His gaze fell on the large, old clock that had always stood in the room. He didn't know where such a piece of furniture had come from. Solid hands slowly moved across the gilded dial, accompanied by a steady ticking. The copper pendulum swung merrily. Every hour, the clock chimed with a melodious, clear sound. Adam recalled his childhood fears. A dozen years ago, when he was a little boy, he believed in a hidden staircase behind the clock case. In his mind's eye, he saw a demon approaching him with each strike of the timepiece. The sound of the strike drowned out the heavy footsteps of the evil spirit. Each hour closed the distance between the monster and the small, frightened boy with a vivid imagination. That's why he disliked sleepless nights, during which he had the opportunity to count the rhythmic beats. Something of this fear remained with him to this day. He always felt uneasy when, unable to sleep, he counted the monotonous sounds from hour to hour.

This night wasn't looking good either. Adam was convinced that his tormenting thoughts would keep him awake again. He'd been nervous for several days, and whenever he found himself alone, he'd brooded over gloomy thoughts. Still, he decided to at least try to get some rest. He closed the window, which was already drenching with cold air, undressed without turning on the light, and snuggled under the covers. He lay staring at the sloping ceiling, his thoughts swirling chaotically in his head. He had no sense of time passing, but suddenly he realized it was completely dark. The black sky was shrouded in clouds, through which the moonlight occasionally barely filtered through. A gentle breeze swayed the branches covered in white blossoms. A near-perfect silence reigned, a rarity in this house. Usually, the television blared in his parents' bedroom, the dishes clattered in the kitchen, or the computer keyboard in his sister's room stayed up late. But today, no one was there. The entire family had gone to a friend's mountain cabin for their May vacation. Adam could be sure no one would interrupt his thoughts. Still, he felt uneasy. The steady chime of the clock irritated him, reminding him that this was another sleepless night slipping away into the past. He counted twelve. Midnight. He'd lost his chance to get any sleep again.

Suddenly, the silence was broken. A puzzling shuffle could be heard, followed by a soft creak coming from the direction of the clock.

"Adam..." came an unpleasant, piercing whisper.

"Hello... I knew you'd come..." The boy sat up in bed, trying to pierce the darkness with his eyes.

"It took a while... 1,081,860 steps isn't easy, even for me. It's time. Let's go," the night guest decided.

Adam obediently stood up and headed for the black staircase...

Dream

The room gradually blurred. It was even amusing. I was falling asleep. Usually people aren't aware they're falling asleep, but I felt it so clearly. A moment later, I felt just as clearly that I was already in my own dream. Fully aware of the unreality.

The tram. That familiar blue caterpillar where I spend so much of my life. And people so close together that their shoulders often touch, yet so distant at the same time. So alien. Gray faces frightened of each other...

It was all so familiar... too familiar. That's why it took me a moment to realize I was dreaming of the day that had just passed. Was I about to relive it?

My stop. I like it. Just like I like Śródmieście. Especially in the May sun. I felt so full of energy that I wanted to live. And that colorful crowd of rather happy people. I fit in with it. I like him too. I know it's a nearly uniform mass of consumers, only rarely breaking free from the rat race. A crowd of selfish people, adapted to the world. I know I'm like that too... and I'm fine with that. I don't condemn it.

That blind musician is always there. He couldn't be missing in my dreams, which are so similar to everyday life. It hurts me. It bothers me. It's a persistent dissonance disturbing my contentment. I'm happy, and he's not. Maybe I should give him something... then I'll be okay. But... I'm ashamed. Always. How embarrassing. It's best to put something in a cup so no one sees... But it couldn't be done. They were watching. A blink and it was too late. You can't go back. That would really draw attention... Besides, he probably doesn't need the money at all. Don't you hear enough about beggars driving Mercedes? You never know who you're giving to. And if you wanted to help everyone, you'd go bankrupt.

And then he appeared. A nice guy. Handsome. My type. I'd always liked long-haired brunettes... But something about him was off... It took me a moment to realize he wasn't actually passing by. He made me all the more curious, especially since he seemed to be paying attention to me. Yes, there was no doubt about it...

Then I looked into his eyes... A feeling I'd never experienced before washed over me. An icy wave of paralyzing fear. In an instant, everything vanished. The green trees of the plantations, the crowds of passersby, the sun... Just me and his eyes. Eyes so evil, they seemed to reflect the depths of hell.

