Conversation

If I could say anything about this place, I'd say it's... white. White walls, white ceiling, white floor. White doors, windows, tables, chairs, lights. White... people? Everyone in white coats, doctors and patients. How is it still here? Let's think...

Out loud. In some rooms, there are people who can laugh and cry at the same time; there are those who think they're someone else; there are people they no longer believe exist. And everyone wails, talks to themselves, sobs, screams, laughs! But is that bad...? And what is bad...? What a trivial question, isn't it? Is...

Stop.

We'll come back to this later; first, I want my situation to become yours. Become me, put yourself in my shoes. For that, you need a few more details...

It's soft here.

White walls, white doors, white tables, white chairs, white floors—all upholstered in soft down. You can get comfortable in any position...

This is for me; everything. They take better care of me than my own mother... Strange. For what I've done? What have I done—what have you done? Remember, you are me now. Be someone else, be subjective—but not from your own point of view.

I'd like to introduce myself to you first. My name is Michael. It's a strange name for a human being—though perhaps apt. In Hebrew, it means "who is like God?"—so it's a question, just as I am a question. I am an enigma to those who brought me here, and in a sense, an enigma to myself. I also mean... surprise? Admiration? Who is like God? Am I God...? Everyone is a god unto themselves—only they exist, and everything else is their creation—such is the world for the individual, how they perceive it. It depends precisely on that individual. Get to know me, then—I am God. God Himself.

But perhaps let's start with things more easily digestible. Hold out your hand, but don't look at it, but at what I'm writing to you next. Don't concentrate on it, simply keep it within your sight. On your hand, visualize the lifeline—short, intersecting with other lines—including the long scar that runs along your index finger all the way to your wrist. Its story is, in a sense, my story, and you'll soon learn it. But—I repeat—first, become me.

Am I tall...? Probably not. You'd call me average height. Lean forward a bit to see the world from my perspective. Squint so everything seems blurry and indistinct—that's how I see it. Now touch your face. Feel your smooth cheeks, your heavily rubbed chin; move your hand to your forehead. Do you feel the slightly arched eyebrows? Now lower—your sharp nose and your eye sockets, surely darkened by lack of sleep.

Touch your ear. Feel the earlobe and the hair falling over it. The hair... I'd say—short, cut very short at the back of your head by the staff here. Can you feel its color...? Dark, but not pitch-black. See it. See it with my brown eyes. See the slim torso, see the legs. That's you.

I was born, and you with me, in the month of June, if that has any real significance. Childhood is certainly important. My mother, Edyta, a short, auburn-haired person, as naive as I once was, gave birth to me in a small town. More precisely—not in a hospital, not in any clinic, but in a tenement house in the city center. In an apartment so dear to me... Among old, low, and creaking furniture; amidst the perpetual haze of cigarette smoke; in rooms with long, brown curtains that let in almost no sunlight. Where the golden walls were covered with dirt that could no longer be washed away.

Such was my apartment; At least for a while. I got used to him and didn't like going out—even though my drunk father, Adam, was always in his room. He was strong, tall, dark, with sparse hair and a thick mustache. He was always unshaven, pacing back and forth in a stained T-shirt; guzzling beer or, when his friends came over, vodka. He beat and abused my mother; then he left her to her own devices, covered in blood.

But I loved him. Unlike my mother. He didn't do anything to me—I was safe. What's more, sometimes, in moments of absolute sobriety, he'd take me to the cinema or buy me sweets. It was worse when I tried to defend my mother during his attacks—then I could get hit, so I stayed away from her. I learned how to take care of myself and how to avoid being threatened. I managed on my own, but gradually I began to despise my mother. Well... if she was stupid enough to let herself be pushed around, she didn't deserve better treatment. All she had to do was make a small move—and leave. Go to the police, or wherever—and never come back... Do something!

But let's leave the distant past behind and move further into the future. When I was nine, something happened that led to me being here and talking about it. It was perhaps terrible, but in a way expected and inevitable. I murdered my own mother...

But let's put it all in order. For several years, my father had been playing cards with his friends once a week. For money, of course—so he'd occasionally gambled away a television or some furniture... There was also a poker game that evening. The cards were on the table, as usual. There was still quite a while before the guests arrived, so my father was dozing on the sofa. I was incredibly bored, as there was no television anymore, so I decided to build a house of cards—something I rarely did, since the deck was Dad's "lucky" one, and he wouldn't let anyone touch it. But I was stubborn...

