Boy with a guitar

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The classroom was filled with twelve-year-olds eager for recess. As soon as they heard the bell, they rushed for the exit as if their lives depended on it. Jacek, not too hastily following them, tripped over the outstretched leg of a small blond boy at the front desk. The group of boys gathered around the boy burst into laughter. Damian, the leader of his group, high-fived the prankster. Jacek saw the satisfaction on the faces of his "friends" surrounding him, yet he tried to ignore it. He got up and walked out into the hallway, staring at the floor. He went straight to the restroom. Only there did his red hair ignite with anger. He splashed cold water on his face. Damian found him at the sinks. The entire group entered behind him. Five boys in total. He glanced at them and, trying to sneak past them, weaved his way toward the door.

"Where are you going, redhead?" Damian asked, standing out from the restroom with his physique.

"We're not finished with you yet," someone echoed from behind him.

Jacek didn't even try to respond to these taunts. He knew it wouldn't change anything. Resigned, he tried again. The now familiar feeling of helplessness filled him, causing his face to harden. It was important not to provoke anyone with a look or even a grimace. Someone behind him pushed him. He bumped into the boy in front of him. The boy also pushed him away, and he began to wander between them, tripping over his own feet and those of others. Someone threw a piece of cactus they'd brought from class down his shirt. The boys began patting and rubbing his back, causing him pain. The tiny needles mercilessly pricked his skin. He tried his best to keep his face expressionless. When they grew bored with their game, they left, laughing and patting each other on the back. He was left alone. Only then did the suppressed pain, anger and humiliation find release in the form of tears.

The school Jacek attended was a gray, dilapidated, rectangular building. A playing field was located at the back. During breaks, the playing field and the surrounding lawns were bustling with children. Some played football, others studied, prepared cheat sheets, and smoked cigarettes behind nearby bushes. Just an ordinary day at an ordinary school. The town was like Jacek's school. Gray, nondescript, and further plagued by unemployment. The more enterprising residents left for larger cities. The truly fortunate were the retirees and pensioners. Money flowed into their accounts every month. Not much, but still. Life in the town was sedate. Lazy days blended into weeks, and time was precious. A few policemen maintained peace. Their main occupation was drunks. It was amazing how people could drink together for half a day and then suddenly start jumping at each other. The city had its good and bad spots, but over time, the bad spots spread like a disease. Even for a twelve-year-old, Jacek looked miserable. Thin and pale, with a mane of always tousled red hair and a multitude of freckles on his pale skin. Luckily, his parents worked. His mother was an accountant at a housing cooperative. His father worked at a cement plant. Recently, there had been mass layoffs, during which Damian's father lost his job. Perhaps this was the reason for the dislike for Jacek. But there were more reasons. The boy was a loner. He had no friends anywhere, both in and out of school. Damian had a way of turning everyone against him. The dislike was somewhat mysterious. But perhaps it also stemmed from the fact that Jacek was a born victim. He was weak, couldn't fight, and on top of that, he avoided people. A freak, they called him. The teachers didn't seem to notice that Jacek stood out from the rest of his peers. There was also the PE teacher. A big guy with a ruddy face and hands like shovels. He noticed everyone was avoiding the boy and decided to take advantage of it. Whenever the opportunity arose, he pointed out his mistakes. He made fun of him in front of the class. He figured this would get through to the rest of the class. This situation had been going on for a long time. So long that no one remembered whether it was because he was withdrawn or because he was being bullied. But no one bothered to think about it. For him, childhood was hell. School, a torturous journey. He increasingly retreated into his own world. A world of fantasy. He wandered after classes in secluded spots. The old factory, or rather what remained of it, seemed the perfect place for him. Once, long ago, it had housed a paint mixing plant. All that remained were the rickety walls, battered by wind and rain. Everything around him was overgrown with grass and weeds. Here and there, old, rusty tanks still stood. Once, quite by chance, he met Adam there. The neglected boy was another candidate for a pushover. They exchanged a few words. It seemedthat someone had appeared whom he could befriend. He made him swear not to tell anyone about this place. That he liked being there. Adam swore.