Fortunately, through a tremendous effort of will, I woke up. My shirt was sticking to my sweaty body. I sat up and began a frantic search for the bedside lamp switch. I found a large, cold button, and the room filled with soothing light. I slowly calmed down. I told myself I was being irrational. It was just a dream, after all, there was nothing to fear. What could be safer than in my own bed? I rubbed my eyes, finally abandoning the subconscious images.

He was standing in the corner of the room. Completely real. He was fixing his hair, trying to cover two small growths above his forehead. I wasn't particularly surprised. From then on, those eyes were always with me. Now, he was watching too.

Death from helplessness

I. Death from Powerlessness

Guido Raschke 1914 - 1925

A gravestone made of sandstone overgrown with green lichen is striking, even though it has lain in complete oblivion for decades. On the worn and plowed slab by rain, sun, and frost, loom the remains of Gothic letters carved into the rock with a sharp stone chisel. Next to them, as if new, completely undamaged by time, a black-and-white photograph of an eleven-year-old boy, affixed behind a glass cover, remains. When his mother commissioned it from a photographer in the Market Square, the photographer told his son, "You'll have a souvenir for life."

He lived with his mother in a corner tenement house on the Market Square in Goldap. Like most others, it wasn't completely destroyed by the Russians during the 1914 assault on the city. Since his father's death in the Battle of Tannenberg, he had been raised solely by his mother. He had no memory of his father. He knew his face only from a wedding portrait and a yellowing photograph in a Prussian army uniform. That was all that remained of Lieutenant Raschke. Everything, for he didn't even have a grave of his own. He left the world only two photographs of himself and his son.

The boy was born before the war. He managed to come into the world a few days before the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand in Sarajevo. Then his father was taken to the front, and his mother baptized him in the Protestant church after his grandfather, Guido.

He didn't remember the moment when Hannelore learned of her death. Perhaps it passed unnoticed. In his life, only she was present: a strong, decisive, and ruthless woman. He always feared her and obeyed her. He remained under her powerful influence, trying not to get in her way, not to oppose her, not to ask for much; he felt a respect close to complete subordination.

He didn't know people. He didn't interact with them directly, always through his mother. Clinging to her hand, he strolled the streets, entered shops, went to church every Sunday, and then, when the weather was nice, on trips to Piękna Góra. He saw people through the prism of his mother's judgments. She spoke with them, argued with them, and laughed with them. He always remained silent. Because even when they asked him questions, she forestalled him, not waiting for a thought to form in her little head, ready to be translated into words.

She spoiled him, but not in the way he wanted. He felt her coldness and indifference when she hugged him. And she never let him cry. "You're a man! You mustn't shed a single tear in your life!" she said. Whenever he burst into tears, she beat him until he stopped whimpering, exhausted. She bought him many things, but she made the choices before he expressed his true desires. She played with him, but only occasionally, and didn't allow him to mingle with his peers. "They might be a bad influence on you, my son," she would cut the conversation short when he saw other children playing together. And when school age arrived, she hired a home governess just so she wouldn't have to send her son to school. Her generous military pension from her heroic husband allowed her to afford such an expense.

Her mother stayed home all the time. She did nothing and rarely left him. Sometimes she embroidered doilies, which she later sold to friends. She embroidered them with thick thread, colorful flowers, feathery leaves, birds and butterflies, small country houses, and holy figures. She didn't clean, wash, or cook—old Gertrude did that for her. She didn't read books or newspapers, didn't visit—no one did that for her. In winter, she spent most of her time sitting in an armchair by the warm fireplace, gazing thoughtlessly into the flickering flames from morning till night. Sometimes she remembered her husband, briefly and fleetingly. He appeared in her conscience like a spark that had fallen from the hearth, and then, like her, burned out irrevocably in her thoughts. In summer, she spent most of her time at the window, propped up on a blue satin pillow, cooling herself with a scarf. She gazed at the Market Square, the church, and the rows of tenement houses, at the people below her, the sky above, and God knows what else. And only yawning interrupted her gazing. She enjoyed her idleness. She felt best in this state.

Only a whim compelled her to do something from time to time. Once, she wanted to bake a blueberry pie, but it didn't work out. The pigeons in the market square ate the sore spot. Another time, she took up knitting a sweater. It was supposed to be a birthday present for her son. But after a dozen or so minutes, the nine rows of stitches strung on metal rods found their final home at the bottom of the wardrobe. Moths had devoured the intricate construction and the skein of yarn wound around a cardboard rectangle. It was all she could manage.

