Protest

We're hiring a young person to care for a disabled child. The position pays well...

Plus, a phone number and a vague address. It's worth a try, though. I need money, the ground is burning under my feet, and I have to vacate my apartment within two weeks.

I only lost the phone money. We'll let you know if we're interested in your offer... How many times have I heard this? I have a university degree, I know five languages, and I don't have a job. To make me completely happy, my apartment lease has expired. I'm slowly starting to pack.

Outside, it's a nasty, gray, and wet autumn. Gray people don't want to get their highly polished shoes dirty in huge puddles, so they drive, making the city even grayer and more uninviting. Elegant women, to avoid breaking their heels on the chipped sidewalks, are even driven to the store by their husbands or drivers to buy bread rolls. Only elderly women with dogs wander through the shop windows, their thoughts already lingering in their apartments over sweet rolls and hot cocoa.

Yes, it's all awful. Huge, drab apartment buildings house steaks, thousands of anonymous, nameless people. Everyone alone, for themselves, with themselves. Never with others, for others.

You have to go to work, do the shopping, plant a tree (or maybe plant flowers in balcony boxes in the summer), build a house (or buy an apartment), have children and raise them (or let them out in front of the building and, if possible, make sure they return at night).

A dark blue leather suitcase, still inherited from my parents, or even grandparents, held the last of my belongings. As always, I zipped it up with difficulty, then simply fastened the strap and set it out in the small, dark hallway. My coat and blue scarf still hang on a wooden coat rack, and my black shoes stand under a square mirror. For now, I'll stay with my cousin and redouble my efforts to find a job and an apartment.

Just one more evening. I've grown attached to this place.

I'm sitting with a cup of hot coffee in an armchair that still remembers my master's thesis, every test, every exam...

Raindrops slap against the windows. The wind shakes the treetops. An old walnut tree growing near my building drops its fruit onto my balcony, and pine cones fall from a huge spruce onto the lawn.

The phone.

"I'm listening." My voice was flat, discouraging conversation even before it began.

"I'm calling about a job. Caring for a sick child. Do you remember?" the man asked, in a way that made me imagine him as an elderly man in an armchair, smoking a pipe.

"Yes.

" "Are you still interested?

" "Yes."

"Could we meet tomorrow? Let's say at ten? I'll come to the address.

" "Okay..." I gave him the address and ended the conversation in a slightly more cheerful tone, as I saw the prospect of a paycheck, and maybe even an apartment.

Last night.

It was raining constantly, a gale raging. I had nightmares. A huge house, dark inside, and I was groping for a way out. Everything was locked, and I was fleeing some unspecified danger. Besides, I don't even know if it was me, because in this dream I was a sort of observer, but if not me, then who could it be?

Of course, I managed to fall asleep in the early morning and slept soundly until nine. The blinding rays of the morning sun streamed into the room through the open window. The pristine blue sky had forgotten the night's gale. Only broken branches and scattered debris remained as souvenirs.

I put on jeans and a slightly oversized black sweater and went downstairs to get some rolls. The grocery store was next to my apartment building, in a small white building with red bars on the windows.

After ten minutes, with coffee and some sweet rolls, I was sitting in the kitchen, waiting for the miracle of a man with a bulging wallet.

He appeared punctually.

Pants seemed tailor-made for him, a white shirt, a gray sweater, and, of course, high-shine shoes. He was young. Well, he was young compared to what I imagined. He might have been thirty-five or forty. Besides, he was a very well-groomed man. His hands. He'd spent his entire life counting money, unless he was a surgeon or a musician, but one doesn't exclude the other.

Despite his warm, low voice and the smile that seemed to be glued to his face, the sight of him sent shivers down my spine. I shuddered at the thought that people like them could cut you up, put you in a box, and send you back to your mom, all the while smiling.

"The working conditions are very simple. We have a large house, so you get your own room, plus, of course, meals, and, to start, fifteen hundred złoty a month. In return, my wife and I expect you to be available 24/7. We have a daughter. She's partially paralyzed and requires constant care."

He was kind enough to add that none of the previous caregivers had lasted more than a few days. I wonder how many there had been?

"I need the money," I replied matter-of-factly. "Besides, I have nowhere to live." He glanced at the suitcases and turned to me questioningly. "You mean I won't have any in a few hours. I can start immediately..."

After making some necessary arrangements, he said he'd take my bags and pick me up as soon as I called.

