Holy Week (Tuesday)Tuesday.

This day started out quite happily for me.

When the funeral home took my wife's body away (I allowed myself a few more moments with her), everything fell silent. Even when she was already sound asleep, the air was filled with the calm din of her words, like "clean up after yourself" and "come to breakfast." We hadn't slept together in ages, which isn't even an exception. In our country, one in three couples admits to marital problems. I'm a scoundrel if I say those problems disappeared around the corner the moment she drove away in the black limousine, but who's going to judge me now?

Yesterday I fired myself.

Yes, I fired myself. I went up to my boss and told him things he didn't even expect to hear from me. The lies followed the gossip, but I told him. I said enough for him to punch me in the nose and throw me out of the office.

So I grabbed a photo of my wife from the desk and the pen I'm currently scribbling in this diary. I wonder why, I don't know if anyone will even read it.

I'll remember something else from today – an old man with a sign. He stood on the corner of Bukowa and Ogrodowa Streets, looking up at the sky. He was sobbing bitterly, shouting in his hoarse throat.

"Forgive me, Lord, for I've made a mistake!" he shouted.

We've all made a mistake, I wanted to tell him, but at that moment a police van pulled up and they packed him in. I watched the whole thing calmly, not even wanting to help him. The Social Anesthesia program had worked. But then I did something I still can't understand.

I stood in the same spot as the old man and looked up at the sky. When I tilted my head up, I didn't even have to squint. The sun was too weak to blind me. I thought about shouting a catchy slogan, but I immediately recoiled and looked down. I remembered her and truly cried for the first time since yesterday morning. The men guarding the Social Anesthesia Program (PSZ) acted quite quickly. A police car immediately pulled up and they packed me in. I must have hit my head pretty hard when they threw me in, because I don't remember half the day—it was 12:00 when they threw me in, and when I woke up, my watch said 9:00.

The cell stank. It wasn't the room itself; there had to be something else. I kept my eyes closed for a long time, trying to figure out why it smelled so awful, and even lying on a comfortable bunk, I listened to the conversations of my fellow prisoners.

"Nobody can explain this," one of them growled.

His voice was heavy and he probably looked like it, which wasn't true when I saw him. In reality, he was a tall, thin man with a thick head of hair that was already very greasy, indicating a long stay in this cell.

"They're only feeding us baby porridge," the second one shouted in a thin voice. This one was the exact opposite of the first one with the gruff voice—fat, short, and bald.

I didn't interfere and continued listening.

"If all the animals are dead, how are you going to diversify your menu?" the thin one replied.

"I don't know, I haven't known since yesterday what's going on.

" "Because, Fatty, you don't read the newspapers—Chudy was probably in charge here—and if you did, you'd know what was coming by Friday. "

I wanted to interject and say something, but Fatty beat me to it.

"I read it, but apart from the fact that everything starts on Monday," he sniffed, "there was nothing more to be gleaned."

I wanted to agree with him, but I decided to wait them out. Indeed, besides the title and a few superficial pieces of information, which were mixed with the pronouncements of so-called experts, there was nothing to be learned, except, of course, the end date. Sunday, 9:34 PM.

A year?

We've had a new calendar for almost forty years. One that, as of today, indicates that it's the twenty-fifth day of the twelfth month of the year thirty-nine. The PSZ (Polish Postal Service) has even affected the measurement system – nothing has a name anymore. For a good year now, even I've forgotten my name, and all I remember is my social security number. Yes. I remember that very well. Seven, seven, seven, four, two, one, three, four.

"The end is near," said a third voice. As it later turned out, it belonged to the old man they'd picked up from the intersection before my eyes.

"Oh, I even know that," hissed Fats and stretched out on the bunk beneath me.

I opened my eyes and saw the ceiling written on by my predecessors.

They weren't particularly intelligent, judging by the equations I had above my head, and they certainly weren't great spellers, judging by the poetry they were probably painstakingly crafting while awaiting sentencing.

One poem stuck with me. "

I'm old, I'm lying here.

But I think about you all the time."

Beautiful body, big eyes

, big butt, shapely sides,

morning, evening, day, night,

always be here under my watchful eye.

I don't know what the guy who wrote this was thinking, but I'm sure I don't want to lie under this blanket.

I sat down on the bunk and looked around.

"Sleeping Beauty is up!" Skinny shouted and walked over to me.

The old man looked at me and covered himself with the blanket, turning his back.

"I'm talking to you!" Skinny continued.

When he was close to me, his head reached my knees.

This guy really was tall.

"Speakless, huh?" Skinny seemed unable to bear the silence and drowned it out himself with his thick, impure voice.

I looked at him and lay back down on the bunk, throwing the blanket to the ground. He moved aside and, cursing under his breath, returned to his bed.

I didn't care. My own indifference caught up with me, for I wasn't thinking about the consequences of my actions. The sun was fading, almost all animals were extinct, the oceans were flooding vast swaths of land, and the water was already reaching a height of forty meters above sea level.

On Monday, it all began at nine in the morning and would end after nine on Sunday evening. Now I began to admire God's precision.

I was almost certain that if He had created us with such precision, He could destroy us with just as much precision.

After all, since yesterday, a higher power had been putting the plan into action.

I glanced at the clock and closed my eyes. It had just struck 9:34 p.m., and the day was slowly drawing to a close for me. Exhaustion was hastening sleep, which came rather quickly. As I've been remembering my dreams since yesterday, I worried that I definitely wouldn't be able to repeat it next week.

I'm standing in the exact same spot where they took me – at the intersection of Bukowa and Ogrodowa Streets, with my arms stretched upward in a priestly gesture. I open my eyes and see thousands of birds above me, freely flying into a cloud where they then disappear. It's the only cloud like this in the sky, in fact, it's the only cloud in the sky at the moment. The air is heavy and makes breathing difficult. I try to say something, but when I open my mouth, it rushes in, completely blocking and choking me. I lower my hands and head. I look around and see thousands of people like me, staring at the sky and trying to scream, probably trying to scream just as much as I do, but not necessarily the same, because all I want to scream is one thing:

"How can I escape from here!?" I want to scream.

I turn my head and see a huge cloud engulfing my screaming companions at lightning speed, one by one.

I want to run, but I feel something holding my hand.

I turn around.

I can't believe my eyes.

It's her.

She's standing next to me, smiling at me.

She really is smiling.

And she says,

"Bow your head."

That's all.

She disappears.

I try to say something to her, to scream out how much I miss her, but I can't. Air as heavy as water rushes into my lungs, and I'm suffocating.

Suffocating. Drowning

.

"Wake up, sleeping beauty!" I recognize that voice.

The skinny man grabs my hand and pulls me from the bunk. I fall unconscious to the floor, waking up mid-flight, and I'm instantly drenched. It's water that must have flooded the prison from over a hundred meters above sea level.

I rise to my feet and see the old man with keys in his hand, and beneath him the body of the guard, unconsciously floating on the rising flood. I instinctively glance at my watch – ten minutes to midnight, ten minutes to Wednesday. Time

is running out, I thought, and I followed the Thin Man and the Old Man out of the cell, passing rooms behind bars, their bodies floating on the rising water. As long as it's tomorrow, I turned my head and hurried towards the exit. I'd promised her I'd live to see Sunday, and I guess that's what's keeping me alive.