"How boring anything can be!" she always sighed after such attempts, concluding, "You can die of boredom when you're knitting."

She often took Guido and they went for walks together to the park or to the market for fresh fruit and vegetables. She always pulled him by the hand when he didn't want to go. She didn't let him sulk or grimace. Sometimes he'd get a good thrashing on the butt. She felt good about it, but the boy suffered more and more. His life increasingly resembled a monotonous series of the same, routine days, boring and hopeless. Apparently, he hadn't inherited this from his mother.

Sometimes, when his mother had dozed off in the rocking chair, exhausted by her inactivity, he'd sneak up to the window with a small stool. Quietly and carefully, so as not to wake her. He'd stand on a stool, wrapped in a white curtain, and, leaning his elbows on the wooden window sill, he'd survey the scene with a curious gaze, trying to grasp the entirety of the events unfolding in the Market Square.

He saw children playing tag or hopscotch on a board drawn on a hard surface with a piece of broken plaster figurine. He saw unruly boys his own age pulling on their friends' pigtails tied with red ribbons, or slightly older ones who, for fun, stole apples from an old Jewish woman's wicker basket in front of a stall next to a butcher and fish shop, or others who tied an inflatable pig's bladder with a small pea to the tail of a stray cat and then spurred the terrified animal back and forth. He wished he could do the same. He wished he could be a part of it, not just a silent witness hidden behind the glass. Then he would look back at his mother, hoping she would say, "Yes, go, son, I give you permission. Go and play with the other children. Nothing can happen to you, after all." But as soon as his gaze settled on her sleeping face, the spell vanished, leaving him a feeble, bygone illusion. In its place came the fear of her waking up, of her screaming, of why she was standing on the stool in the window, of her danger, of her potential harm. This had happened more than once. More than once, he'd been given a good thrashing for it.

But after making sure his mother was still asleep, he returned to the Market Square, to remain a passive participant in all the events unfolding outside the window. There was always a lot going on in the Market Square. There were children, just like him, whom he missed. He felt a strange closeness to them, even though he didn't know them at all, and they likely had no idea he existed. So he gave people his own invented names. Over time, he began to recognize them, spotting new, unfamiliar faces, which he immediately named, baptized with the names of his toys, surnames from stories he'd heard told in the kitchen by old Gertrude, names of characters from books his governess read to him. In this way, he created a world for himself, the characters in it, and assessed their traits based on his own observations. The Jewish woman with the basket of apples was evil and wicked because she was old, ugly, and dressed in black. Moreover, she had once beaten a toddler with a stick who had clumsily tried to steal fruit from her stall. Mrs. Rogge was kind, because she was always smiling as she strolled across the Market Square with her white poodle on a leash.

Besides that, many other things were happening, different every day, different every day. Cars drove by. Sometimes one would pull up at the gas station to fill up the tank. Horse-drawn carts drove by, empty or loaded with various items. Sometimes planks, sometimes red bricks, sometimes green cabbage heads. The postman rode by on his bicycle, which my mother absolutely hated. And somewhere higher up, above the level of the Market Square, in the row of tenement houses on the perpendicular frontage, someone would occasionally wash windows or water the petunias exposed to the outer surface of the windowsill. Neighbors would often gossip for hours, propped up on soft cushions. Often, from behind a half-open window, the sound of a gramophone or a radio drifted by. Here, too, on this level of space, butterflies flew, white butterflies, lemon flies, flies, bees, and wasps, which occasionally perched on the outside of the glass, as if, pausing briefly in their flight, they wanted to invite the boy out, to savor the freedom that was theirs. And before evening, the church bell summoned the faithful to the last service.

Even higher up were the roofs, cats, and pigeons perched on the roof tiles. Occasionally, chimney sweeps swept the chimneys. Above them, there was only sky, swift swallows, the blinding sun, and the vastness of Divine Nature.

He never got to see everything. Usually, his mother would take him off the stool. She would be angry then, very angry. Most often, she would scream, shriek so piercingly and so loudly that his fear of her grew with every shouted word, engulfing him in its immensity. Sometimes to the point that he would start crying. And his mother couldn't stand it. It would end with a good beating. And always, when he lay curled up on his bed, exhausted by crying and the physical pain, he would be overcome by such utter helplessness that he would do anything to end her presence, to free himself from her. Maybe if he were older, he would dare, he thought. Maybe if he had a father, he would find support in him. Maybe if he died, he would come to him...