I had an appointment with the landlady, a small, elderly woman, at 1 p.m., so I managed to drink two more coffees and watch a dull movie.

After that, I was free from the gloomy apartment complex. Without regret, I said goodbye to hundreds of anonymous people and climbed into a shiny gold car that looked as if it had just left the showroom. The beige interior was spotless, the seats were covered, and there wasn't a speck of sand on the rubber (original, by the way) floor mats.

I drove 27 kilometers in this four-door limousine without even realizing I was driving, thanks in part to the music.

I arrived at my destination.

On the outskirts of a small village, behind a magnificent wrought-iron fence, with spans of perfectly polished red bricks that also crowned the entire fence from above, stood a huge house. Ground floor, first floor, and attic. Perhaps it was a thoroughly renovated old manor house.

Modern, spacious interiors, corridors and stairs everywhere… You could get lost here. Light wooden furniture, fresh flowers, pastel-colored walls. Am I supposed to live here?

I stood there in the hallway, just looking at everything I could see. I must have forgotten I was supposed to undress.

I saw a huge, elliptical table. On it was a purple vase full of asters, and nine chairs around it. Why so many? The walls were apricot, and on them were several hand-embroidered tapestries. Judging by them, the dining room also belonged to the housekeeper's domain. From what I've been told, a middle-aged woman who, when she's not cooking or cleaning, sits and either embroiders or knits.

The man hung up my coat and led me to my room in the attic. Beautifully furnished, spacious, my suitcases unpacked...

Unpacked?

Dresses on hangers, sweaters in the wardrobe, socks on the dresser, books on the shelf, papers on the desk... Nice, but I'd rather do it myself.

My room opened onto a balcony overlooking the meadows and forest, but for now I was too busy admiring the electronics—the stereo and computer—to breathe in the fresh air. If this is part of the daily expenses, I'm starting to feel like Queen Bona here.

I dozed off.

The man woke me up and said he'd take me to his daughter, and then we'd have dinner and he'd tell me more about my duties.

I'd forgotten his name, and I'm sure he introduced himself. Wait... I think it was Kacper. Yes, definitely. In slippers and without a shirt, he looks older than I thought, but I think he's at most at the upper limit of what I've been giving him.

I entered a room almost the size of my apartment. In the center, against the wall, stood a huge bed. The pristine white walls were covered with numerous framed photos. They all seemed to depict the same two people, perhaps a mother and child, or perhaps sisters. I don't know. There were also numerous photos in glass frames on the low, light-colored furniture. On one of the shelves lay a digital camera, a still camera, a cell phone, a disc player…

Everywhere, in every corner of what I'd seen so far in this house, luxury and wealth were at the forefront.

From the room, through double sliding doors, I opened onto a vast terrace planted with flowers, and there, in a wheelchair, sat a teenage girl with dark hair, streaked with blond in the sunlight.

Apparently hearing our entry, she turned away. Her sad, perhaps tired eyes locked on mine, and in an instant, a grimace of anger appeared on her face. Hatred?

"Get out of here!" she shouted, entering the room. "Don't listen!"

She was in the middle of the enormous room. Her hands gripped the arms of the wheelchair. Her hair fell over her pale, angry face, hiding her sad brown eyes.

I left.

"I'm sorry about my daughter. She... She's always moody. My wife and I are tired of catering to her every whim. She doesn't appreciate anything anyone does for her," he said as we descended into the dining room. "Please sit down. The maid will bring dinner soon. I imagine this has been a very tiring day for you..." and so on.

From what I heard from him and his wife, Dominika, for that was his daughter's name, was simply a monster. They buy her everything she desires, show her affection at every turn, are ready to be her footstools if only she'd utter a single human word, but she just screams, rejecting them, especially her mother, who receives nothing but unpleasantness from her.

In truth, they were probably right in what they said. I'd already noticed that this girl had everything. She probably simply got bored with her wealth and kept inventing new toys for her parents to buy her. She was probably waiting for an impossible request.

Seeing that they wouldn't refuse her anything anyway, she could be rude, unpleasant, and vulgar, crossing all boundaries. She could hate them for giving in to everything, for because she can't walk, they're afraid to refuse her anything.

Maybe with all these whims and moods, she was just trying to get attention. Maybe she wanted to be treated like a normal child. Instead of affection, she might get a new phone, or anything else, as long as it was expensive. She suffered under this arrangement, and so did they.