I hope it keeps me going for another five days.

Guard

: "And where is the Queen?" Archbishop Jarosław's strong voice echoed through the chamber, rousing one of the ladies-in-waiting from a blissful sleep. She discreetly rubbed her eyes and stammered a reply.

"In the alcove, Reverend Sir! She hasn't been out since morning. She's ill!" The woman lowered her head, trying to hide the faint smile that appeared on her lips at the last words. This, however, didn't escape the old bishop's notice. He scowled instantly and growled angrily.

"Ask the Queen if she wants to see me! Go!" he urged the woman on, noticing her hesitation.

As the intricately carved door closed behind her, Jarosław rubbed his wrinkled forehead heavily. He was deeply troubled by the Queen's behavior; ever since the birth of little Kaźko, she had begun to resent everyone and everything at the Słupsk court. Hardly a day passed without Adelaide "feeling ill." The king disliked this, and the archbishop, who knew Casimir inside and out, grew increasingly fearful that the unruly monarch might do something irreversible. As only he could. Especially since the old archbishop sensed the rapidly approaching danger.

Bogoria sniffed sharply with his large nose. The Luxembourgs were only waiting for discord at the Wawel court. After all, he himself had intercepted Charles's letters, in which he recommended that his supporters create as many opportunities for King Casimir's love affairs as possible.

The archbishop's gloomy thoughts were interrupted by the creaking of the door. He glanced behind him and saw a portly man with a thick black beard.

"Voivode Spytko! Are you here, sir?" Jarosław Bogoria rose from the bench where he had sat and walked toward the dignitary.

"I wanted to speak with you, Reverend Father!" Spytko of Melsztyn looked the archbishop in the eye. "I heard you've gone to the queen. I can spare you a moment.

" "You're joking, Voivode!" Jarosław said indignantly. "What's so urgent that you bothered to search for my unworthy person?"

"The envoy from Landgrave Henryk has just arrived!" Spytko replied seriously.

"He may have finally brought the overdue portion of the dowry!" the archbishop almost exclaimed. "Finally!

" "Unfortunately," the voivode muttered, "we'll certainly never get a penny from that miser. We can't count on that, Reverend. Quite the contrary! The envoy actually came to ask the landgrave for our king's support in his dispute with Archbishop Ludwik. Of course, it's about cash!"

"He's got it wrong!" the archbishop shook with anger. "He's got it very wrong. Let's go to some secluded place, Voivode. We really must consult about what we should do.

"

The queen truly couldn't be considered a paragon of beauty. Her dry face, with its thin lips constantly twisted in a grimace, didn't add to her charm either. However, upon seeing the king enter, she attempted a smile, but the attempt proved futile. Casimir looked at his wife with dislike. He had truly had enough of her and had often considered sending her back to Hesse. He could even find a good excuse. That miserly Henry clearly had no desire to fulfill his marriage contract, and Casimir didn't press him, knowing it might prove a powerful argument in future attempts to annul the marriage. To that end, he had already sent John of Busko, provost of the Gniezno Cathedral, to His Holiness Clement VI to gauge the Pope's reaction to the planned divorce. For now, however, he preferred to at least maintain appearances and, as he did every Thursday, arrived at the queen's chambers to fulfill his royal duty.

"You don't have to love your wife," old Władysław repeated grumpily, "but remember your duties to the dynasty."

And Kazimierz tried to fulfill his father's will as diligently as possible, though lately it had become increasingly difficult.

"I hear you were ill today, madam?" the king asked hopefully. Adelaide smiled with a forced smile. "I presume it was nothing serious!" Kazimierz added quickly, trying to hide her embarrassment.

"No, sire!" the queen replied in a shrill voice, rising heavily from the bed. "My head hurt a bit, but I'm cured at the thought that today I might finally give you the heir of my dreams.

" "May you say these words at the right time, eminent lady!" Kazimierz boomed loudly, trying to hide the expression on his face from his wife. "It's high time for this! I've already become a grandfather, and I haven't lived to see a son.

" "Today it will come true, sire!" "Adelaide chattered with sudden animation. "My Henga assures me that today is the best time for me to give you a son. And she knows her stuff! She watched me closely today.

" "So what are we waiting for, madam?" urged Kazimierz, eager to get this unpleasant task behind him.

The bed creaked painfully.

...

Spytko of Melsztyn bowed low before the monarch and waited for permission to rise.

"So you claim, Voivode, that servants of our beloved nephew Ludwik are lurking in Wawel?" finally gasped Kazimierz, who had just returned from a strenuous hunt. Although only his fourth cross weighed heavily on his neck, he could no longer spend the entire day in the saddle like in his youth. He was a little angry with the Voivode for having to postpone his visit to the castle grounds, because of his speculations, where the young daughter of a city councilor, whom he had long desired, was waiting for him. What was her name? Hedwig? Or maybe something else?

"What surprises you, Voivode? My worthy nephew only cares about his own!" he laughed ominously.

"Surely, my gracious lord, you haven't yet given him the Kingdom?!" Spytko exclaimed in horror.

"No one knows the decrees of Heaven, Voivode!" The king raised his eyes. "Remember how two years ago I fell so gravely ill that the reverend Archbishop Jarosław pronounced me dead. Who would then become the new king if not one of Piast blood?

" "He's only half Piast," the lord of Melsztyn snarled in an undertone. "He feels more like an Anjou and the ruler of Hungary. What kind of king will he be? He'll only look beyond the Carpathians, and forget about Pomerania altogether.

" "So what do you advise me, Voivode?" the king frowned, nervously tugging at his black beard. "Should I break off the alliance with Louis?" Who will be left for me then? The Wittelsbachs? After all—he grew increasingly excited—since my father's time, our entire policy in the Anjou has been based on this. What advice do you have on that?

"A son!" Spytko replied in a firm voice, looking directly into the monarch's eyes. "You must have an heir, sir!"

"But with whom? Surely not with the queen?" Kazimierz laughed hollowly.

"She's young!" Spytko slapped his powerful thighs. "She can bear you many sons. You just have to give her a chance, gracious lord."

"I've been giving her a chance for over ten years now, and what's the result?" Kazimierz gritted his powerful teeth. "An apple tree that doesn't bear fruit gets rid of! Isn't that right, Voivode?"

"You don't give the queen a chance, gracious king!" Spytko gasped. "You have to visit her more often."

"You, Voivode, won't choose the time for me!" "Kazimierz suddenly became furious. "I have sons!

" "I don't deny that, gracious lord!" Spytko agreed agreeably. "But who will recognize a townswoman's son as a future monarch?"

"I must find a new wife, Your Grace the Voivode!" the King snorted, tugging at his beard again. "One who will bear me children.

" "And what about Adelaide?" the Krakow Voivode asked quietly.

The King jumped up and walked briskly to a small window overlooking the gray waves of the river that had washed Wawel Hill for centuries.

"There, near Piasek, the Vistula is supposedly deep!" Kazimierz muttered ominously.

...

"Are you sick again, madam?" Reverend Jarosław's tone was laced with sadness. "What are you complaining about now?" the Archbishop couldn't avoid a hint of irony.

Adelaide, outraged, rose to her feet, her pale cheeks flushed with red.

"It's easy for you, eminent bishop, to mock a weak woman," the queen said with obvious difficulty, trying to suppress the urge to vomit.

