Under the dome of seconds

The first sixteen seconds

. Her world. Her own nightmare. Her unfulfilled dreams. For six months, she had been nothing but a memory of her former self. The world... she simply hated it. And there was no going back. She plunged into a darkness she'd seen only once in her life, one that had completely consumed her. She used to write poetry, smile, be optimistic, listen to the latest hits, wear short skirts and let her hair down. She used to belong to this world and accept all its rules, all its regulations, even the senseless ones. Now she listened to the beating of her own heart. She lay there, staring at the ceiling. She thought about God. She didn't blame him for giving her this life. She wondered why he gave people free will, why they couldn't simply be good. It would be easier. Better. Simpler. Boring.

The next eight seconds .

Madness slowly grew inside her. She couldn't live here any longer. Lying on this bed. She couldn't. She wouldn't accept this world. She hated it. It had only evil to offer. And she didn't want it. No. She loved no one, had no friends, no one would notice her disappearance. The confusion in her head grew. It grew bigger and bigger. She was increasingly convinced that leaving the stage was the right thing to do.

From 10 p.m. to 38 p.m.

The clatter of breaking food went on. Her stepfather must have been drunk again. He didn't do it often, but when he did, the whole neighborhood could hear it. He's probably throwing bottles at her mother now. It's not good. She can hear their screams. She once told her mother not to bother with him for her. That she didn't want her father. Her mother only hugged her. She hadn't smiled once since her father died. The same expression of sadness and helplessness appeared on her face every day. Gray days when she washed dishes in a dirty apron, her hair tied up haphazardly. The furniture is almost falling apart, but she keeps washing and tidying it up, dusting it, and telling her daughter it's still good. Every now and then, a mousetrap. Sometimes even a full one. Life for such a trap is easy. Boring. But simple at the same time. The screams from downstairs slowly grew louder.

Another forty-three seconds.

She stood up. But too abruptly, her head swam, and her vision went black. She loved this moment when she didn't really know where she was, everything was behind a veil of blackness, everything spinning and yet remaining in its place. Everything was relative. She was standing on an old rug. In the middle of the room. The only room where the furniture still held together. The camera panned over her, as cleverly as if she were standing there while everything around her was spinning. Yes... she had seen it before. She, a poor girl from the third world. She, an outcast of this society. She could already see the lens moving closer to her face, closer and closer, until it was finally right next to her eye, even closer... now on the television screen, they would see her iris and pupil up close, now only her pupil. The screams grew louder. Another bottle landed on the wall. Or maybe it was the vase she'd given her mother when she was only ten?

Twenty-eight seconds.

The woman dodged the next object piercing the air. It worked this time too. She'd met the man, whom she now saw more as a slobbering, rabid animal than a human being, by accident. He'd helped her pick up her groceries when the bag burst. It was probably one of life's mistakes. She was crying. She didn't even know why. Maybe it was all too much? Her younger daughter had died of an overdose. Another victim of an unfair fight. But thanks to this, she had a better chance of the living one doing better. Less money for food, which they didn't have much of anyway. Of course, she cried for her daughter. Her treasure. But she couldn't bring her back. Another object. A crack, and the vase was gone. But this man was screaming. She'd had enough of him. She reached back; there was something lying there. Was it hard? Yes. It was hard enough. She threw it. Surprisingly, it hit her head. Eighty kilograms of raw weight fell to the ground with a thud. He fainted. Good, at least he wouldn't scream, wouldn't hit, wouldn't hurt her. But what now? Would he wake up, and what? She probably shouldn't have thrown it.

Another fifteen seconds.

She quickly and frantically threw everything she could into the suitcase. Her hands grabbed every item in the drawer. Pants, a blouse (brought by help from the church), socks, underwear, another pair of pants. Black, black, black, black. Her long, straight hair was just getting in the way now. She hadn't tied it since morning. She grabbed a scrunchie. A veritable battle between reason and the urge to escape raged in her room. She'd had enough. She was breathing fast, very fast. Her heart was pounding so hard that her blouse trembled slightly.

She opened the drawer and pulled out beads, rings, money as quickly as she could. She had to get out of here. This man would kill her someday, and she wouldn't be able to defend her daughter anymore. The only sound heard throughout the house was the noise of drawers being opened one by one.

Fourteen seconds.

He slowly opened his eyes. How could she? What was going through her head? And what was she doing? She said she had no money left, what the hell was that? He slowly rose. He was about to strangle her, or stab her. He was coming closer, closer, a little closer still. He could almost feel her warmth, her scent. She was like an animal, a rabid animal.

Something fell out of another blouse being tossed into the bag. A razor blade? Why is she here? She put it in her sweatshirt pocket. It seemed to be wrapped in some tissue paper.

Sixteen seconds

. He was punching her in the face. His hands were already wet with sweat, her tears, and probably blood. He hated her. She had lied to him, said she had no money left, and here she was. Something had run into the room. Oh no, that little brat. He could handle her too.

She stood with her suitcase, looking at the unpleasant sight. A broken frame with her brother's photo, full of glass. A man punching her mother. And this victim of fate just cries. Maybe she'll defend herself after all? Now she can't leave her mother alone with this monster. Not after what she's seen. He was closing in on her. She grabbed the remains of a chair; maybe she'll at least defend herself a little. He was closer, closer, and closer. Just a few more steps. Two, one, he's about to strike. Seconds. The man fell to the ground a second time.

Forty-one seconds

. They ran out of the house. He wasn't hit hard enough to keep them from getting up. They had to escape among the people. They simply had to. They could feel at least a little safe there. A detailed description could be included here. The girl's inner experiences. But it all ends with the fact that she was hit by a car, and to prevent rescue, she slit her wrists with a razor blade she'd hidden in her pocket. This is the last 39 seconds.