Forever yours

Dust motes floated above the pine table. A few rays of autumn sunlight filtered into the room through the soiled blinds, leaving pale yellow streaks on the wall. The fig tree in the corner, with its once beautiful green petals, now pined for light and drops of water. Shielded by a bastion of scattered clothes, it helplessly shed leaves one by one, choking on the dry, dense air. Against the opposite wall, the removal team, whether concerned about the owner's sleeping comfort or guided by the principle of "conserve energy," had placed a bed. True, it was a bit crooked, but as you can see, the new tenant didn't mind. Furthermore, the narrow black upholstery, with its lazily protruding foam, might not withstand further impacts. Right next to the bed, on a round, light-wood base, a tall, old lamp, its bulb long since burned out, captivated with its dubious charm and even more dubious practicality. A thick layer of dust clinging to the lampshade made it difficult to determine its color. However, Mikołaj remembered it from his childhood, from his family home, as a light green. Stumbling over it yesterday, he recalled how, as a toddler, sitting on the sofa, he'd nudge it gently, making the characteristic dull thud of the plastic switch against its wooden neck. When they moved into their studio apartment, his mother had forced it on him, and he wasn't inclined to object.

A loving and caring parent, she devoted herself completely to her only child. In fact, until the day he left home, she practically brought him breakfast in bed, and when he left, she cleaned his room, searched for dirty clothes, washed and ironed, changed the curtains, and washed the windows. Free room service. In reality, Mikołaj liked order, liked books balanced evenly on the shelf. He liked a room sparkling clean, with everything in its place. However, his mother's overzealousness made him hate order and cleanliness. Her order, and her cleanliness. As a teenager, he most strongly opposed his mother's crystalline terror. Dinner often landed on a new table setting, old newspapers were strewn about, and anything that could in any way spoil the aesthetics of the room became a weapon in the fight against the system. Patience, consistency, and a certain naturalness and honesty in his mother's actions were too powerful. Despite the rebel's immense will to fight, the white flag finally flew from the mast of identity. From then on, his only defense was indifference and monosyllabicity in dealing with his tormentor.

"What should I make for dinner tomorrow?" his mother asked, smiling humbly. "

Indifferent.

" "But what kind of soup?" Tomato, cucumber, maybe vegetable? – she continued in a submissive tone.

- I don't know.

- And what about the second one?

- Whatever – he said, reaching for the remote to turn up the music.

His words often conveyed the humiliation felt by a convict at the mercy of his enemy, or by a knight who, until then so proud of his principles, had cowered before taking his own life at the loss of his honor—or at least that was the somewhat dramatic way he described his feelings to friends after a few beers. His mother, on the other hand, continued her submissive, caring terror. Her love was so blind it was almost unfair. His father, on the other hand, might have suggested that he had already acclimated to his wife's ways and had resigned himself to the fate of an elderly, quiet man in warm slippers, awaiting a fresh morning newspaper. And this, too, deeply offended Nicholas. He didn't want to see his father's defeat. He didn't want to hear his "hmm" when his mother asked if the soup was properly seasoned, or see his clean-shaven, yet aged face immediately after his mother's words: "You should shave." And that walk to the bathroom, as if for a beheading. A little foam, the razor slowly dragging across the skin, and one question flashed in his mind, one tormenting thought…

Mikołaj remembered that his father had once cried like a child. And although he couldn't see his tears, the rather loud, choking, and helpless sobbing that reached his ears terrified him. Locked in the bathroom, the robust man, then around forty, slumped against the wall and, burying his face in his hands, wept. Perhaps it was a good thing that the son didn't witness his parent's utter helplessness with his own eyes, although the twelve-year-old's imagination certainly painted a suitably unfavorable figure of his father and his unmanly reaction. After all, he could have objected, shouted, responded with aggression… Meanwhile, his mother, busy in the kitchen washing dishes to the sound of radio hits, had been spared the entire incident. Mikołaj, meanwhile, stood in the hallway, leaning against the wardrobe, waiting for his father to emerge. Finally, the door lock clicked, and a clean-shaven, calm face flashed before his eyes. The rustle of a newspaper being pulled from under the table could still be heard from the room.