Jarosław looked at Adelaide carefully. She really didn't look well. Her pale face wasn't feigned, and the poorly concealed bowl, which he noticed with his keen eyes, certainly hid the queen's rather meager breakfast. Old Henga had indeed been right when she'd come this morning complaining about her mistress's poor health.

"Has it been long since she's been throwing everything out?" the archbishop asked suddenly, causing the queen's cheeks to flush.

"It's almost Sunday!" she whispered shamefully. "Whatever I eat, it all comes back. Those mushrooms I ate, for Saint Vincent's sake, must have harmed me. Or whoever cast the spell! More than one wishes me ill. Or perhaps someone wanted to poison me?

" "Was there a doctor?" Bogoria asked calmly. The only response was a weak

nod. "And what did he say?

" "That it would go away! On its own!" Adelaide shook her dry head. "Because I have an appetite.

" "Doesn't he suspect venom?" Skotnicki made an unconscious move towards the woman, as if to examine the condition of her forehead. At the last moment, however, he refrained from this indecent gesture. To conceal his embarrassment, he immediately added, "You must drink plenty of milk, madam. It's the best medicine for vomit. I often use it myself. Tell Henda to go to the Small Market Square, because the women there have the best milk. And if not, I'll send it to you myself.

" "No need, Reverend Bishop!" Adelaide laughed shrilly. "I often drank milk at my father's court. I haven't forgotten about it now either. But nothing!

" "And you're hungry!" the archbishop continued to worry. "The gracious king will be worried. He's been asking about you this morning, madam.

" "You're very kind, Reverend!" The queen looked at Jarosław with a strange expression.

"Perhaps, eminent lady, you are..." the dignitary paused, looking with some fear at Adelaide's withered face.

...

Casimir urged his horse to run faster. He wanted to be as far away from Wawel as possible, where only sorrow awaited him. A rush of air brushed his face, restoring his clarity of mind. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the baying of dogs that had cornered an aurochs or a wild boar in the thicket. He, too, felt trapped. He wrestled with his thoughts.

Reverend John of Busko had just returned to Krakow, bringing a reply from His Holiness Clement. Casimir considered it once more. Truth be told, he had expected a refusal, but perhaps in a more veiled form. Meanwhile, the Pope's answer was clear. There was no question of divorce. Adelaide was his legally wedded wife, and there was no point in dreaming of the Church blessing their new union during her lifetime. During her lifetime – the thought flashed through the king's mind. Casimir tilted his head to the gusts of cold air that ruffled his luxuriant beard.

And him? Will his conscience allow him to sleep peacefully after such an act? Will Fate punish him? Or is there another solution?

The king abruptly spurred his horse, causing it to rear, nearly throwing the monarch from the saddle.

"Pakosławic!" the king shouted loudly. The courtier appeared almost immediately, leaping from his bay steed.

"Yes, gracious king!

" "Do you know this area well?" Jan Pakosławic shook his head in agreement. "We'd like to rest somewhere.

" "And not far away, there's a forest manor owned by Niemierz of Gołcza," the courtier pointed north. "We can rest there for a while. Unless, gracious lord, you order us to Wiślica.

" "Lead on!" the king ordered.

The manor was indeed not far away. The small wooden structure sat on the edge of a large clearing, separated from the dark forest by a babbling stream. A few carefully tended patches spoke well of the lady of this forest manor, who was toiling with several maids to weed the luxuriant weeds that were encroaching on the clearing.

The king first saw wind-blown berries, then black eyes, the sight of which made his blood throb. The woman seemed to recognize him, for her knees instinctively bent to the ground.

"Husband of the house?" Jan Pakosławic shouted from behind. The lady of the house shook her head, not daring to even speak in the monarch's presence. She simply stared wide-eyed at the unexpected guests.

"Who is that?" Kazimierz asked quietly, glancing at the courtier.

"Cudka, daughter of Count Pełka. You recently gave your consent, gracious lord, for her marriage to Niemierza.

" "Tell her to come!" – ordered the king, who had just mentally decided the future fate of his disliked wife. He would send Adelaide either to her father or to some secluded place where people would forget her.

...

Among the castle servants, there were frequent stories of a black figure appearing at night, whose appearance was said to herald an imminent death. Some claimed it was the ghost of the king's unfortunate uncle, Leszek the Black, searching for his murderers, unable to find peace in the afterlife. Others said the ghost's appearance surprisingly coincided with the tragic death of the king's confessor, Father Baryczka, who paid with his life for inappropriate reprimands addressed to the distinguished penitent.

Regardless of the identity of the dark apparition, no one had the slightest desire to meet it. That was probably why the man, wrapped in a dark woolen cloak, walked, making no attempt to hide from the eyes of onlookers. His face was lost in the thick fabric that formed a kind of turban on his head.

He slowed only when he reached the queen's chambers. Old Henga was sleeping soundly, a faint smile appearing beneath the thick curtain of fabric. After all, he had prepared his visit well. The servant shouldn't have woken up even if the trumpets of Jericho suddenly blared nearby. Not after the medicine he'd administered to her tonight.

The man finally threw off his heavy veil, revealing the wrinkled face of Archbishop Jarosław Bogoria Skotnicki.

He surveyed the vestibule leading to the royal chambers with a careful glance. He hadn't expected to find anyone here, but it was safer to check everything. Many would likely have been incredibly surprised by the presence of the Gniezno ruler at this hour, so close to Adelaide's chambers. However, Jarosław had a mission of extraordinary importance to fulfill here.

In his hand, an object gleamed, glowing with a cold light, which he nervously clenched in his fist. Now the future depended on his efficiency. In the most literal sense.

The door creaked softly. Jarosław froze for a moment, but no one appeared in the corridor, lit by the flickering glow of the torches.

Adelaide slept, panting slightly. Even in her sleep, her face contorted into a grimace that further marred her ugly features. Jarosław scratched his shaggy head. How could he possibly inflict further harm on this unfortunate woman? But he had to do it!

An object resembling a narrow Venetian dagger reappeared in the archbishop's hands. With a quick movement, he lifted the patterned cape that covered the queen's body, revealing her flat stomach. Then he lowered the object and, with deft movements, brought to the surface what he was seeking.

There was one more thing left to do.

...

The crypt to which the old archbishop was heading was the most secret place on all of Wawel Hill. Only one person, besides himself, knew of her existence. The person to whom he himself had offered this very place to conclude his affairs. Since he expected that after today, this person would disappear from his life forever, he decided to reveal his sanctuary to her.

With a sigh, Jarosław opened a door made of a strange metal, opalescent with an inner light, which, from a distance, looked like a fragment of a stone wall to the untrained eye. If Kazimierz only knew what the interior of his castle held... Jarosław smiled beneath his gray mustache, which instantly turned black. This was the thing that always amazed him most when he entered the Chamber. In an instant, he felt almost forty years younger.

He shed the coarse gray robe he wore outdoors to demonstrate his eagerness for mortification, and quickly donned his favorite dressing gown. He settled comfortably in a plush armchair and took a sip of freshly brewed coffee, which somehow awaited him in his favorite mug. Such a concoction was yet to be expected in this era.

However, he couldn't savor the taste of the black liquid for too long. A sharp, shrill signal sounded, announcing the approach of an unknown person to the Chamber.

