In exile

"

It was completely dark.

By the glow of a candle hidden in the corner of my room, I counted out my money. Two złoty tomorrow for bread, another two for pâté, and another for butter. I have to remember what I have to buy tomorrow... bread, butter, and pâté. The cheapest one, always hidden behind the rooster ones.

I counted out six złoty, which I then tucked into my jeans pocket. I threw the rest into a mustard jar and shoved it under the bed.

I blew out the candle. The smoke from the extinguished wick quickly filled the tiny room. I waved my hand over the candle to dispel the white, invisible wisp of smoke in the darkness. A moment later, I burrowed deep under the warm duvet and hugged a small pillow. I closed my eyes... Images from the day flashed through my mind. The face of my math teacher giving me my third straight "F" this week, the suspicious glances of my classmates, and the intriguing whispers of the boys. Then, only the expression on my father's face and my mother's startled gaze.

I could read everything in their eyes. Intentions, character, even intentions. I knew the mathematician was looking at me with pity, the boys with curiosity, and the girls with irritation. I was also certain that my father looked at me like I was trash, and my mother like I was a curse. And how did I look at myself?

I tried to avoid looking at myself in the mirror. Looking at myself, I felt uneasy. I was sure I was me, but that I shouldn't look the way I did... I was too pretty than I should have been. Considering my situation, I should have been an ugly girl with eyes of some unspecified color, thick thighs, and a network of pimples on my face. I wasn't... and the comments, "You're wasting your time," made me uncontrollably angry.

I woke up at six in the morning.

I instinctively looked into my mother's room to see if she was asleep. She wasn't there. She'd left yesterday... taking with her a few suitcases and my hope for a better life. She didn't even say goodbye.

When her father slapped her in the face, she stormed out, slamming the door.

Lately, I've been feeling very sad.

I can't even remember the last time I genuinely laughed...

I went into the kitchen and ate a margarine sandwich. It tasted like the ham my mother had spread on slices of bread yesterday. Then I left the house with my schoolbag on my shoulder and my homework unfinished. With an unfinished Polish essay entitled "Loving Like Kmicic," several unfinished math problems from the chapter on "Solids of Revolution," and an unfinished geography paper on the "Masovian Lowlands." Well, it was going to be tough.

I'd been wandering around the park since morning – it was my permanent spot for observation and constant sitting. Sometimes I drew, sometimes I listened to music. But today, I came to think about a few things.

Who would miss me, and who would cry for me? Who would miss me?

Mom wouldn't... who would miss the most painful memory of their life? Dad too, because who could love the fruit of rape? My eyes moistened, and I felt a violent tightening in my throat. I wandered the winding paths for a moment longer, then headed toward the school.

I sat down at my desk and started leafing through my math textbook. If it turned out I couldn't do anything today, Milewska would probably kill me. Not to mention Pyzia.

I could feel the eyes of my peers on me again. I wondered how they perceived me walking down the hall in the same sweater for four days? I wondered how they looked at my ponytail, tied carelessly almost atop my head.

"You're missing the assignment again. Don't you understand this material? You haven't gotten a passing grade since the beginning of geometry!" the math teacher spat out words like a machine gun. I stood impassively, staring her straight in the eye. I always did that, looking and not responding. Usually, I returned to my desk with a straight face.

Today, however, that didn't happen. "

You'll go to Mrs. Zawadzka's now. She's having classes in the next room."

I expected another beating. Negative points for my behavior, for my attitude towards the subject. Calling me lazy and a girl who only cares about their appearance... but not being sent to the homeroom teacher.

I wasn't thinking about my appearance. That matter was always on the back burner... so for the fourth day in a row, I wore a black sweater and jeans. I didn't use any cosmetics, because the world of well-bred girls everyone fancies really wasn't my world.

They were thinking about what top to wear on their date today, I was wondering if I'd get a slap from my dad today.

They were listing their ex-boyfriends, and I was counting the bruises I'd gotten over the past week.

They were choosing what perfume to put on themselves, and I was debating whether to go home tonight or stay on the park bench.

As always, unfazed, I went to the next class. I gently knocked on the door, and a moment later I heard the warm voice of our homeroom teacher, Irena Zawadzka. I went in and asked her to come into the hallway for a moment – ​​I didn't want the third-grade high school class to witness my confession. Pyzia gave them some homework and then left the classroom. She leaned against the wall.

"What's the problem, Ania?" she asked as if nothing had happened.

"Mrs. Milewska sent me to you. I got another F." I lowered my head. "

Exactly. Anka, tell me what's going on? Are you having any problems?

" "I don't, ma'am.

" "What do you mean not? I can see perfectly well... where did that cheerful girl from the first-grade high school who was constantly running to student council meetings go?"

I frowned.

"I've never worked in local government..." I replied dryly. True, she could have mistaken me for someone else. I was very dull myself. I'd been depressed for a long time and had never been "that cheerful girl from high school." "

I'm sorry. Ania, tell me... is something wrong? Any problems at home? With a boyfriend? " "

At home...

" "What's going on? I'm here to help you... no one will know about this conversation."

I nodded.

"What are you having problems with at home?" she teased. "With responsibilities?"

