I like going back there

I'm sitting alone again, cold, hungry... In a place I can't even recognize. A vision of utter chaos and disarray stretches before my eyes. I hear the sound of car engines and a conversation. I can't feel my own body, I don't know how to lift an eyelid. Am I still alive?

This time I wake up in a place so familiar to me. The same scratched walls, the penetrating cold, and a terrible mess.

"You overdid it yesterday. I had to drag you home again.

Home..." This man doesn't know the meaning of the word. "Home." More like a pile of manure, to a place where the human mind and soul decay piece by piece, rotting, stinking, crying out: "This is us, the generation of Masłowska, cheap wine and cigarettes. This is us! Destroyed, crushed, trampled under the asphalt." I can't look myself in the eye. I feel dirty. Raped. I am the waste of humanity, my psyche violated. A raped relic of American bullshit, gracefully named McDonald's. McGówno. McBinLaden in the form of a bun, meat with spongy brain degeneration, a living periodic table. I am nobody. In fact, I don't exist at all... I don't exist for people, the shopkeeper around the corner, the gentleman in a tie at the nearest bank, or my own mother. I am, I am only on paper. Born here and there, baptized, graduated from school, only a death certificate missing to make me another Pole who lived somewhere out there, because the paperwork remains.

I would like to die so there would be no more doubt whether I am or am not. Meanwhile, I live, even though they hate me. I live, alone, but still me. And even though no one understands me, I breathe quickly like this. I'm not afraid; I think I prefer to continue feeling it all more intensely. I've become accustomed to pain, to daily fear, to helplessness, and I think I've even come to like this feeling. I'll live, even though they say things are bad... That's how hard it is.

"Get up! Get a move on! How much did you drink last night? What do you no longer remember? Has the alcohol drained your memory? You're not going to drink for my money anymore, get out of here, do something with yourself... What do you look like?

Well, well, well... Will my "beloved" finally deign to look at me? I don't know what I look like. I'm afraid of myself. I'm afraid I'll look like my mother. Ugly, tired, battered. I was only eight years old, and I remember every little detail. Every moment, every second. Every hated evening when my father would come home drunk and beat my mother. She suffered so much, screaming, hoping for help. It didn't come, and her strength diminished day by day. Only now am I beginning to understand that she's become accustomed to having no life. No home, no family. She only had me, but I couldn't understand it all. It seemed to me that this was how it should be. That this was the way the world was. I didn't know the word love.

That night, when my mother lay still, her face pale and her eyes dead, I ran away. I left the house with nothing, because I actually had nothing. I wanted to experience the real world. I wanted to prove to myself, and above all to my father, that I could be someone. Unfortunately, I became exactly like him. I am a carbon copy of him. I'm slowly starting to realize that this was meant to be, that I had no other choice. I didn't know what joy, a smile, happiness, or family were...

The moon shines high in the sky. Many beautiful stars sparkle all around. Unfortunately, not for me, I didn't deserve them. My eyes fill with bitter tears. The image blurs into one. I don't know what I'm looking for. I want to die here and now. Suddenly, all I see are two bright lights. I can't make out any shapes. I'm heading that way. A squeal, a scream... A... sound.

"Ma'am, can you hear me?" Ma'am, please try to open your eyes.

I don't want to open them. Subconsciously, I feel strangely good. I think I'm clean, lying in bed? Yes, I touch the fresh sheets. Where am I? "

You had an accident. You were hit by a car. You're in the hospital, everything will be fine. You only have a minor injury. Please sleep, sleep will do you good.

Yes... yes, I just want to sleep. I feel so good. Everything around me is so beautiful. This can't be true. I fall asleep...

Fresh, light air flows into the room, the likes of which I've never experienced before. Snow is falling outside. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve... I've never had a real Christmas. All I remember is a large branch sticking out in the hallway, supposedly symbolizing a Christmas tree. I pull the covers tighter, feeling so good. I haven't felt this good in a long time.

"Good morning! How are you feeling?" I hear the doctor's pleasant voice.

"Good morning, good morning! I've never felt better.

" "I'm so happy. I think you'll be able to go home today.

I don't have a home, I don't want to go back, I have nowhere to go." My eyes grew sad and my heart heavy, as I so desperately didn't want to return to my daily routine.

"Mrs. Małgosia, I think we should talk...

I can't remember the last time someone called me by name. Is it possible that I suddenly gained value to this woman? Is it possible that I'm suddenly becoming a person like everyone else?

"I'll be waiting for you in two hours. Be ready!" the doctor called as she left.

I haven't had clean clothes in so long. I feel like I simply smell. I'm sitting in a warm, comfortable car, driving somewhere with Marysia, because that's the name of the doctor who showed me so much love. The car stops in front of a beautiful house. Red lights glow on the snow-covered spruces. Everything is quiet and peaceful.

"We've arrived," Marysia announced.

As I entered the house, I smelled fresh bread. Beautiful music was playing in the corner. I was terrified. I was afraid I wasn't really alive. That I was in heaven. But I couldn't even dream of heaven; I didn't deserve it.

From the kitchen, I heard a child's joyful voice: "Mommy's back." A moment later, a tiny tot, with two blond pigtails on his fair head, was hanging around Marysia's neck.

"Ania, this is Aunt Małgosia. She'll be spending Christmas with us this year. Now wash your hands and sit down at the table. Grandma has already made dinner."

Marysia showed me a seat at the table. I'd never seen such a fresh, white tablecloth. In the center stood a vase with green sprigs of spruce. Marysia served me hot broth and roasted chicken.

"Why all this? I didn't deserve...

" "Małgosia, everyone deserves a second chance. Everyone deserves to be shown that the world can be beautiful." – Marysia, saying these words, stroked my head.

The whole family gathered in prayer. Beautiful aromas wafted from the table, and Christmas carols played in the silence. Everyone laughed and talked. They addressed each other with a tenderness I had never known before. This is home... It's a place I'd love to return to.