Jarosław glanced at the monitor.

Voivode Spytko of Melsztyn walked along, looking around cautiously. He knew exactly what he was looking for and found the door to the Chamber without much difficulty.

"Coffee?" asked the archbishop.

"Are you allowed, sir?" Spytko couldn't immediately break free from his role.

"We, the Guardians, are entitled to some privileges!" replied Jarosław dryly, taking another sip of the aromatic liquid. "After all, for you Travelers, your stay here is but a moment, while we spend almost our entire lives in the past.

" "You choose this fate yourselves," Spytko snorted angrily. "What purpose does this meeting serve?

" "Your time is up, Apollonius!" Jarosław, with youthful verve, leaped from his chair and leaped to his interlocutor, subduing his hand, from which he extracted a small object.

"Accelerator!" he exclaimed triumphantly. "You thought you could finish me with this. I'm sending a report on your achievements in this era today.

" "You won't!" Spytko groaned, trying to free his hand from his opponent's grip. "That would be the end of me!"

"Perhaps fortunately for the world. How do they train you there?" the man who passed for the Archbishop of Gniezno fumed. "Well, give me some rational reasons why I shouldn't report you?" If you can explain to me why you wanted to persuade the king to kill his wife, then..." He paused and looked into Spytko's face.

"So you know everything!" The voivode spread his hands in resignation.

"Does that surprise you?" Jarosław laughed. "It's one of the most basic duties of every Guardian. Besides, you prepared like a bull in a china shop. You didn't even bother to cover your tracks. So what was that all about?

" "About Cudka!" Spytko gasped loudly, sinking into the depths of the soft armchair, which immediately adjusted to his shape. "Queen Adelaide's death would have paved the way for Casimir's next marriage, and knowing the king's character, I could swear his choice would have fallen on Cudka. And as you know, Casimir had children with her. Three sons! Legitimate, thanks to Adelaide's death!"

"And you think Louis would calmly watch as the throne of Kraków slipped away from him!" Jarosław broke into a brisk march along the Chamber, finally reaching a special window overlooking Kraków. "Have you considered," he nodded toward the panorama of the city walls, "what will become of this world?"

"I ran a simulation, based on which I analyzed the variant of history in which the royal Piast dynasty did not die out in the 14th century," Spytko nodded. "The consequences of this, contrary to appearances, will not be significant for the world. There will even be a Polish-Lithuanian union.

" "How?" Jarosław's gaze widened in surprise.

"The Teutonic Knights and Hungarians will remain our enemies!" the voivode explained calmly. "And the threat will even increase, because the Luxembourgs will return to their old tactics of encircling the Kingdom. Therefore, Lithuania will remain our only ally." And since Witold and Jagiełło will only have daughters, the baptism will also take place, as will the Union. Spytek's face suddenly lit up with emotion. "Just think. A kingdom with a hereditary monarchy, which at the right moment transforms into an absolute monarchy. There are no partitions! There are also no world wars, because Central Europe is in balance, and Russia and Germany are divided by mighty Poland. The European Union is being created under our leadership. As the link between East and West, we dictate the terms to Europe.

" "In short, a bright future!" Jarosław sarcastically slid a hologram from under a pile of papers. "I understand I should even help you in this noble task of keeping the Piast dynasty alive. If only everything were as simple as..." he paused and thrust the document under his nose. "Here is the family tree of Cudka and Casimir's descendants. Look at the crown itself! Whose name is on it?" the Guardian laughed again. "Shall I address you as Your Royal Highness now?"

Spytko's face suddenly reddened, and he rushed toward the exit.

"You won't get far!" Jarosław muttered to himself.

At least this matter was over. He was certain that Spytko would soon find himself in one of the penal colonies, in the distant past, where only dinosaurs could serve him in his further mischief.

And, by the way, it was an interesting prospect. Casimir's descendants on the Polish throne.

And it wasn't about that unfortunate Spytek, who had no chance of winning the crown anyway, because that version of history assumed he would die in childhood. But it was about that danger, which he had also nipped in the bud today, in a completely literal sense. He had never been a supporter of abortion, in any form. But here, it's hard to talk about abortion yet. This was merely a newly formed zygote, destined to become the son of Adelaide and Casimir. A man at whose feet all of Europe would fall, and whose grim fame would eclipse even Napoleon.

Despite this, Jarosław felt a pang of distaste in his heart. He hoped he would never again have to interfere so directly in his own country's history. But then again, that was precisely the essence of a Guardian's job.

He probably would ask for a leave of absence.

Angels fly at night

He rode slowly into the city. His two faithful companions followed him everywhere. They looked down on the people watching them with the condescension of those who believed they had an important mission to fulfill.

His name was Edvardo. His long, brown hair was so dark it was almost black. His light green eyes regarded everything with a faint boredom. His strong jawline and broad shoulders would have won him admirers... if he weren't a servant of God. So did his companions. The first, Pedro, was a stocky man with a short, red beard. The lanky blond with dark blue eyes was named Alexander. These two and Edvardo were never apart.

Executioners. The witches' hammer.

That's what the mob called them. But their purpose was far more noble: to cleanse all human souls of sin. Nevertheless, they inspired fear wherever they went.

They slowly, ostentatiously dismounted. A typical housewife and, as it turned out, a widow offered them lodging for the next few days. When they arrived, Edvardo busied himself grooming the horses. He hated having anyone else tend to them. That was when he saw her for the first time.

She definitely stood out from the crowd, mainly because of her clothes. She wore a large coat, despite the warm weather. Her blond hair flowed gently, framing her heart-shaped face. Large, blue eyes regarded everything with gentleness, and a smile played at the corners of her mouth. Her nose was slightly upturned. Her long neck and small, long-fingered hands betrayed a very slender figure beneath the coat, unsuited for hard work. She must have been a noblewoman. But that outfit...

Edvardo thought then that this was what angels must look like.

It took him a moment to recover from her departure. Even during dinner, he was still uneasy. He kept thinking about the girl. When his companions had retired, he decided to do something about it.

"Excuse me," he asked the housekeeper timidly. The earlier arrogance had vanished. "Do you happen to know who the girl in the large coat is? I saw...

" "Jenny?" she interrupted him lightly. "Yes, I know her. One feels happier around her. It's strange that such a fragile creature can be so hardworking.

" "Isn't she a noblewoman?" he blurted out. But he quickly regained his composure. As a rule, he didn't let his emotions get the better of him. Something was wrong with this girl.

"A noblewoman? She?" the woman seemed oblivious. "No, she's an orphan. She arrived here six months ago. I think God is favorable to her and everything around her, because things have been going very well in town since she arrived..."

Suddenly, they heard a knock. After a while, without waiting for an invitation, a woman of about forty entered with a sly twinkle in her eye.

"I heard you were staying here, sir," she said. "I know where the witch is in our town.

" "Speak up." The former arrogance returned to Edvardo.

"I saw Jennifer, that stray, transform into a raven.

" "Nonsense." Edvardo waved his hand, suddenly losing interest.

"I don't think so," Pedro said as he and Alexsandro entered the room. "Can you tell us more about this event?" he asked the newcomer.

"I was returning from town late that day. Suddenly, I saw this stray coming out of the house. It's me! I hid behind a bush. And if a large, black shape doesn't fly out from behind the barn, I thought to myself, 'What the devil.' After a moment, that feather fell to the ground," she showed the assembled group, "and the black shape disappeared...