Among other things. I have a drunkard father who hates me. A mother who won't look at me. A dear sister, a few years younger than me, who's already lying in her grave. It's not fair that she died. I should be lying there!

" "My... dad is in the hospital," I lied. For the first time in ages, I used the word "dad." It sounded very strange coming from my mouth.

"It'll be fine, don't worry. I'll ask the other teachers to go easy on you for now and give you time to recover. Well... don't be sad," she smiled encouragingly. Then she excused herself and went back to class. I sat in the hallway until the end of the lesson. At the beginning of the break, I returned to the classroom. The next lesson was supposed to be Polish.

It went by "strangely." I saw Pyzia looking at me strangely. But I ignored it. How easy is that? Go to her, lie, and you get a break. Teachers don't care enough about their students... to them, each person is just a "student," whom they have to instill a certain part of the material and take care of for the duration of the lesson. Besides... what can you expect?

There was a long break after Polish. Everyone went outside to get some fresh air. Then everything happened so quickly...

While reading "Life of Pi" on a bench in front of the school, I noticed that all the laughter around me suddenly stopped, and mysterious whispers began to emerge. I didn't pay much attention, thinking a teacher had started to move around nearby.

"Anka!" I heard a gravelly voice behind me. I turned my head, and my vision was blocked by a tall man in worn jeans and a shirt pulled out unsightly. A navy blue tie hung from his unshaven neck. Yes, my father, who was supposedly in the hospital, had come to see me at school. My eyes widened, and seeing the looks from the students at my school, I couldn't utter a word. "

I came to your school, aren't you happy?" he pointed to the tie. "See how dressed up I am?"

It was obvious he was drunk. His eyes were bloodshot and he held a half-empty beer bottle in his hand. I felt myself sinking into the ground, my heart pounding.

I swallowed nervously.

Suddenly, he tugged at my arm. "Oh no... you won't hit me in the schoolyard! He won't stoop to that!" As if to spite me, all the teachers on duty seemed to disappear. I felt every finger gripping my elbow.

"Why didn't you make me breakfast?" he said shrilly. "I've been waiting..."

I broke free and quickly ran to school. Through an upstairs window, I saw a man approach my father and take his bottle. I ran to the top floor of the building and sat down in the very corner of the hallway. I wrapped my arms around my knees and felt cold drops running down my face. I hadn't cried in ages...

How could he embarrass me like that? In front of the whole school? I don't understand!

The bell rang.

Students slowly filled the hallway. After a moment, I too headed for the biology classroom.

I sat down as usual—in the same spot by the window. I laid my books on the desk and buried my face in my hands. I felt their eyes on me. Beautiful girls and handsome boys who were already gossiping about my father. I was already written off...

"...I wonder if her whole family drinks too? I'd never want a father like that—I'd rather die than be the daughter of such a bum..." I heard the words of the girl sitting a bench behind me. "You could smell the vodka on him... that bottle of beer must have been for the wash," I heard a choking chuckle. I could already feel another tear welling up on my cheek.

"...She reeks of vodka too, I bet she's drinking from her daddy's liquor cabinet!" another girl with a velvety smooth voice said. This was too much.

I threw my books into my backpack and wordlessly left the classroom amidst ironic smiles and jeers. Why are people like this?

As I descended the stairs to the very bottom of the building, I passed the biology teacher. She was saying something to me, but the buzzing in my ears drowned out any sound. I quickly ran out of the high school. Tears flowed freely, and my heart ached even more than yesterday.

I ran to the park, where I sat until evening. Every person who passed me, I saw someone from my school. For now, I lived in the moment and didn't think about the consequences. That evening, I returned home to an empty house.

The lights were out, stinging my eyes. I went to my room and immediately went to sleep, soaking my pillow with more tears.

I was awakened by the rasping breathing of my father standing over me. Terrified, I rolled to the other side of the bed, then jumped to the floor from the wall. I rushed to the door and yanked on the handle. It was locked. Fear in my eyes, I looked at my father, who had collapsed on the bed. My hands were shaking terribly, and I frantically searched the room for the key. It was NOWHERE! I felt my small room fill with the stench of alcohol and my father's mutterings! IT WAS THERE! The key was lying on the table. I quickly rushed to the table that always served as my desk. As soon as I felt the small key in my hand, my father grabbed my shoulders and arched me back—I felt something crunch in my spine. I started crying again, but I caught myself just in time and elbowed him hard in the stomach. He doubled over, but not before he hit me in the head with his hand, causing me to hit the door. Then I was kicking wildly. When he collapsed on the bed, I opened the door with the key I'd been clutching. I bolted out of the apartment, grabbing a decorative money box from the hallway next to a vase of dried heather. This time, I ran not to the park, but onto the first bus I came across. I got off at the bus stop near the Planty Park.

I spent my first lonely night in exile on a bench outside the hospital.

It wasn't cold, but I occasionally woke up at the sound of a passing car. I slept well enough, briefly free from reality, unsure of what the future would bring.

It was my first night away from home.

Absolutely not my last.

A few days later, I returned home to gather the essentials. I had my keys in my pocket, so getting in was easy. I grabbed a few of my clothes, a towel, and my savings.