As I was arranging the enormous palace, I didn't even notice when evening arrived. My mother had returned from work and was tidying up the kitchen, and Adam was still asleep. Suddenly, there was a rather loud knock on the door, waking him up. The guests had arrived. Nervous, I hurriedly folded the cards and placed them where they were. I didn't notice that—a fateful event—I had dropped one of them on a chair. I fled as soon as my half-conscious father approached and plopped down heavily on that very antique seat. As I ran, I wrapped up the end of the rug. I almost tripped, but in my terror, I wasn't even aware of it... His friends came in, sat down, and the fun began.

My little struczek was doing quite well then—he was as happy as ever at winning the pot. At one point, he got up to go to the bathroom. One of the players noticed a card lying on the chair, and Adam was immediately accused of cheating. He denied it, but what could you do against five drunk men? They beat him severely and took his money.

Then he went berserk.

He ran around the apartment, destroying everything in sight. He threw furniture down, ripped down curtains. My mother, instead of running away, crouched in the corner and... waited. I waited too. I stayed, curious to see what would happen. I watched the clash of rage and stupidity.

Finally, Adam turned to his wife. He started punching her and throwing her from wall to wall. My mother started backing toward the door. She was walking quite quickly backward, I remember it clearly, fearing another blow. Crying, she reached the edge of the carpet I had wrapped around her. She tripped and fell, cracking her head on the edge of the table.

But she was still alive. My father was conscious enough to call 911. The doctors came and took my mother to the hospital. Of course, my father explained that she had fallen accidentally... It's strange how quickly a person sobers up in certain situations. As for my family: Edyta died after three days. Adam left me after a week, and then I ended up in an orphanage.

This is how the first stage of my life ends. Think of it whatever you want. I know one thing – I learned a lot then. I went through a lot… Theoretically, from that moment on, I was a murderer… It's quite a strange feeling for a child to live with the knowledge that you killed your own mother, even if you didn't love her. To remember that image all your life – the bloody head of an elderly woman lying in a strange position… And the visit to the hospital, where the stench of medications was almost overwhelming… I'll never forget that smell, so intense. And what did I do next?

I certainly didn't break down. Why? But I also didn't feel superior – I didn't have any thoughts that just because I'd killed and there were no consequences, I could do something more… Only a fool would do that – and I'm not foolish; I'm perfectly aware that human beings are weak. People who think they can achieve anything on their own are pathetic. Alone, you can only survive.

I survived. And I wanted to achieve something; to break free from the stinking, dirty environment, saturated with stupidity as much as violence. My mother couldn't do that – and she died. I didn't want to share her fate.

I was placed in an orphanage – an ordinary house, albeit large, but filled to the brim with children. The austerely furnished rooms still looked better than my previous apartment. There were also two caregivers – Mrs. Magda, who devoted herself to others, and her husband.

My caregiver was an interesting person. She taught us that we should always help others, just as she helped us. Why did she do this…? Because of the large sums of money the city authorities are pouring into an orphanage? Out of the goodness of their hearts...?

And is there such a thing as the goodness of their hearts? That's when I started thinking about it. I wondered why I ended up here, and why others didn't. Hundreds of kids play in the streets, running around carefree, and not worrying about anything. They only think about their own pleasures. Selfish. So I came to the conclusion that either fate depends solely on a person's psyche—on how they perceive the world around them and how they shape it to their own liking—or a higher being controls everything, giving some happiness and taking everything away from others. According to Magda—a perfect and merciful being.

God.

Let's pause for a moment on religion—millions of people believe they are guided by something, and they are happy because of it. If someone tries to convince them that their fate is in their own hands, they get indignant and reject them. They blindly believe in something they can't prove exists, but if they see a sign saying "freshly painted," they have to check it with their finger.

I've always thought people were stupid. They're the most mindless creatures in the world. They need a "god"... They don't believe in their own strength, and if they combined, they could achieve something—escape the hopelessness of everyday life, break free once and for all. People are naturally wired for slavery, since they can't even live without the awareness of being monitored. At twelve, I knew I had to escape, as far away as possible. Escape from these... these self-absorbed, stupid people! I felt superior. Just look at the people around you. You walk down the street—and what do you think of the youth? Those who are well off just want to have fun, celebrate; they want to waste their short lives on entertainment. And they should serve. Meanwhile, the poor—scrubbish scavengers scrounging through garbage cans in search of food—will do nothing but feel sorry for themselves. They blame the entire world for their fate, yet do nothing to lift themselves up. They'd like to suddenly become rich—but what would they do then? They, too, should serve. Serve better goals—someone who wants to achieve them.