It was a cloudy day. Jacek had skipped school. He spent the entire time at the old factory. It was quiet and peaceful there. Without Damian, without everyone else. No teasing or pushing. Peace and quiet. The wind howled, making the grass sway like a stormy sea. The sky was turning gray by the hour. It was already past the time he should have finished school. Suddenly, a stone struck the tank he was sitting by. He jumped to his feet and looked around. Against the backdrop of the dirty gray sky, he spotted Damian. A moment later, the others appeared. They stood in a line, staring at him in silence. He spotted Adam among them. The sting of disappointment was unpleasant. He looked him straight in the eye. Adam couldn't bear the look and stared at the ground.

"So what, redhead," Damian shouted.

"You're a freak," he heard from the little blond boy.

Jacek stared only at Adam. His gaze was filled with reproach. Then someone threw a stone at him. Immediately after, more stones flew. A hail of stones fell. They struck the rusty metal tank and, bouncing with a metallic sound, fell to the ground like dead birds. He was hit in the knee. Only when he felt a burning sensation did he wake up, as if from a state of lethargy. He covered his head with his arms. He wasn't sure if they were aiming at him or the tank. Another feeling of helplessness came over him. Fear. He felt like a hunted animal. When the boys grew tired of this game, Damian lunged forward with an Indian war cry. The others immediately picked up the new game. They followed him, shouting. When they reached him, someone found a rope, tied it to the tank, and began running around it. The man who had been poked stood motionless, staring straight ahead. Damian spat at him. A few others followed suit. Finally, bored with playing Indian, or perhaps with his inaction, they ran forward with war cries. He was left alone, bound and humiliated.

He sat down on the grass and cried. "I hate you," he screamed in his mind. He tried to untangle himself, but in vain. After a moment, numbness set in. He sat there, absentminded. It was unclear if he was even thinking about anything. Only the cold wind revived him somewhat. It became chilly and unpleasant. Then, unexpectedly, he heard footsteps behind him. A moment later, a screeching voice greeted him.

"What's the matter, boy? Did your friends do this to you?"

The old man limped up to the boy. Looking at his torn and dirty clothes, one could say he was a tramp. His hump caught Jack's attention. The old man was sagging under him as if he carried the sins of the world within him.

"Can you free me?" he asked, a bit surprised and apprehensive.

"And who is it that's imprisoning you, redhead?" – he answered the question with a question and a crooked, silent smile appeared on his face.

When the boy held out his hands, he wanted to show him that he was tied up. When the old man burst out with an unpleasant, grating laugh, he looked down at his hands. There was no rope on them. He stood stunned and surprised. His eyes were as wide as two walnuts. He couldn't understand.

"But…" he broke off, "but I…" He couldn't utter a word. He stared at the stranger in surprise.

"Heh heh," the hunchback squeaked, like an old door whose hinges hadn't been oiled for years, "forget about it, boy."

They stood speechless. The old man stared at his freckled, surprised face. He took a step forward. His forehead creased as if weighing something in his mind. After a moment, his lined face brightened slightly.

"Your friends don't like you, do they?"

He received no answer. Jacek stared at the ground. The hunchback, undeterred by his silence, continued.

"Kids," he paused, as if lost in thought, "can be cruel, can't they?" He nudged him in the shoulder. As if they were old friends.

"Don't worry about it, I have something for you."

He pulled a guitar from behind his back. An old case, a bit dusty, nothing out of the ordinary. Seeing the surprise on the child's face, the old man chuckled.

"He he he he, this isn't an ordinary guitar. When you feel angry, you'll feel bad. Take it and play it. "

"Why?" the boy muttered, drawing a laugh from the old man.

"It's a special instrument."

He extended his hand with the guitar toward the boy so quickly that the boy instinctively stepped back. They stared at each other in silence. Jacek glanced from the old man to the guitar.

"Take it," he hissed, his face twisting angrily.

However, when he realized he had startled the boy, he laughed amiably and added in a different tone.

"Take it, it's yours." He he he

Jacek felt trapped. The strange mood swings of the homeless old man were astonishing him. He reached for his guitar, more out of fear than curiosity.

"Now go home, kid," he squawked again with his laughter, "and remember," he pointed at the guitar, "don't be sorry, he he he." He rubbed his hands together in satisfaction.