After that, I didn't return to the park or the Planty Park—I went to Central Station.

The days passed slowly, each one spent wandering the malls, where you could eat, watch TV, and find interesting things for free.

I never stole. Just because I ran away from home didn't mean I had to become a criminal organization. I felt sorry for myself and sometimes even missed home, especially the nights I spent in bathroom stalls because security would kick me out of my desks.

Then I moved in with my aunt who lived downtown. I even went to school sometimes. I didn't give a damn what others thought of me anymore. I still spent most of my time in the malls, especially people-watching. One day, I was sitting on a bench at the beach, sketching a child playing with a flower. Suddenly, I felt someone's breath on my neck. I turned around and saw a familiar face. A girl from my class. "

You draw beautifully," I heard.

"Thanks.

" The girl sat down next to me. She had long, straight black hair and wore tinted glasses.

"Why are you sitting here?" she asked in a strange tone of voice.

I searched for a diplomatic answer for a long time.

"Life forces me to.

" "Welcome to the club!" she sighed and shook my hand. "Me too... Majka," she introduced herself.

"Anka.

" "Have you been here long?

" "No, I just arrived..."

She smiled indulgently. I put down the sketchbook I hadn't been without lately.

"I don't mean... I mean, have you been working here long...?

" "Here?

" "Well, how long... you know. I haven't seen you here before.

I didn't understand anything at all.

"Tell me everything again, because I don't understand you at all...

" "You're not employed here?" she asked, and seeing my expression, she continued in a hushed voice. "An agency. Social.

" "What are you talking about?" I blurted out, but then I started to connect the dots. A popular place, lots of pretty girls hanging around, lots of couples... "And you?"

She nodded sadly.

I was sitting on the same bench as a prostitute. I felt sorry for her. Why was she doing this? There had to be a reason... I couldn't see her eyes because they were covered by dark glasses. However, there was a clear sadness on her face.

"Why?" I asked, rather inappropriately.

"My mom doesn't have any money, and neither do I. You know, it takes a lot to look and dress like that...

" "I didn't think..."

"That..."

"No, I didn't think," I interrupted her, not wanting her to finish. "Did you have to do something like that because you didn't have any money?" I felt terribly sorry for her.

In 2001, two years later, I put on dark glasses and hair extensions and sat on a bench under a large artificial palm tree. I talked to Emila for a while, but then Artur approached me.

"Anka, you have a boyfriend at the internet cafe.

" I quickly got up, said goodbye to my friend, and, grabbing my small backpack, headed for the internet cafe. Beneath her stood a tall man in a suit. I smiled.

"Good morning.

" "Oh, good morning," he replied, and smiled. That smile was creepy and gave me bad memories. "I've already discussed all the terms...

" "I know," I replied. "Let's go."

We were driving to his house. He had a rental car, which still smelled new. We drove through the city, and I marveled at the traffic. The cars, the roar, the din. Suddenly, I realized I was driving on my way home from school...

No... this is impossible. It's

unrealistic to change so much in two years.

I moved further away from the guy and looked at him again.

No...

After a dozen or so minutes, we pulled up to the yellow house that had once been my home. A person returning to their birthplace after a long absence should be happy... I was nervous, angry, and planning my escape.

We went inside, where everything looked completely different than it had back then. There was no shoe rack, no coat rack... a completely different house. He led me into the living room.

My father was different than he had been then. Completely different.

On the cabinets stood photos of completely different people. Not mine, nor my mother's—some plump woman with auburn hair. On the table in the living room lay fruit, and next to it a paring knife. On the shelves were a multitude of books and porcelain figurines.

He sat down next to me on the couch and pulled out a hundred-zloty bill. He saw I was young, but he didn't notice that I was his daughter. Not biological, but after all, he had raised me...

I smelled his perfume. My imagination immediately transformed him into the scent of vodka and my fear. I felt faint. Memories came alive.

Nights during which I hid in my room from his blows. From my mother's indifference and the satisfaction in his eyes... now he became the same drunk, spit-covered, delirious drunk sleeping in the next room.

He leaned in to kiss me. I closed my eyes and pulled away. I felt hatred and yearned for revenge. I longed to feel his pain.

I glanced around the room, and a fruit knife caught my eye. I quickly reached for it and discreetly slipped it into the sleeve of my blouse. My father didn't notice. I moved closer to him and with one blow, plunged the knife into his stomach. I started crying again, and once again I couldn't hear my father's screams.

His pain was drowned in the screams of my despair filling my soul. I began to cry. I screamed that it was for his daughter, whose life he had ruined and whose life he hadn't taught her to love... blood gushed forth in torrents. I took my time—I wanted to celebrate this moment.

I put the knife down. I smelled blood... could I really kill?

I washed my hands. I took off my bloody blouse, leaving only my tank top on. Then I took off my pants and put on the white shorts I had in my backpack. I put on my glasses, grabbed the bill from the table, and left. Without looking back, I left all my suffering in that apartment.

Was I really capable of killing?

Or was it just an innocent bluff?

Did I really want to hurt you?

To see red blood...