I came to the conclusion that I wanted to dedicate myself to something better; better than this stinking crowd. To find some... higher purpose. The highest. Then I had to accept my second assumption: you are your own god and you will achieve whatever you want. You just have to know how—and not be alone. And who can help?

I had one... friend at the orphanage. If I can call him that now. He was the only person who didn't bother me—quiet, calm, didn't try to force himself to fit in; if anyone wanted to be with him, they had to fit in. We understood each other perfectly. He was a year older than me, and his name was "Daniel." Funny... Like an animal. However, he turned out to be more intelligent than most people. I presented my idea to him—he approved.

I convinced Daniel to exploit the stupidity of others. Yes—exploit, because, as I keep saying, that's what humans are made for. To serve the purpose of someone who deserves it! Think about it—I knew I was better. I think, I'm self-aware. I wanted to improve the world. Humanity deserved something other than mindless mush in the heads of "important" people, making decisions for everyone—whether about war or taxes. Incidentally, taxes and wars are the most cunning invention in history. Worthy of someone... better. Thinking. Worthy of a Human. This person learned to use people, learned to take what they gave him. Learned to live. He was born to rule, and such a person should rule. First, he ordered someone to build an apartment—while he only watched, or perhaps didn't even bother to do so—and then each paid himself to stay in it. Then he sent hordes of meat to destroy his enemy—the like-minded human...

As I mentioned, I had a plan that I wanted to carry out with Daniel. And I did it – I started a religious circle. The teacher liked the idea so much that, at my request, she decided to make the meetings mandatory. We contributed to our parish at these meetings, and then I took the money to the priest. Of course, not all of it went to him; I left about a third, sometimes more, and hid it. No one suspected a thing. Fools; they wouldn't know I was stealing from them even if I took the money out of their pockets.

I knew there was a problem. The circle had its opponents – two tall boys who didn't like attending the weekly sessions. I must admit, they had some sense, despite their appearance. I dealt with them too – first I drove them crazy with endless prayers, then I started reporting them for skipping classes – even though they didn't. They believed everything I said. By then, I was already beginning to get a feel for power... Their case ended this way: remembering that every inmate of the facility is insured, I angered two of my "friends" so much that they beat me. I unleashed the animal in them, something that's absent in a true, thinking person. I also arranged everything so that Magda could see the incident—as a result, they both ended up in juvenile detention, and I received a hefty sum for a broken jaw. Daniel himself put a lot into this plan... Truth be told, he came up with the idea himself.

What did I do? What do I pride myself on now? Dedication. It was dedication. A trait most people lack. Anyone else would have chosen one of two options: either try to beat up the big guys, either alone or with help, and when that failed, take the beating obediently, or he wouldn't have opposed his opponents from the start. Blindness...

After a year of collecting "donations," I had enough for everything I wanted at the time.

Two years later, when the center received generous funding, I was already quite wealthy.

When I reached adulthood and was given free rein over my life, I had the money to start out in the wider world. A world I was meant to conquer. Unfortunately, my relationship with Daniel cooled somewhat... He demanded a larger share of the money, when we had agreed on an equal share. Greed caught up with him too... How cruelly wrong I was in my assessment. My friend turned out to be part of the gray, street-level pulp. I was certain I would never trust anyone again—and after all, every dictator had loyal advisors. I remained alone...

For a while.

Until I started university. I moved into a small dormitory where I could study philosophy. However, my paths with the orphanage didn't completely diverge... Daniel, even though we knew each other well and even visited, started threatening me. He knew how much money I had on me—after all, it was the same amount as his. Except he wanted half my share. He sent some shady characters after me... To his dismay, I managed to escape. I admit, Daniel didn't disappoint me. He did what I could; he acted like a predator. I'd misjudged him before; he was more cunning than me. He was a worthy opponent; so smart that even I considered him a friend. But I had no desire to fight...

And then, halfway through the semester, I met her. Her name was Julia, a short brunette with blue eyes and a beautiful face. More importantly, she wanted to get to know me. Did I want that...? I don't know. At first, I thought she was just another painted-on idiot, like so many others... That she was stupid.

Stupid people are an epidemic these days. Everywhere you look, there's a girl with an IQ lower than the guy licking her. And I can't say anything good about him either. We're flooded with crap. Trash. Idiocy. Where does it come from? Certainly not from my country—no one here is smart enough to come up with anything original... But... Everything's clear.

The West. It's all because of the West... I'm not surprised. They employ a brilliant policy there—advertising everything—even the biggest crap—on such a scale that people lose their self-esteem. A few profit at the expense of the masses, which, by the way, always aroused my admiration.