Today, Mikołaj, a twenty-three-year-old student, rented a studio apartment in one of Wrocław's districts. Or rather, as a former student. Only his parents still believed their son was continuing his education and gaining knowledge at the university. Meanwhile, about a month before the start of the previous academic year, Mikołaj decided he would never set foot in any university again. A few weeks ago, he began another virtual year. His parents continued to pay for his apartment, and since June, they even sent him money "to survive," after his son lost his job. As he wrote in the letter: "...there were terrible layoffs at the company. My boss said goodbye to me with great sadness, assuring me that he had never had a better employee; unfortunately, this decision wasn't his own." His mother, filled with pride, almost burst into tears as she read the letter, especially the part about the boss's special thanks. His father only skipped a couple of paragraphs and handed the letter to his wife, who insisted he read it all carefully.

In reality, Mikołaj didn't go to work one day, and that's how it stayed. He didn't even collect the outstanding three hundred złoty, which he was owed for half a month of work. Since he lost his job, he'd only gone to the store, and even then as infrequently as possible, to buy the bare necessities. He spent the rest of the day sleeping or staring blankly at the television. In any case, he rarely got out of bed.

A long, piercing sound pierced the dense silence of the room. Nicholas's head turned slightly in the direction of the noise. The trembling, irritating ring of the doorbell once again filled the cramped apartment. Slowly, Nicholas began the difficult process of searching for the strength hidden within his frail body. A moment later, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, half-asleep, searching for his warm blue slippers (a gift from his mother). Finally, he found one under the dresser and headed for the door.

He glanced through the window and instantly regretted having crawled out from under the down comforter.

"Open up, Mikołaj, I know you're there," Mrs. Barbara began, as always in a frail but firm tone. "You remember that your mother asked me to check in at least once a week.

" "What the fuck am I to be seen?"

Mrs. Trelowska replied, "but you've already checked in this week," Mikołaj replied, emphasizing the last word. "

You're talking nonsense. I was there last Friday. Today is Wednesday—a new week."

Mikołaj mentally reviewed last night's schedule on Polsat: "Oh, yes, indeed." "

But I'm terribly busy right now—I'm studying," he protested. "

Don't worry, I won't take up much of your time," she continued calmly, not losing even a moment of composure.

"Stupid old woman."

The lock creaked, and Mrs. Barbara appeared in the doorway. She eyed Mikołaj's slovenly figure: greasy, disheveled hair, a T-shirt with a hole on the shoulder and remnants of dried toothpaste, black briefs, and a blue slipper (the right one on the left foot).

"Oh, Mikołaj, Mikołaj," she began, sighing, "you don't care about yourself at all. How are you supposed to find a girlfriend in this condition? You'd wash, shave, go out in public...

" "I go to college every day," he interjected quietly.

"Yes, college. You can screw your mother," she hissed sharply. "How are you not ashamed at all? You sit at home all day and... what are you doing? You stare at the ceiling all day? You have no respect for yourself, let alone your mother."

She briskly burst into the room and began gathering up the clothes scattered around.

"God, you're not ashamed."

"Yes, you're not ashamed." And no one invited you, ma'am. If you don't like it, I won't stop you.

"Well, well. You be careful. One phone call and your mother will be here today," she replied, gathering her dirty clothes into a plastic basket. "You could do something about this mess."

"It doesn't bother me," he said indifferently, sitting down in an armchair.

"Oh, you'll get there," she roared, waving her gray sweatshirt.

After a dozen or so minutes, Barbara had somehow managed to tidy up the room.

"I just feel sorry for your mother. Poor woman. She would do anything for you, anything.

" "Exactly!" he yelled, "when I don't ask for anything."

