Mr. Paul's failure

I sometimes wonder if there have been more failures or successes in my work. The balance is rather bleak. Although each success offset the effects of several setbacks, gave me strength to continue working, and strengthened my belief that what I was doing was worthwhile after all, the sum total of failures was greater. They were all the more painful because they involved the passing into oblivion of those I cared for. They passed away in different ways. Different ways? No, that's not it! They chose different technical options for their departure. What they all had in common, however, was that they decided their own demise, that they passed away alone. I slowly began to become accustomed to funerals, to the increasingly hazy portraits in my memories. However, one failure became particularly painful for me. It left a mark on my psyche, shaking my faith in humanity to its foundations. As if in a three-dimensional video, I see that August afternoon when Darek crossed the threshold of my "temple." A cataclysm was approaching, one I couldn't resist.

He paced nervously around the building. An avalanche of thoughts flooded his mind with conflicting emotions. He had to go in, there was no way out. "Damn curator, he's after me."

His sweaty palms wiped on his pants every few seconds. He stole glances to see if he saw anyone he knew nearby. An acquaintance! Did he still have any friends after six years? Neighbors turned their backs on him, crossed the street, or ignored him. He even liked it. He wasn't about to explain where he'd been lately. Even though he had a feeling everyone knew anyway. In such a small neighborhood, nothing could be hidden. He looked back at the building and stopped, fighting a constant internal battle. He took two steps, stopped, two more, and... "No, not yet." He turned on his heel and headed for the nearest bar. A mug of cold beer felt pleasantly cool against his burning palms. He drained it in three powerful gulps. He made a decision—"I'm going."

He ran out of the pub, trying not to let his intentions evaporate with the passage of time. Ten minutes later, he stood before the door. The handle burned with an unearthly fire. He wanted to tear his hand away and flee as quickly as possible, but he knew that if he did, he'd never return. He gritted his teeth and opened the door. He saw a small room, a few tables, and a middle-aged man at one of them.

"Excuse me. I'm here to see Mr. Paweł.

" "Excuse me. I'm here to see Mr. Paweł," I heard a soft, indistinct voice. I tore my gaze from the papers spread out on the table and looked toward the door. A young man, short but muscular, as if he spent all day at the gym, was casting a frightened glance my way.

"It's me. Please," I gestured to the chair across the table. He hesitantly sat down on the edge. He shrank into himself, trying to disappear from my sight. I continued to remain silent. I observed my guest, trying to form a first impression of him. Sweat ran down his high forehead in rivulets. A typical effect of stress and internal tension. Almost everyone reacted this way on their first visit. Their gaze was fixed on the floor, only occasionally rising above the table.

"Would you like something to drink? Coffee or tea?" I always immediately switched to "you." This made breaking the ice easier.

"Mineral water, if possible." Our eyes met for the first time. I felt a prick of cold all over my body. I'd never seen such a look. There was something frosty, ruthless in it.

"Please..." I placed the bottle and glass in front of him. "...I don't think I caught your name.

" "Darek," he muttered, barely audible. His hands occupied themselves with the glass, mechanically setting it spinning. The clatter of glass scraping against the tabletop was the only audible sound for the next few moments. For the first time, I didn't know how to start a conversation. A fog of helplessness and indifference settled over me.

"Dark, what brings you here?" I finally snapped out of my lethargy.

"The probation officer. He told me to come here.

" "Do you have a probation officer?

" "Yes." He looked at me defiantly, expecting an attack.

"For what reason?" I managed to hold his gaze.

"I got out of jail early." He continued to stare at me with those icy eyes of his.

"Were you in jail long?" I unconsciously adopted his manner of speaking.

"Six years. They gave me two years at the hearing.

" "For what?" I asked quickly.

He looked down at the floor again. His hand left the glass and tightened around the bottle. His knuckles turned white. I waited for the glass shards to scatter across the table. It didn't break, though. It rose and emptied its contents into his open mouth.

"For rape. Drunk," he blurted out.

Days passed. Darek arrived at the club with the precision of a clock. He'd cross the threshold one way at precisely 4 p.m., the other at 9 p.m. He kept to himself. He didn't make any close friends. He simply was there. The others grew accustomed to his presence, exchanging pleasantries and handshakes.

After a month, using my own connections, I found him a job. Slowly, something changed in him. The first smile appeared, his voice rose, but his eyes remained icy. I suggested he participate in group therapy. After a few days of hesitation, he agreed.