" "What do you think?" he asked the housekeeper.

"It's possible," the woman rubbed her chin thoughtfully, "indeed, we've been doing suspiciously well since she arrived. Besides, I heard she had a falling out with that young Benjamin who was courting her. That same day, he fell off a cliff outside town.

" "It's impossible," Edvardo thought, "she can't be a witch. Surely Pedro and Alexander will think so too as soon as they see her..."

But the woman they were staying with had known Jennifer much longer, yet she immediately accepted it as true.

The next day, the interrogations began. Yet, none of them could torture her—not even Alexander, who specialized in it. The girl kept denying everything.

"Devil's blood!" Alexander spat on the ground. "She must have cast some kind of spell on us! Especially on you," he turned to Edvardo. "I thought you were immune to all kinds of spells."

He didn't reply.

"There's only one thing left," Pedro said—the test of water."

Edvardo shuddered at the thought. He didn't want to watch them drown the poor girl. He didn't know what terrified him more—that Jennifer would die or that she would survive.

Usually, the water test took place at noon, but this time it was to be performed at sunset. Ironically, they were on the eastern side of the lake.

Jenny walked ramrod straight. She seemed completely unaware of what was happening around her. For a moment, her eyes met Edvardo's. It surprised him. He had expected to see fear and anger, but instead saw… sadness.

He felt sadness too. He wanted so badly to help her, but he couldn't. Suddenly, Alexander placed a hand on his shoulder. His face was completely expressionless.

For some unknown reason, she was allowed to keep her cloak. Pedro tied her tightly and attached a stone to her feet. A moment later, she was in the water. The cloak fell away in pieces, revealing her secret. Edvardo's first impression was correct.

She beat her wings desperately against the water. Her hands broke free as the feathers cut through the bonds. She tried to untie her feet without submerging. She only had to touch them...

A moment later, she rose above them, showering water droplets around her like jewels. She looked at Edvardo with a piercing gaze, then flew off

toward the setting sun... or perhaps the other shore? Who knows...

A few white feathers fell to the ground. Before anyone could catch them, they turned black, and when someone managed to catch them, they turned to ash.

Edvardo felt something in his hand. He didn't need to look; he knew what it was. It was a long, pristine white feather. He quickly tucked it into his pocket. He knew he couldn't tell anyone about it... and that he would keep it forever.

ODE TO SHINSEN GUMI ^-^"THE TALE OF OKITA SOUJI"

- Okita-san, we must go now!

The pale-faced swordsman didn't answer. He stood and looked at the dead men lying at his feet. Some still seemed to be breathing, seemed to be crying out for help. Okita frowned. Blood was streaming down his cheeks. One of the fallen men, with his last strength, grabbed him by the lapels of his coat. "Your wait is over," the swordsman thought, and plunged his sword into the dying man's back, finishing him off.

Okita closed his eyes, as if praying for the dead. In truth, he remembered the carefree life he had always led, regardless of the blood staining his hands. From a young age, for as long as he could remember, he had been trained for only one thing: murder. But despite this, he had always been a cheerful, lively boy who transformed only for those few moments when he had to murder again.

In truth, as you can see, Souji had never lived a carefree life. He only called "carefree" those moments when he sat in his room, in Japanese, on the ground, reading letters, documents, reports, and then picking up his sword and swinging it, over and over again. Only occasionally did he find respite by playing with the Shinsen Gumi Comedy Trio, teasing Mr. Hijikata, Mr. Kondou, or mocking Mr. Saitou. And it was this last that was most important to him. He would do anything for his friends. For them, he smiled, played, laughed, resembled a cheerful young lady, and without realizing it, he kept that army alive; even the ubiquitous Comedy Trio owed him a great deal.

With that in mind, he turned on his heel and, leaving another sea of ​​blood, followed the voice of his friend, who had been calling him for several minutes.

"Come on, Shinpachi-san!" – seemed to escape his lips.

We haven't captured the fortress yet, Okita thought. It's not time for rest and melancholy yet. You'll have time for reminiscing later; right now, the most important thing is to cut down enemy after enemy, so that they don't do it first. A scream escaped his lips as he ran forward, cutting down life after life with each swing of his sword. He couldn't stop as he fell into a trance that stripped him of all human feeling, turning

him into a beast. He knew that if he didn't kill, they would kill him. A twist, a swing, a slash... and so it went, every time, regardless of the liters of blood pouring around him, both from himself and his enemies... Nothing crossed his mind, no remorse, no worries, no concerns, until he heard a scream, calling for help. He recognized it easily. His friends needed him. A cruel anger welled up within him, and in the blink of an eye he cut his way through a pack of hungry wolves seeking his life.

He'd arrived. He seemed to have made it. Shinpachi-san was already lying bloodied on the ground, and the enemy was about to deliver the final blow. Okita lunged without a second thought, clashing his sword with the attacker, who jumped back in surprise.

"Who are you?" the man asked, revealing only golden, incredibly fierce eyes in the pale moonlight.

"Okita Souji of the Shinsen Gumi, and whoever you are, was just about to slaughter my friend!" Okita replied fearlessly.

"Well... you don't know who you're messing with, Mr. Okita.

" "It's YOU... you don't know who you're messing with!" His

golden eyes gleamed. He knew perfectly well who he was messing with. Okita Souji's fame, the best of the best in the Shinsen Gumi, not counting Saitou Hajime, had reached him as well. He had no orders, but... he was waiting for this.

"Just so you know... who's going to kill you... Hitokiri Battousai, I am... PREPARE TO DIE!!!!

Yes, yes, ladies and gentlemen... That's how Okita's first encounter with Battousai looked. You'll probably say, "no wonder he was so hard on him," but... it's not like that... Souji didn't pay attention to his enemies' names, as he was always certain of victory. Even when he later heard his name, he couldn't remember where he knew it from. He didn't care. Things like the enemy's name didn't concern him.

They clashed in mid-air, which didn't harm either of them. They were both surprised. "You're good," Okita said, to which he replied, "You are too." Shinpachi, meanwhile, barely got up and, seeing that the enemy was quite capable, flew for reinforcements. Okita-san was about to shout that there was no need, that the Comedy Trio would only be putting themselves at risk unnecessarily. However, Souji didn't know that Battousai's fame had already reached the ears of almost everyone except Okita himself, and Shinpachi, fearing for the life of the Shinsen Gumi's first division commander, went not after the Comedy Trio but after Mr. Hijikata Toshizou and Mr. Saitou Hajime.

Unsure of what he was up against, Souji faced Battousai, who, truth be told, didn't know what he was up against either. Battousai leaped into the air, shouting something about a hit, which Souji didn't even catch, but managed to deflect the attack with a powerful swing of his sword, sending his opponent sprawling, not so much injured as surprised.

"That much was to be expected..." Battousai said. "...from the famous Okita Souji!"

Souji could even be polite to his opponent, so he was about to reply "thank you," but then... he felt a pain in his chest...

"But that's all..." Battousai finished, pulling his sword from Okita's left arm, which had been pierced through and through. Only, miraculously for Okita, it missed his heart. Souji didn't even have time to react, so fast was Battousai. Blood gushed from the swordsman's mouth, then he staggered to his feet and, holding his arm, fell to his knees... Darkness filled his vision... For the first time in his life, he had experienced such defeat.