"You don't ask? And who supports this apartment? How do you pay for your food?"

"Soon," he drawled quietly and lowered his head.

"What are you mumbling? "

But there was no answer.

"Good morning, Mrs. Kosotko, I'm calling about your son," she began seriously.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, fear in her voice.

"No, no. Not really. But I think you should talk to your son privately.

"But what's the matter? Is he not doing well at school? Is someone complaining about him?

" "No, it's just"—Barbara rarely found herself at a loss for words, but this time she took advantage of the momentary pause and took a deep breath—"you simply should meet with Santa Claus as soon as possible.

" "Okay," she agreed humbly, "but is he okay?" she persisted.

"Come," Barbara continued steadily.

The next day—early morning—her parents showed up at the door, and even though Mrs. Kosotko had promised herself to check on Barbara earlier, a mother's fear pressed her, and she headed straight for her son's apartment.

"Nicholas," she called softly, "Nicholas, open up. It's us."

And the sound of the hideous bell echoed her fearful cries.

"It's impossible," he stammered, terrified like a child, jumping out of bed.

"Trelowska, you nosy..." – a barrage of invective overwhelmed the energetic old woman in her thoughts.

"Mikołaj, open up," she continued, increasingly terrified.

At that moment, Trelowska appeared upstairs in her dressing gown:

"He's inside, I'm sure," Barbara reassured. "Please ring the bell.

" "Good morning," she glared at her, expecting help.

"He'll open up in a moment. Just keep ringing."

Mikołaj was seething. He darted from corner to corner, searching for a way out of this impasse. Trelowska's voice was driving him crazy. He would have loved to rush out of the apartment, grab her fat arms, and throw her down the stairs. Meanwhile, with each passing moment, he felt his strength waning, that defeat was fast approaching, and he would soon have to explain everything.

When he opened the door, he searched for Barbara and made it clear to her that if she tried to move in with her parents, she would sorely regret it. Trelowska must have understood the nonverbal message, because she headed toward her apartment, clutching her bathrobe to her chest.

Mr. and Mrs. Kosotko found themselves inside. Father stolidly kicked off his shoes, hung his coats (his and his) on a hanger, and timidly pushed his way into the room. Mikołaj followed him. Mother glanced around the kitchen, checked the refrigerator, glanced around the room, and began in a low voice:

"Mikołaj, how are you? Is everything okay? How are your studies?

" "I... I'm not studying anymore," he muttered.

"What do you mean, you're not studying?" she looked at her husband with alarm. He, however, didn't seem surprised. Except that Mikołaj himself had never noticed even the slightest hint of surprise on his father's face.

"Well...

" "But for how long? How did it happen? Why didn't you say anything?" her mother asked again.

"I didn't know..."

"We could have helped you somehow, hired a tutor... sure," she paused, tears welling up in her eyes.

Mikołaj, his gaze fixed on the carpet, felt his mother's suffering sinking into his shoulders. He was ready to sign a pact with the devil at that moment, just to get rid of the nagging guilt that plagued his conscience.

"Mom, don't worry, I'll go back to college," he blurted out suddenly, and the relief that accompanied it smothered his remorse.

His mother, wiping away her tears, looked at her son with a faint smile.

"My dear son, you don't have to. Not everyone graduates, not everyone succeeds," his mother soothed gently, not wanting her son to experience his inferiority once again.

"It's not like that, Mom," Mikołaj exclaimed joyfully. "I passed everything, only…"

"How so?

" "It's my fault, mine alone," he concluded, almost whispering.

EPILOGUE

Mikołaj, to his mother's indescribable joy, returned to college the next semester began. He found a job again, and everything began to return to normal. Only Trelowska, not wanting to incur his neighbor's burning gaze again, visited less often. And everything went on as before until Mikołaj heard his father's sobs on the phone:

"Son," he choked out through his tears, "your mother is dead."

Mikołaj took his own life that same day.