During our meetings with Julia... We talked. We had long discussions about literally everything. I almost never agreed with her, but the mere opportunity to openly express my views, which I preferred to keep private for now, gave me pleasure. And it would probably continue...

Fate had played a trick on me again—just like with that fateful poker night and my friendship with Daniel... The TV in my room was on; they were showing some Negro comedy. I mentioned that I didn't like Black people, and she—of course, a perfect princess with a heart as pure as a tear, I might add—became outraged. Can you explain to me why anyone you tell about their own prejudices immediately develops one against you? I explained: Black people are always complaining. They're like poor people—they have a hard time, but they do absolutely nothing about it. And now, with racial equality and all that nonsense, it's even worse. They insult us—white people—people who were centuries ahead of them technologically, who gave them the opportunity to develop, who showed them the wide world. If it weren't for white people, Black people would probably still be stuck in their Africa, shitting in bamboo tubes and running from tigers. True, we may have treated them badly, but they should be grateful they're alive at all. Usually, the stronger species exterminates the weaker; in this case, it was different. Not only did we let them live, introduced them to our culture—allowed them to benefit from it—but we also treated them as equals. And they...? Let me put it this way: watch any Negro comedy, for example, the one that was playing that evening I spent with Julia. What are the jokes based on? Only and exclusively on mocking white people—and that's fine. But when a white person tells a joke about a black person, the crowds get outraged, and it almost comes to a lynching. Black people are saints. Black people are untouchable. I would forgive them if they had achieved their own position—but no. It was the white people who turned Europe and America into the Negro kingdom. We should have dealt with the Indians...

I explained this to her. I explained everything calmly and slowly, but she still refused to hear such theories. She didn't even try to understand, she just rejected me at one point... She asked if I hated Jews too. I didn't answer.

Although, to be honest, I don't hold any animosity towards Jews. Why? Because they worked hard for what they achieved... Hitler slaughtered millions of them—so what? He amassed an army, so he had the right to do so... The right of the strongest. He waged a legally declared war. He played fair. And now? Now he's remembered as a monster. Is a man who can exploit the weakness of inferior people a monster...? No. He's hated only out of envy. Everyone has a dream—the dream of being Hitler. He wants to be so powerful that he can decide the lives of millions. He wants to be a little God. But then... It's "sick." It always has been, but it ceases to be as soon as the person who believes so becomes Hitler himself. In the psyche of the individual, power is fine. In the psyche of the crowd—not so much. The masses are sacred, and individuals are "dissenters."

Even though there is supposedly a God with unlimited power.

Even though everyone is their own god.

Julia left, sobbing and slamming the door. And this happened a few days before I was admitted to... the hospital.

Before they put me here, the psychiatrist declared in court that I was incapable of distinguishing right from wrong. That I was mentally ill. As if he knew me better than I knew myself. Thanks to him, I avoided prison, but my file now says I'm particularly dangerous and shouldn't be left unsupervised... What I did was cruel, but... Was it right? You can judge, alone... So find out what happened. Learn the events that led me first to court and then to the mental hospital. Judge it from my perspective, if you can... All

I learned from Julia was that she didn't want to see me. I didn't even try to convince her; her tone said it all. She slammed the door on me and hid inside the small apartment. I left—what could I do? On the way home, however, I encountered a "friend" eager to get his hands on my wealth... Daniel was accompanied by two tall guys whose scars on their faces indicated they had experience in "collecting debts." I recognized them quickly. They were the boys I'd rounded up at the reformatory. Daniel had to find them and give them a chance to settle the score... Just think – the man who sent them to jail in the first place was giving them a chance to settle the score with... his enemy! Genius, I must admit. He had me, and I couldn't do a thing. If I wanted to give a detailed description, I'd start recounting the details – how they caught me in the stairwell, beat me up, and dragged me back to the apartment, where they beat me again... I'll spare you that.

When they took all my money and left, I started thinking. I realized the situation I was in. I'd made a bad choice – and more than one. The girl – the only one I cared about – was somewhere… I don't know where. She'd left; I checked by phone. Perhaps she had abandoned her studies and returned home...? Had I influenced her that much? One thing was clear: I would never see her again. As you can see, I had been cruelly mocked – the man I considered a friend for three solid years turned out to be deceitful and treacherous. He had defeated me with my own weapons.

I had to take revenge. I had to prove to myself that I still mattered.

And what cruel thing had I done...?

I killed.