With those words, he turned his hump toward him and limped forward. After a few seconds, he disappeared behind the chipped wall. Jacek watched him go, standing there, baffled. The guitar remained in his hand. He looked at the instrument curiously, but didn't notice anything unusual about it. He followed the hunchback's trail, but he was nowhere to be found. "Strange," he thought, then ran home.

The town was lost in sleep. A cool wind chased the last stragglers home. The stars twinkled sleepily high above the rooftops. Jacek lay under the covers. He couldn't sleep. He kept glancing at the opposite corner of the dark room. A sliver of light from a streetlamp fell directly on the strange gift. The guitar gleamed in the semidarkness. He closed his eyes, determined not to look at it again. After fifteen minutes, he knew he'd lost. He still couldn't sleep. He had a strange feeling, as if the guitar were crouching, watching him. He glanced at the corner of the room a few meters away where it stood. When he didn't see it, he jumped in bed. He sat up, looking frantically around the room. It was too dark to see every corner. He felt a sense of unease creep into his mind. He closed his eyes and opened them again. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a faint shape just beside the bed. He almost screamed when he saw the guitar. She stood there, leaning against his feet. He instinctively tugged them together, as if the guitar might bite him. The fear that washed over him made him sweat. He felt his skin crawl and his hands tremble. He glanced at the instrument anxiously. With each passing moment, the guitar seemed more alien, more threatening. On the one hand, the instrument repelled and frightened him, but on the other, it seemed to be inviting, enticing him with its silence, its closeness. "Don't be sorry," the old man's words echoed in his head. "This is an extraordinary guitar," echoed in his mind. He reached out his hand toward it. A trembling, sweaty hand cautiously approached the guitar. The boy stared at it, ready to withdraw his hand at any moment if it moved or something. He didn't know what to expect. His breathing became shallow. His stomach tightened and relaxed in its steely grip. Finally, he touched it. Carefully, he took it in his hands. He placed it on his lap. The hard wood was warm to the touch. "As if she were alive," he thought. As she lay on his lap, he heard something like a sigh. Somewhere deep in his terrified mind, he heard a drawn-out—yeah. As if the guitar couldn't wait for his reaction. Then the fear escaped him like air from a punctured balloon. He closed his eyes. Images began to flash. All the events of the past days, weeks, months flashed before his eyes. Once again, he witnessed his humiliation. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He didn't realize it until he felt their acrid taste on his lips. He was crying, and the guitar was speaking to him. Its whisper snaked like a snake up his spine until it reached his brain. "They hate you," he felt the sound with every nerve in his body. "They abuse you, they hate you." The guitar's whisper was steady, almost hypnotic. The boy saw Damian's face before his eyes. The contemptuous smile he gave him every day. Hatred grew within him. "You did nothing to them," the guitar whispered, "and they hate you." "But you're not helpless anymore, you're not alone anymore," it whispered as the hiss of a snake filled the room. Jack's face hardened. Just like then,when he withdrew into himself during the taunts. He felt the hatred grow stronger. He could taste its astringency. The guitar whispered, "Play... play..." Finally, without wanting to, he strummed a string. He heard the sigh of relief again. As if he had given the guitar immense pleasure. The air in the room swirled. As if he had released some genie, some spirit, something from the instrument. The melody circled near the ceiling, then stopped next to the boy. A strange smell hung in the air. It grew cold. "Whoooo ... Jacek was still sitting on the bed in a strange trance. He held the guitar on his lap and plucked the strings repeatedly.