We set off with a group of eight. Three women, five men. I had developed a rather powerful theme: "The Path of Life." Retracing our steps to our earliest childhood moments in search of the sources of our own phobias and insecurities. I was curious if Darek would reveal his past to the group. He didn't. And that should have been a warning sign for me. However, during this time, I was absorbed in working with another member of the group. It was Kasia. A young married woman, who had come under my wing for the third time. I was slowly breaking the shell she had formed around herself. Along the way, I broke the basic rules of conducting classes. I became personally and emotionally involved, devoting more time to her than to the others. And then, one day, a breakthrough came. Kasia exploded. For an hour, she unleashed a torrent of words and tears, pent-up fear, regret, nightmares, and hatred. She portrayed before us a father who was sadistic, lecherous, and perverted. A father who, in his own way, had prematurely introduced her to the world of sex. We listened in horror, tears streaking our cheeks. It was at that moment that Kasia became close to me, too close. I was ready to give her the benefit of the doubt, just to compensate her in some small way for what she'd been through. Perhaps that's why I didn't notice that one pair of eyes remained dry.

He'd been following her for days. He liked her. But he'd never been bold with women. He couldn't talk to them. He was afraid of being ridiculed, scorned. He observed her from afar, learning her habits, her daily routine. Something was boiling inside him, growing with immense force. He couldn't fight it anymore. His resistance was fading with each passing moment. He had to do something. The bar seemed the best medicine. After six months of abstinence, the first sip of vodka burned his throat like a living fire. He ordered another fifty, another. A wave of warmth and something else surged within him logarithmically. He ran outside and, guided by an inner voice, set off.

Kasia took one last look in the mirror. She adjusted a stray lock of hair escaping from under her cap. Like every evening this week, she headed toward the garage.

"Good evening, Mr. Zygmunt." The neighbor had been walking his German Shepherd dog for years.

"Good evening, Mrs. Katarzyna. Off to work as usual?

" "Yes. Thank God, this is the last night," she smiled, ruffling Satan behind the ears. She knew the dog loved it.

She was standing with this old geezer. What could she possibly talk to him about? Or rather, what did he care. He knew where he'd go later. He'd be waiting for her there. He quickly disappeared into the shadows of the single-story buildings.

She lifted the garage door. The dim light illuminated the darkness of the small room. She walked to the Polonez door and inserted the keys into the lock.

He saw her open the driver's door. He slipped inside, slamming the gate shut. The light automatically went out. The only darkness was a small lamp inside the car. In one bound, he was beside her, his hand clamped over his mouth.

"Don't scream, and nothing will happen to you," he hissed in her ear.

Something rustled behind her. She heard the crash of the gate falling. She tried to turn around, but she couldn't. A strong hand held her head. She wanted to scream, but a live gag robbed her of breath.

"Don't scream!" she heard against her ear. She struggled fruitlessly. Her attacker was stronger. "What does he want? That old Polonez? Or maybe..." a terrible thought exploded in her brain with terror. She summoned all her strength to break free.

He thought it would be easier, but the little girl was struggling like crazy. He tightened his grip, simultaneously covering her nose. After a few moments, she slumped to the floor. He threw her onto the driver's seat. With violent movements, he ripped off her panties and tights. Fire pulsed throughout his body. He entered her in one violent movement. This was for his mother, for constantly deciding his life. He moved faster and faster. For not having had a woman for seven years. With a soft groan, he exploded with semen. It wasn't enough, still not enough. He plunged into her again.

"See how good it is," he muttered under his breath, "for six years I was a woman to others! You understand! Me, a woman!" He didn't notice the small, rectangular piece of plastic slipping out of his pocket.

She felt a searing pain in her lower abdomen. She tried to open her eyes, but her eyelids felt like lead.

"Daddy! No!" she whispered, and fell back into a blessed state of unconsciousness.

"Satan! Get on your ass!" "Mr. Zygmunt shouted. The dog, however, wouldn't respond to his commands. It barked like crazy. "What happened to him? He's never behaved like this before!" He trotted toward the garages. Satan was thrashing around in front of one of them. "That must be Mrs. Katarzyna's garage." Alarmed, he noticed a narrow gap. He lifted the gate. Satan, whimpering, rushed inside, stopping at the car door. The pensioner glanced through the window.

"Oh my God!" He felt dizzy. He leaned heavily against the wall. He'd forgotten the emergency number from his nerves. It took him a while to press the right key combination on his cell phone.

The phone woke me up after 2 a.m.

"Excuse me. Mr. Paweł...?" asked a male voice on the phone.

"Yes, I'm listening.

" "I have a message for you, or rather, two messages. We've already dispatched a police car. I'd be grateful if you'd come to us.

" "Okay, I'm getting dressed."

A few minutes later, I was on my way to the police station. The words I heard shocked me, froze my blood. I couldn't believe them, didn't want to believe them.

"How do you know it's Darek?"

"He left his business card and ATM card where he was. The world spun around me.

Kasia lay in solitary confinement. When I entered, she was staring blankly at the ceiling. I approached the bed.

"Kasia..." The rest of the words caught in my throat. She slowly turned her head towards me. A look full of pain and reproach pierced my conscience.

"You knew about him, didn't you?" she said, her gaze fixed on me. I nodded wordlessly.

"Why didn't you tell me! Why?!?" She turned her head towards the window. And what was I supposed to answer her? That I had believed him, that I had trusted my abilities? What could possibly justify me? I backed out of the room, leaving a small, white teddy bear on the bed.