Is this the end? flashed through the blue-haired swordsman's mind. Battousai would finish him off and send him to the next world... "See you in hell," he seemed to hear, but... No, not yet... With the last of his strength, because the pain in his hand was incredible, he reached for his katana (sword)... Battousai, on the other hand, was struggling with his thoughts... He hadn't been ordered to kill Okita Souji, yet this man had slaughtered countless of his comrades... Yet... he had no right. He could kill insignificant individuals, but not Okita Souji himself... Especially when he lay almost defenseless, missing one arm...

"You're not worth it..." Battousai whispered almost silently, so Souji wasn't sure if he was imagining it or if he actually heard it.

Battousai gave up, but he still held his sword above Souji's head, so he wasn't surprised when a flock of kunai suddenly flew in front of him. And they weren't just birds, but sharp stars thrown by shinobi. The kunai embedded themselves in the ground in front of Battousai, deftly avoiding Okita, forcing him to retreat a few steps.

Battousai looked around. On one of the rooftops, lurking in the darkness, was a black-clad ninja spy, Yamazaki Susumu. Okita looked at him gratefully, and with a wave of his hand, Okita indicated his companions to their destination. Saitou Hajime, along with his company and two of the Comedy Trio, Shinpachi Nagakura (^-^) and Harada Sanosuki, flew as if on wings to the aid of the commander of the first division of the Shinsen Gumi.

Seeing reinforcements approaching, Battousai sheathed his sword and spoke in a metallic voice...

"We will meet again, Okita Souji-dono..."

And vanished into the darkness. Souji rose from the ground, defeated, just as Shinpachi had moments before.

He heard Saitou's voice asking if he was alright, and Harada's call, ordering them to pursue the attacker. But Okita couldn't say a word. He was still in shock... This man had spared his life, this man could have killed him in an instant, but... he didn't...

"Stop..." he finally whispered, not showing his eyes. "Leave him..."

Saitou Hajime, commander of the third division of the Shinsen Gumi, looked at him in surprise.

"There's no need..." Souji smiled, trying to hide not only the pain, but also the embarrassment... and admiration. "If... I barely escaped with my life in a fight on equal terms with him, let alone our wolves..."

Saitou nodded in understanding, and Harada called off the pursuit. It turned out Okita was as conceited and stubborn as ever, and his true intentions remained a mystery to his companions. But... were they to everyone?

The shinobi, who had, in fact, been stationary for quite some time, merely nodded, as much out of admiration for Battousai as for Okita. His opponent had spared his life, he heard it clearly and distinctly, so Souji reciprocated by halting his wolves' pursuit.

Okita merely glanced at the ninja, signaling to him to keep his secret. Susumu didn't have to keep such things a secret...

For the next few days, Souji had no life in the "doujo," as the companions, especially the Comedy Trio, made light of him, to which he only responded with a shrug, and only when he finally grew angry did he remind Shinpachi that he, too, had failed to defeat this opponent. No one, except Shinpachi and Susumu, truly knew who Okita was fighting. Okita had ordered them to remain silent so as not to frighten the rest of the wolves too much. He himself, however, was reeling from the encounter. Himura Battousai was the best swordsman in the world, there was no doubt about that, but Souji... he didn't know it, or rather... he refused to entertain the thought that anyone better than him might exist. But there was. And not only a better swordsman, but also... a better man, capable of sparing a defeated enemy. And that was what bothered Okita most. That he had spared him. He would rather die than face such shame, but fortunately, only Susumu knew of that shame, so

Souji... forgone seppuku. Besides... he had no reason to, because... he had found a new purpose in life. To become better than Battousai. To surpass him so that next time he would prevail and spare his life. He decided he would spare his life, even if he begged him for death... The only thing he wouldn't forgive him was... sparing him.

From then on, Souji trained even harder, with even greater passion and fury, and at the same time... he tried to feed his heart with kindness, honesty, and understanding, which wasn't difficult at all, because the boy... had always been like that.

In this moment, we see Souji Okita as a delicate, almost girlish boy, seemingly incapable of harming a fly, but that was only an appearance. This beautiful boy is as dangerous as he is beautiful, especially after meeting Battousai, on whom he swore revenge. Kenshin himself had no idea what a storm he had caused and how difficult it was, a few years later, for Souji to put down his sword when she asked him to. This is just proof of how much this boy has changed, or rather... how much his friends have changed him, bringing out what is most beautiful in him... what he has always hidden in his soul... Love... ^-^

Light and Shadow

They arrived simultaneously. They stood facing each other, at opposite ends of the clearing. This was where their final duel was to take place.

They looked like complete opposites. He—black hair, dark complexion, green irises. She—blonde, fair skin, blue eyes.

Yet, similar doubts clung to their hearts like splintered twigs...

"There is no other way," he told his subordinates. "We must find a way to defeat her as quickly as possible and take away her power, otherwise she will do it first..."

Suddenly, the secretary entered the room. As usual, he was struck by the extraordinary beauty of their Highest. He had only been working here for a short time, but even those who had been here for years couldn't get used to him.

As usual, he was dressed in black. His green eyes stood out against the background, the only bright spots. His dark diadem with navy blue crystals gleamed ominously, foreshadowing an imminent war. Only these details were the same for each eye, for the rest corresponded to the individual's ideal of beauty.

"Yes?" "said the tallest one, barely concealing his irritation as the silence stretched on too long. "What's the matter?"

The secretary immediately regained his composure.

"A messenger has arrived, sir," he said, "saying he has news concerning the White One.

" "Does he know how to defeat her?" The tallest one immediately perked up.

"No... but who knows how?"

The reception hall was impressive. It was wide enough for three horses to stand one behind the other without their tails touching, and almost four times as long. About three-quarters of the way down the hall, an ornate staircase began. It extended to all four directions and had six steps each. From the last, a red carpet flowed like a waterfall toward the entrance. At the top was a throne. The rest of the hall was awash in white and yellow, as was the girl sitting above the others. Dressed in white, she looked completely out of place against the red-upholstered throne. One might ask what this child was doing there. However, she was much older than she appeared...

The messenger entered slowly. He was dressed in blue—a neutral color. It was permitted to be worn both here, in the lands of the Most High and the Dark One. Messengers had to have certain privileges.

"So?" The Most High said commandingly, "what do you come to me with?"

The messenger took a few more steps, then knelt about ten paces from the head of the stairs.

"Exactly ten paces," the Most High thought. From this precision, it was clear that no one had been sent to her.

"There is a legend," the messenger said, not rising from his knees, "that a certain old witch living in the south had the power to reveal the secrets of a chosen person.

" "I'm not interested in legends." The Most High waved his hand, wanting to dismiss the messenger. Suddenly, he lost interest.

"There's a grain of truth in every legend," the intruder persisted, "especially since I'm being sent by this witch."

The Supreme One raised an eyebrow, as if in disbelief. In truth, however, curiosity and hope for quick success were boiling within him.

"Don't talk nonsense, man," he said, "what could a figure from a legend want from me?"

"He wishes to see you, my lord," the messenger bowed even lower, if possible. "Let the future victor come to me. He will find something he hasn't sought, but has longed for since the beginning of his life."