"I'm bored, Mutti!" Sometimes, when he couldn't bear it any longer, he would interrupt his mother's mindless staring.

"Then go play with your toys. You have so many of them." "She'd reply, not looking in his direction.

"I've already played with them. I'm bored," he'd retort.

"So lie down and rest! I'm tired and I have a headache," she'd cut the conversation short.

He'd walk away with his head down, return to his room, and continue to toil with his teddy bears, wooden blocks, and tin soldiers. Most often, he played prison. He was the stern commandant, the toys the humble and mistreated prisoners. He always tried to take out all his helpless anger on them. The teddy bears weren't allowed to play with the tin soldiers, because they could have a detrimental effect on their plush, soft goodness. The wooden blocks were shot down with a metal ball, imitating an artillery shot. Their army was utterly destroyed, without any survivors, powerless and helpless against the little boy's ferocity of the attack.

That day, he truly felt that he had had enough. He didn't bother with his toys. He lay down. And fell asleep. In his dream, he flew, soaring higher and higher toward the great blue window, beyond which everything was permitted and everything could be had.

In the morning, old Gertrude found him. He was cold. His mother didn't particularly take her son's death. It passed unnoticed. On a whim, she buried him in the cemetery above Przerosla, so that he could occasionally gaze upon his reflection in the lake's tears. "It's so wonderful here that my little angel will never tire of this beauty," she explained to people. Hearts of stone never change.

A year later, when she married a capital businessman she'd met by chance in Goldap, before leaving for Berlin, she erected a monument to Guidon as a farewell. It was as if she had presumed he would never return.

In the eleventh row on the main avenue stands the tombstone of little Guido Raschke, overgrown with green lichen, who died of helplessness.

Dying of helplessness is in itself a difficult death. For the dying person, this death is seemingly imperceptible, because it does not come suddenly, but rather, with each passing day, takes life away, bite by bite. It is monotonous, as monotonous was the life that preceded it. Its tragedy lies in its limited awareness. Death of helplessness is a response to the dying of the awareness of one's own existence

Fishing adventure

I love fishing. Unfortunately, my time is so limited that I rarely find a moment to devote myself to my hobby with due diligence. However, a few months ago, I managed to escape for a weekend. I went to my favorite fishing spot. For obvious reasons, I won't reveal the name or location. To maintain proper etiquette, I'll just say that it's a deep channel lake, with spots as deep as 60 meters. It's located near the sea.

Apparently, it once had a connection, but the joyful communist economy built a wide embankment separating it from the sea. However, you can catch many interesting fish here. I loved spinning, even sweeping the dark blue, almost navy blue, water with a heavy spoon.

This time was no exception. The weather was perfect for a face-off with a large predator. Heavy clouds obscured the sky. It was muggy. A storm was brewing. Anyone who enjoys fishing knows that this is the perfect weather for encountering a large aquatic fauna. Unfortunately, I was unlucky that day. I'd been casting for over an hour, but to no avail. Finally, I reached an interesting embankment. It jutted out about a meter above the water's surface. Despite staring intently at it, I couldn't see the bottom.

This meant it was already very deep. I cast once, then twice. The third time, when I lifted the spinner from the bottom, I felt unimaginable resistance. The rod arched, almost to its limit, and the rattle of the reel indicated the large specimen's pulling line. I tried to pull it back and stop it. It didn't stand a chance. Only when almost all the line was off the spool did the fish on the hook stop. Gently, so as not to spook it, I started pumping to regain some of the lost line. I felt myself slowly bringing the catch closer, meter by meter. After almost half an hour of this, the resistance on the rod, which had been inert for a while, came alive again. In a matter of seconds, I lost all the meters I had painstakingly regained.

And the same thing happened again. And just like before, I persistently and laboriously pulled the catch towards me. When I brought it relatively close again, the violent clatter of the drag signaled that the fish had come alive again. And so, this cat-and-mouse game continued for what seemed like over three hours. Finally, I began to gain the upper hand. I pulled the catch towards me faster and faster. I strained my eyes to pierce the blackness of the water and at least see what was on my hook. Finally, the catch emerged. The conning tower of a World War II submarine came into view. On it was painted the symbol: U-456.

Suddenly, the hatch opened, and a gray-haired sailor's head poked out. He glared at me. He cursed under his breath and then ducked back down. I stood frozen as the water around the conning tower gurgled and the boat sank back into the lake. I'll never go fishing on that lake again...