Now you have the opportunity to learn something not about me, but about yourself. You have probably already judged my life, and so have I. You have your own opinion of me – I hope you managed to put yourself in my shoes. Would you have acted differently? Made different decisions...?

Here's a chance to find out. You know all the important events in my life; I'm an open book to you. So I'm telling you, I killed. Who do you think? You know which people contributed to my... downfall. You know who failed me when I needed him. Maybe I went berserk and decided to pay back my good friends from the orphanage...? Or maybe Julia learned what it means to abandon God? Had Daniel experienced firsthand the consequences of betraying friends? Or was there someone else—and there were several. What do you think?

A pair of thugs. I took a knife; I searched for them for days, wandering the city and questioning everyone... Paying everyone who asked with money I stole from a store. Back then, the means didn't matter; only the end that justified them mattered. When I finally reached the filthy apartment in one of the tenement buildings, I knocked gently on the door, and when it opened, I stabbed the thug square in the stomach. He slumped and fell, clearing my way inside—into the heart of a wild, drug-fueled orgy. There I finished the job, calmly awaiting the police's arrival; I was too exhausted to flee—and besides, I'd left plenty of clues all around, and I'd gotten here by questioning—so everyone in the area knew who had committed this... massacre. I was brought before a panel of medical examiners of human minds, and then before the one who has the authority to judge human morality. Exactly...

...it could have been. Or was it?

Or maybe I'd caught Julia? What could be simpler than bribery... Pay the janitor at the university to open the door to the personnel file cabinet... Find the address, get there, and vent the anger that had been building up in me since that fateful evening conversation. Choke... Slowly, with feeling, savor the life draining from the victim. Watch the helpless struggle of a fragile, female body. Finally, to gently kiss the corpse that once housed an idolized soul... And, enacting my grand finale, to call the police—so they could find me by the body, holding my beloved in my arms... In the throes of romantic ecstasy.

Does it sound plausible? More plausible than my decision to punish the perpetrator of this whole mess—Daniel? With him, it was so easy—after all, I knew where to find him. Yes, I knew his address! A short bus ride, sneaking into the house while he was gone, and then—the waiting. The long, endless waiting. Darkness. Night had fallen an hour ago. The sound of a key turning in the door. The creak of an unoiled, massive wooden gate... A quick leap, stunning the victim. And then... I stood over him, tied to a chair. I couldn't let him go too easily. He'd messed with me; he'd irritated me. First, he had to endure what I'd endured in my own apartment...

So what happened? One of these versions is true, but you don't know which one, right? All are rather likely, though one is more true than the other...

Yes, it's true, I murdered the perpetrator of my misfortunes. I made him writhe in pain. Now that I think about it, it's funny how important the details are. An inconspicuous, small piece of cardboard with a pattern painted on it can become the cause of a chain of misfortunes. It sets off a chain reaction. Perhaps if a few thousand years ago, some ancient Greek hadn't trampled a few flowers, Hitler wouldn't have been born? Perhaps I wouldn't have been born, or you? Would the world still exist if there hadn't been one little daisy?

It's like playing cards. If I'd done something that evening instead of playing lockpicking, my mother would still be alive. Maybe we could have made two thugs into decent people; maybe Daniel would have been a decent man. Julia wouldn't have been disappointed—she would still be happy, continue her studies, and find a decent man... The orphanage would have thrived with more cash saved—a whole lot of money that I stole, and that was later stolen from me.

The psychiatric hospital would have one less patient.

Maybe.

Maybe.

Maybe!

All this is just wishful thinking... But the truth is, I killed my father. I found him and murdered him, and by cutting him with a sharp razor, I cut myself, leaving a scar on my hand that cuts across my already short lifeline. A scar that marks the course of my entire, possibly lousy life.

I killed. For that one, single card. One fucking scrap of paper that ruined the lives of a dozen people, and probably more—who knows how many will fall victim to my victims' attacks?

But I feel good. I'm happy with what I did. I made the right choices—given the situation I was in at the time. I still consider most of my beliefs to be valid. What happened was, to a certain extent, beyond my control; I simply adapted. I became like the crowd I hated... Unconsciously, I was a tool in the hands of someone far more powerful. I was a puppet... Of God? So what am I? So who am I?

A riddle?

Please, let's end this. The clamor in the rooms next door is unbearable. They sit there and think they're Napoleon, or someone else. They're in their own better world. A world of white, a world of soft pillows and caftans, and the daily porridge.

It's time to do something about myself.

The only thing left to me... According to the destiny written on my hand.