"But there is no such thing," the Supreme One waved his hand impatiently.

"With all due respect, mighty one, it won't take you long. It's possible this visit will decide the fate of the entire war.

" "But that's complete nonsense," the Supreme One muttered, and then said aloud, "you said where her headquarters is?

" "In the north."

The Supreme One continued to pretend for a while that she considered the whole matter utter nonsense and a waste of time. As soon as she was alone, she immediately transported herself to the place the servant had described.

It lay right between their lands. The Highest One entered the cave hesitantly. She didn't know what to expect.

The entire interior was composed of green crystals, shimmering mysteriously everywhere. A small flame was enough to make the interior as bright as day.

At the end of the corridor, a circular chamber held a multitude of artifacts. In the center stood a cauldron, and next to it stood a witch. How could it be otherwise? She wasn't ugly, but she wasn't beautiful either. She looked like an ordinary, plump woman with, perhaps, brown hair—it was hard to tell in this light.

"Come in, my dear," she said. "I was expecting you.

" "I hear you wanted to tell me something?" The Highest One felt a bit uneasy in this place. As if she were everything she fought for and everything she fought against, so she wanted to leave as quickly as possible.

"Of course. I have it here." The witch slowly approached one of the shelves. The Supreme seemed to wait for ages for the witch to approach and hand her the item. She slowly began to unwrap it.

"A mirror?" The Supreme was clearly irritated. "All this for a useless combination of wood, silver, and glass?"

The witch just smiled to herself. "Not just any ordinary mirror. You just need to ask the right question...

" "The right question?" Almost immediately, the Supreme stared at her reflection.

"What must be destroyed to deprive the Dark One of his power?"

Nothing happened. The Supreme looked at the witch with disgust.

"I hope you know the penalty for lying to me?"

"I didn't lie to you," the witch said impatiently. "I said you had to ask the RIGHT question. Maybe you should find out what he has to do to neutralize you?"

The Supreme One doubtfully returned her gaze to the mirror. She didn't really know what could rob her of her power.

"What does the Dark One have to destroy to strip me of my power?"

Suddenly, the reflection began to transform into another face...

"No," the Supreme One said with horror, "that's impossible! "

The White One's face appeared in the mirror. After a moment, the Supreme One tore his gaze away from the reflection. He wanted to direct all his anger at the witch for showing him such lies, wanted to inflict as much pain on her as possible...

But the witch was already gone.

"And what now?" the Supreme One thought, standing opposite the Dark One. "What to do? Whatever happens, we'll both be lost!"

Suddenly, she saw him smiling. A moment later, she understood. He knew. He knew what had to be done.

The Supreme One was looking across the clearing, where the White One stood. "And what now?" He thought, "The whole world is practically falling apart. I can't kill her because I'll die myself, but we can't live together either..."

A flame suddenly erupted from the spark of that thought. He knew. He smiled at the White One. He saw the surprise on her face. After a moment, however, she knew too.

They slowly began to walk towards each other, as if afraid of frightening each other. They should have known this right away. They couldn't live apart. They were opposites, and opposites didn't exist unless one of them was there. There's no good without evil, and evil without good. If evil disappeared, good would cease to be good. If there were no day, night would cease to be night. There's no day without night.

There's no shadow without light.

There's no light without shadow.

They can't live apart. Because they hate each other... because they love each other.

Soon their religions vanished. They couldn't exist without their gods. In their place, a new one arose. One. Built on the opposites that, after all, make up humanity.

They ruled together, and they would never be alone again.

Light and Shadow...

difficult definition from a book

So it went like this: She comes up to me and says, "My 'I' has one vision and that she wants me and only me." And I say I don't want her. Because she dumped me and sold herself to those guys on TV. She lights a cigarette (it must have been some strong cigarette, because when I told her her makeup was all messed up, she quickly blushed and "ran away" (to put it politely) to the TOILET. I never know why they write "TOILET" in capital letters and not "Toilet" in lowercase. I don't know, and the guy behind the bar didn't know either. So I fell. I guess they picked me up because I saw this whore dancing next to some guy. But I keep telling myself she's a slut, a faggot, and that I'm already fucking her. I knew she'd come soon and that she'd start being "Lissass." And I won't listen to her at all. I'll stay silent. That's how I'll stay silent now. I won't look her in those fucking Jewish eyes. Now I'll find myself a purebred woman.

She: "Listen, can we start again?" She shows me the keys to her apartment and adds: "My parents aren't home..." and I'm already saying: of course, probably not (in my head), that I don't care – to create uncertainty, so that this beautiful fifteen-year-old will be begging on her knees. She's red again. Now I'm lighting a cigarette. She says she wants to dance with me and I say: no. And no, because I won't agree anyway. She stands and prays to the "wall" – to me – it was so fucking amazing I can't tell. I knew she was about to cry and blur. And no one would be able to touch her because she'd have a seizure.

So I had to take her on my lap and whisper in her ear: (of course, first I had a few shots and smoked a joint) you're a stupid little slut who doesn't know what she wants. No... I'm not sorry, I know what you want, for me to bang you all the time. And I didn't care, because I didn't.

She burst into tears and sat down in the middle of the tears she'd shed. I was so proud of myself. I'd never been so fucking proud. I think after a while, her friend came and picked her up from that puddle. Although she looked as cute as a floppy-eared owl without a tail. So, since I wasn't there, it wasn't like that.

"Excuse me, what time does this place open?" I asked the waiter. He politely said he didn't know and had to go because there was a guy waiting for him. He washed his hands and left. I decided to take a walk. Then they picked me up and threw me out of the gay place. It started raining, so I smiled, opened a beer, and boom. My father was standing with the waiter. I was so happily pissed off, I was about to go over and shout, "You dickhead, I'll tell your mother everything!" Or, "Excuse me, ma'am, what time is it?" And slam the door.

Actually, she came up to me and introduced me to her friend and family friend.

He was talking about me. I mentally recited it and threw up on a family friend.

The gay woman drove me home. I guess I didn't wake up early this morning, because it was evening.

I received a few thousand spam messages from a single text message, and endless arguments from my mother about how she and my father worked so hard to make sure I had something to eat. I told her my father had already eaten and that he probably wouldn't want to come home anytime soon.

She said she didn't understand and wanted an explanation for my bratty behavior. And I told her there was nothing to talk about. She said again that there was, and we would, because she was a psychologist with a university degree, not like others with a one- or two-year course. And I said I was very happy she was so smart and that I was going to vocational school to become a butcher. She stretched out her arms, knelt down, picked up her books, and searched for a term to describe me. And I said, "You won't find it here (in these books)," and showed her the November issue of "Young Butcher." I said, "If not a butcher, then a grave digger and a dickhead." My mother cries and says she's going for a walk because she must have gotten some difficult definition from a book.

She comes. It was my father. She comes into my room and asks how I'm feeling. I say I'm fine, but I don't know how he is in a moment, because my mother will be back. She says, "Why did I tell you and I didn't?" I said, "I didn't tell you, I suggested it." My father runs around my room. He starts crying. My mother comes in. I light a cigarette. She looks at her. My father starts apologizing. My mother thinks it's about the anniversary. She says it was a long time ago and that she doesn't remember. My father says, "No, it was yesterday. And I can't cope with it." My mother looks for the date, looks for medication. She looks, finds the truth. She bangs the book on the floor, leaves the apartment, doesn't come back today.