Damian's sleep was restless and light. Just an hour earlier, the apartment had been filled with his parents' arguments. They argued almost daily. Each day seemed to get worse. More hatred appeared in their words. More venom. He tossed and turned in bed, haunted by nightmares. He dreamed he was in a vast expanse of snow. He was cold. Somewhere in the distance, he saw his parents arguing. He shouted to them, but they couldn't hear him. He felt very cold. He shivered. His parents were moving further and further away. Finally, everything was engulfed by white. The cold sucked the warmth from his body like a vampire sucks human blood. Finally, he opened his eyes. He shivered. Startled, he glanced at the window. It was closed. He noticed steam rising from his mouth. He felt a twinge of anxiety. He knew something was wrong. He felt a presence. He looked around the dark room. He saw nothing. The moonlight streaming in couldn't dispel the darkness. It only deepened it, except for one illuminated spot. There stood a wardrobe. He glanced at it fearfully. After a moment, he heard something like a sigh. He didn't know where it came from. It seemed to him that it came from every corner of the room. His imagination gave him various visions of what might lurk in the wardrobe. He noticed shadows on the floor. Something darker than the darkness filling the room. Shadows crawled across the floor towards him. He huddled against the wall and pulled the covers up to his chin. Fear filled him from head to toe. It gripped his throat, choking his stomach. With every heartbeat, fear pressed through his veins. He glanced at the wardrobe. The door opened with a soft creak. Darkness, a sticky darkness, poured out. Or maybe he was just imagining it. He no longer knew if he was dreaming or awake. He wanted to scream, but his throat was choked with fear. He was afraid that any moment now he would see a corpse crawling out of the wardrobe. And again he heard that mysterious, strange whisper. A whisper filled with hatred. It was coming from his mind. It was everywhere.

Little Damian can't sleep.

He's a grown coward.

No one will help him today.

He'll drop dead, and that's it.

This nightmarish rhyme froze his body and mind. He felt his underwear soaked. He could no longer contain his fear. Shadows were closing in on him. The room was cold. He felt goosebumps crawl over him like a funeral procession. Watching helplessly at the creeping shadows, he wanted to disappear. He thought that if he closed his eyes and opened them again, everything would return to normal. It didn't. He wanted to run, but his legs felt like jelly. He felt someone's gaze on him. Eyes peered at him from the closet. Red, catlike eyes. His heart fluttered like a trapped bird. He saw a black shadow, like a tentacle, creeping under the covers. He tucked his legs under. The covers lifted under his weight. Something was approaching him. It was already right there. Then he jumped to his feet with all his remaining willpower. He wanted to run from the room, but a dark, macabre figure loomed over the door. He ran toward the window. As he approached, the window flew open. His eyes were filled with tears. Tears of fear and helplessness. He turned back to the closet. Something emerged. He didn't wait any longer. With a scream of terror, he jumped out.

A large number of people came to Damian's funeral. Almost the entire school, family, and neighbors. Almost everyone came. The twelve-year-old's death shook the entire town. People whispered and imagined. Some blamed his parents. There were also those who blamed the system. Jacek kept to himself. His tormentors looked at him with hatred. Almost reproachfully, as if they blamed him for what had happened. But he hadn't told anyone about the guitar. No, no one could find out. It was his. "I wouldn't give it up for anything in the world," he swore to himself as people crowded around the coffin.

After the funeral, they caught up with him on the way home and formed a circle.

"You don't look worried, redhead," the little blond boy said.

"Or maybe it was your doing, you freak?

" "Let's kick him," they shouted over each other.

"Hey you," one of the boys said to Adam, who was standing behind him, "come here. "

The boy approached them.

"If you want to be with us, hit him."

Adam couldn't look Jack in the eye. He stood helplessly between him and the rest of the boys. He clenched his fists and spread his legs apart for better balance.

"What are you waiting for, hit him!" they shouted.

"Either you're with us or with that freak."

Adam stepped even closer so the others couldn't hear him.

"I'm sorry, I have to do this," he said apologetically to Jack.

"I hate you," Jacek hissed. He wasn't afraid anymore.

He knew he had a friend at home. He had a guitar. Eventually, Adam would hit him with his clenched fist. He almost cried, but he knew he had to. Jacek didn't retaliate. He stood proud and straight.

"I hate you, you son of a bitch," he turned his face toward the others, "and I hate you, you hear me, I hate you!" he shouted aloud.

Then the others pounced on him. Jacek crouched on the ground and waited for them to finish. He didn't cry, he wasn't afraid. He knew justice would be served. When they left him lying on the ground, he wiped the blood from his broken lip. He stood up and straightened his clothes. He watched them go with a hateful gaze. He wanted to be home. He wanted night to come. He only dreamed of taking his guitar to his lap. Jacek hoped they'd be at their club that night. They had their own club in the drying room. He'd followed them once and noticed them meeting there. When evening came, he reached for his guitar. He thought that whether they were there together, he'd play for them all or for each of them individually. He'd play even if it took all night.