Death of Cactus

Four men slowly lowered the coffin on ropes into the 4-meter-deep pit. The wooden box slid and slowly disappeared beneath the surface. Every so often, one of the men would loosen the rope too much, and the coffin would rub against the walls of earth that formed the pit. Silence reigned, with only the rustle of sliding earth and a faint sob coming from an unknown direction. A crowd had gathered around the pit. It was easy to tell who was who. In the front rows, faces were filled with sadness, suffering, and tears. These were family and loved ones. In the following rows, the men and women dressed in black were less despondent. It was clear that the cold February morning and the discomfort of standing for hours were more difficult for them than maintaining a serious tone. Every now and then, someone would turn to someone else, and whispers could be heard, even finger-pointing. They are acquaintances, the curious, those who have come out of duty, and simply passersby who, on their way to the graves of their loved ones, have stopped to watch. The latter are reliving the deaths of their loved ones. Their wounds are being scratched open.

The grave digger has almost finished filling the grave. People are slowly dispersing. The sobbing is getting louder.

A young man stands in the front row. He looks at the shovel, observing its every move. He is certainly close to the deceased, but he stands apart. Alone. He doesn't cry. He acts like a mental patient, his gaze fixed on a single point, making no movement. There's no trace of any emotion on his face. He's not here.

"What's the English word for coffin..." the young man thinks. "Should I be sad, cry? What will people think? I don't care. Why is that aunt howling so loudly? Hmm. But that shovel is rusty. I wonder if they bury bodies when it rains? Yes. It was raining when they buried Grandma. How many years ago was that? 10, 9? Yes. Ten. Suddenly, the image of Grandma's funeral flashes before his eyes. He was a child then, but he remembers feeling absolutely nothing, just like now. Although then he couldn't bear to watch his mother suffer. And now, absolutely nothing, but his mother is gone.

There's no one at the grave anymore; it's getting dark. On the mound of fresh earth, bouquets, flowers, and wreaths are laid out, candles are burning. The plaque with the inscription: Monika Metz, lived 31 years, died a tragic death, is almost invisible.

The Kowalski household was in turmoil. If you didn't know better, you might have thought it wasn't a wake but a wedding. Laughter erupted, mixed with someone crying for show. The room was bursting at the seams. Aunts with pink-painted firsts and uncles with red noses, eagerly anticipating the arrival of another little one. Every now and then, the words were uttered: "So young," or, on the other hand, "...so talented, she was working on her doctorate..." The queen of the evening was Aunt Teresa, who earned the title of Queen at his aunts' with her delicious stuffed turkey, and at his uncles' with her well-chilled "Ice Cream." No one even noticed that he was out of the house that evening, and no one in sight. His father was with his mother in the hospital, their son Michał was locked in his room, and she was already gone.

Michał could only hear snippets of conversations from beyond the wall. Everything merged into an unpleasant noise. He was sitting in an armchair covered with a blanket. The shovel was gone, but he found a new object to observe – a stuffed elephant – they'd bought it together some time ago, named Shimi. He didn't even try to think about it all. He had only two doubts – why wasn't he still suffering? And what's the English word for coffin? Coffin, a. He waited for the pain. He

closed his eyes. The impressions of the past few days were slowly fading away. Strange images appeared. He saw himself as a little boy. His room from 18 years ago. Small, two small beds, a small table, and two armchairs upholstered in warm plush. At the table, on the ground, sat the elephant – Shimi. It still smelled new. Morning sunlight shone outside, scattered on the needles of a huge cactus standing on the windowsill. He was sitting in an armchair, leafing through the latest issue of "Świat Młodych." Monika came into the room.

"You know what, Michał, my parents don't get home from work until 3 p.m., maybe we can help them and tidy up this cactus ourselves," she said with passion in her voice.

"But what if we fail? And kill him?

" "Don't talk nonsense. What can go wrong with transplanting a stupid cactus?

" "He's not stupid! It's my cactus, I got it from my grandfather, remember?!?

" "But it's just a plant. And anyway, it has to be done. It needs more space, it needs to grow deeper roots," Monika said, making one of those faces that made Michał trust her implicitly at that moment.

"Okay, but let's be careful," he said with sadness in his voice.

To him, it wasn't just a plant, an ordinary cactus. It was his friend, his confidant. People always need someone like that; they have friends, family, but he was alone and only had his plant. His parents worked very hard and never had time. Monika was his friend and authority figure, yes, but she was his older sister, and you shouldn't hang out with people like that; you have to tease and beat them instead.

They began by bringing a large flowerpot from the balcony. Michał didn't hesitate to play a little joke and locked his sister on the balcony for a moment. This allowed him to postpone this tragic moment. After freeing Monika, they prepared the soil and began to remove a meter-high, phallic-shaped cactus from the windowsill. It was very heavy. They cleared some of the soil from the small pot. They put on gloves and began the move. The narrow thorns pierced the gloves, but Michał didn't mind. He had stroked and cared for those thorns so many times. They had cut his hands countless times because of it. This time, it looked like the same thing was happening. One of the thorns was particularly bothering him, digging under his fingernail. "No, I have to endure this," he thought. He gritted his teeth and continued working. Monika, who wasn't as attached to the plant, felt the sting more intensely. At one point, she couldn't bear it any longer and let go of the plant. Michał tried to hold it tightly in his small, seven-year-old hands. But Cactus was almost his height, and his weight was too much for him. Michał hugged Cactus tighter and pressed him closer. However, he couldn't bear the pressure of his weight and fell with him to the ground. Cactus, falling, injured the boy's face, arms, and stomach. He slipped to the side, fell to the ground, and broke his bones. Michał didn't know what had happened. His whole body burned terribly, and worse still, his Cactus was dead...

He opened his eyes; it was already dark. Not even the slightest rustle came from beyond the wall. He began to ponder this story. And the reason why he remembered it now. Yes, this was the beginning of them. Him and Monika. He remembers how terribly he cried over Cactus. He also remembers the days that followed. He remembers how much he suffered, the feeling of emptiness, and the unpleasant vibrations in his stomach. He wanted to tell everyone, but he couldn't; he had no one. After a few weeks, he suffered even more, had more and more to share, and he couldn't. Then he broke down and started talking to Monika. He talked just like he did to Kaktus. Day by day, he felt better, forgot about the loss, having gained a new friend. And what's even better, this new friend was able to offer advice, answer questions, and sometimes confide in him about his problems. Michał changed day by day, became happier. He noticed beauty that hadn't affected him before. He enjoyed the morning rays of sunshine, gentle raindrops, and warm breezes. From a depressed child afraid of everything, he became a cheerful and joyful boy.

And that was until recently. But now... Once again, he has no one to tell all this to. Just a few days ago, he was telling his sister about his failed exam. And now, who should he tell about Monika's death? She's gone, Kaktus is gone. What should he do next? And why isn't he suffering? And what's the coffin in English?

He closed his eyes. And felt pain. He felt a dagger piercing his heart. The salty taste of blood filled his mouth. His heart stopped beating. Shivers ran through his body. The events of the past few days swirled in his head. He felt a pang of air. He saw flashes, first single, short bursts, then longer ones, turning into a blinding, continuous light. The last thought that managed to dominate his mind was: Monika, why didn't you catch that damn Cactus back then?!