***

My mother burst into the house and starts yelling, "No," and that she doesn't want to be with my father anymore. And I say, "I know," but I'm not sure if he's my father. She starts crying, says she doesn't feel well, and that I should give her a cigarette. So I gave it to her. She lit some crappy incense and started crying. I decided I had to get out of the apartment. It was interestingly cold outside. Some guy was pissing. Some woman was shouting, "Not under my window, you bastard."

I saw Ola (the one from the bar) calling. I answered:

"M., listen to me, give me another chance... Please, let's meet, let's go somewhere together, please, M.."

And I said: "Okay, baby, we can meet."

I'm looking at my windows in the building. My mother throws away the TV with the remote (Father's favorite device). My father is also playing.

Everything is playing

. The TV arrived. The ambulance. The police. Honestly, that's all I had now. It was so fucking awful, I don't know. I think they saved my father. Because that's what I heard on Ola's news (because I don't have a TV anymore). Ola said she was so sorry, that she wanted to help me somehow and everything. I said I didn't want help. Even if my mother goes to prison (but they will talk about her having graduated from university, not like others who studied for one or two years. But they will talk. Aunt Elwira will have epilepsy. Everyone will have epilepsy) and they won't save my father.

I made up with Ola and turned into a melodrama. And then she said I was a loser, and I agreed, and that I was stupid, sweet blue LM.

I got up and called her names for a good few minutes.

I might have even killed her, but no. Because that blood I had was from her nose. I left the room, pissed off. She ran out too, shouting something at some macho, whores, faggots, muscled pigs, sluts, sluts, and b- ... She said they thought I was crazy and I did it "accidentally."

I was happy. Maybe I'll finally have my own apartment. They'll be talking shit at school: he lost his girlfriend, his mother, his psycho, and his father, his gay. It'll be great.

I woke up around eleven twenty-two. I smelled something coming from the kitchen. Had my mother come to terms with her mental illness? I hesitantly asked if everything was okay. She said yes, everything was still as fucked as it had been for the last dozen or so years of her idiotic marriage to a gay, a pedant, and a hysterical man with a prostate. I ate what she put on my plate. It was a bit of a mess, but I was really, really hungry.

I met up with Stonka, a junkie and a dealer in the best stuff in this whole fucking hellhole. I bought another week's supply from him—to cure my hunger. Then he took me out for girls. He took some whore with a Jewish face, I took some dyed-blonde with light skin. The girls were super high. At least I had a good potluck. I told him I wouldn't touch any of them. I wouldn't get into anything they had. Anything they wanted to offer me. I told him I wasn't fucking stupid and I didn't want an HIV-positive friend or some kind of filth on my body. Fuck. The whole day was very refreshing. I drank, smoked weed, beat up a Jew, and fucked a nun. In two words: fucking beautiful. Simply moving.

Speak My Language

I love fairy tales—everything about them is so simple. Sometimes, when I'm feeling good, I feel like I'm in one. Today I was in a completely different fairy tale. For a moment, I thought I was playing the main role, and then they asked when I'd vacate my seat.

Morning brought the song of a crane, building a large concrete nest for hundreds of other people's children. Meanwhile, the green curtains, trying to shield the apartment from the new day, carefully selected the light, letting in only a few rays of sunlight through moth-eaten holes. Lying in bed, I felt my heated body begin to melt and sink into the worn mattress. Fearing for my own existence, I quickly stood up, tripping over an old, out-of-tune violin that, longing to remind me of itself, made a mournful sound. I tried for a moment to regain full consciousness, but my body refused to obey. Hunger, which was increasingly trying to make its presence felt, finally took over and drove me towards the kitchen.

With a headache, I took each step, feeling that each one was making me older and slowly transforming me into a corpse. The faster I tried to reach my destination, the harder it was to cover the next few meters. Losing my balance every now and then, I fell to the ground, ashamed of my incompetence, and tried to hide from the shadows in a crack in the rotten floor. Passing a cross hanging on the wall, which had long since ceased to be a symbol of my faith, I knelt awkwardly, as if in contempt for Christianity. And just as I fell before it every night, this time, in my conversation with God, I cried out to him in prayer that I hadn't forgiven him.

By the time I reached the kitchen, it was already dark. Forcing myself to open the refrigerator, my exhausted body protested, slowly sliding down the wall, and I, trapped within, drifted further and further from reality.

A strange, warm melody coming from my room roused me from my sleep. Lying on the cold, icy floor, I watched as a large, emaciated white rabbit in a large red top hat sat down at the living room table and began talking to someone. His companion was a tall, pale man with a crown of thorns on his head and bleeding wounds on his hands and feet. After a brief discussion, the rabbit removed a dead pigeon from the top hat, clutching two dice in its claws, and then handed it to his opponent.

As I continued walking toward the melody, I felt my energy returning. I grew stronger and, as it were, younger with each step.

When I reached the room, I saw a naked woman playing the violin. It was wonderful to see her once again giving in to her greatest passion. I slowly approached her and embraced her, letting my hands recall the soft, smooth skin that had been taken from them. I closed my eyes, longing to fall asleep beside her. Then the warm melody faded, replaced by a shriek that pierced my mind. I opened my eyes to find my hands no longer caressing the woman they had longed for, but the shriveled corpse of a ghost with a knife embedded in its chest.

Suddenly, a plump peacock, its feathers caked with tar, flew into the room through the open window. It began to brush off the black slime, and when the process was complete, before me stood no longer a bird but a crouched figure in a tattered black cloak. As she rose, I saw her cadaverous face and bony hands, still covered with remnants of rotting flesh. The figure quickly plunged a skeletal finger into the apparition's heart, and the apparition, as if awakened from a long sleep, followed him into the living room.

The terrifying rabbit paused his game and, along with his companion, approached the black figure, allowing it to stab them in the heart. All three, jumping and making awkward movements as if to the rhythm of the most dreadful melody in the world, followed their savior. Terrified by all this, I began to flee.

As I entered the bathroom, I felt my feet sink into the green grass, and fear gave way to composure. Enclosed within four walls, away from the ghostly figures, I became smaller and smaller, and with it my worries. I walked to the bathtub and turned on the taps. Standing on the edge, I stared at the waterfall of clear water. I began to bring the burnt matches scattered throughout the bathroom to the soap dish, and then I lay down in it, wanting to hold my own funeral. When I swam out to the very center of the vast lake, I lit the wood and within moments felt a heat enveloping my body. The smell of burning hair began to compete with the smell of heated fat and escaping protein. And when my body had completely burned away, I emerged and rose to the ceiling. Then, betrayed by the wind, I began to fall, losing myself in the depths of the lake.

When I awoke, a wave of artificial light flooded my eyelids. I lay soaking wet in the bathtub, completely oblivious to what had happened.

On November 4th – exactly 21 years and 11 days ago – I reappeared – the man from 1984. The fact that a year has 365 days and a leap year 366 doesn't give me the right to waste time. Looking at my watch, I realized how little time I had left – 40, maybe 50. It's time to forget the past.

Scraps, puzzles, photos, a written note. Every gesture or sound – everything has meaning. All of it is a thought or a memory. These are images that can only be read in the world that belongs to them.