Another fact weighed against her parents. She was a teenage girl with disabilities, not a handicapped child. Why did they write that in the ad? As if they didn't even know how old she was or what was wrong with her. Is it so difficult to write "handicapped" instead of "handicapped"? Is this how boundless love and devotion manifest?

I took her dinner.

"I won't eat. You can take this," she said, not even looking in my direction. Unfortunately, I wasn't used to being treated like air.

"If that's what suits you, then I can only treat you as the object of my duties."—emphasizing, of course, the word "object." "That's no problem for me."

Carrying the tray back to the kitchen, I passed Mr. Kacper. When he heard what had happened, he simply said that the same thing was happening again and, resigned, shuffled upstairs.

I returned to my room.

"You won't show me your moods anymore! Mika, can you hear me?! Answer me when I say so!" Daddy must have gotten angry, but I bet she's sitting with her back to him now, tears in her eyes.

"Leave me alone. You've been tormenting me for seventeen years. Leave me alone..." she said, sobbing.

No one can reach her by screaming. It's not the way, but what can I do if she rejects me too? She's building a barrier around herself that's impenetrable for a normal person, as best demonstrated by the fact that for two months the caregivers have changed on average every week.

No, her parents don't give love. If they did, they wouldn't have a screaming teenager at home. Maybe they don't show it to her, but in her situation, they probably should. Toys aren't enough.

It's raining.

I'm sitting on the balcony, in a gray fleece sweatshirt, with a cup of coffee in my hand, wondering which of us will give up first. I won't quit my job, and maybe she'll finally understand. After all, I'm not her enemy. He doesn't mean any harm to her, quite the opposite, but she seems to be expecting something else.

"Excuse me, can I have a few words with you?" I heard the question behind me, asked by the always smiling Mr. Kacper, and I jumped in my chair. "I didn't mean to scare you. I knocked," he added.

"Nothing happened. What's the matter?

" "My wife and I have a favor to ask. We would be grateful if you didn't talk to anyone from town." He met my questioning gaze, so he began to explain in more detail. "The locals are just looking for a sensation, and we don't want them to find it. This is about our privacy. Of course, it's for Mika's good. I hope you understand," I nodded, though I didn't understand. "How do you like it here?"

"Your daughter likes me." That was enough comment from me; I hope that will change in a few days... weeks.

There's an unhealthy atmosphere in this house. Yesterday I thought there was plenty of space, that this house was spacious, but today I'm simply suffocating. Is this place haunted, or what?!

Everywhere there's either the perpetually smiling Mr. Kacper, or the housekeeper, whose papery face betrays no emotion, or the lady of the house, Weronika, a petite woman, very cold and always somewhat sour. It's not exactly a cheerful bunch.

Everything would be fine if it weren't for Mr. Kacper's fake smile. He acts as if he were hiding a corpse somewhere in a locked wing of the house. At least. What does this ban on talking to locals mean? I can go to the store, yes, but it's better if I give a list of all the things I need to the housekeeper, who goes shopping twice a week to the town seventeen kilometers away.

Someone can even drop me off on the way to work if I have urgent errands, as long as I don't go into town. Paranoia!

Theoretically, I can do anything, but in practice, I'd rather not leave this room. Am I supposed to be a prisoner here?!

The kitchen and dining room are the housekeeper's domain. She looks at me askance, even when I go to make coffee. She's always there with some work, overseeing lunch and dinner...

The living room is usually empty. Only in the evening do the ladies and gentlemen sit there, sipping drinks, watching TV, arguing. Usually about Dominika. I'm not welcome there either, which doesn't bother me, because I have my own TV.

Mrs. Weronika has a dentist's office in the house, so she usually spends time there, and Mr. Kacper leaves in the morning and doesn't come back until late at night. From what I understand, he runs his own business.

And of course, Dominika. Only Mr. Kacper can be found in her room occasionally, but she quite effectively tries to make these visits as infrequent as possible. Her domain is off-limits to anyone.

She's quite independent, and although it requires a lot of effort and time, she refuses to let anyone help her. She thinks she's doing a real favor by even deigning to eat breakfast.

I'm a stranger here.

They took me in out of necessity, but at every turn they show me, while trying to be nice, that this isn't my place. Everyone in this house acts like they're pretending to be someone. Well, maybe except for Dominika, she's the only one here who always says and does what she wants.

Everyone else is nervously looking for something to do in my presence, trying to make it seem like it's perfectly normal behavior. Why?

I've been here two days, and I already feel like I've been trapped in some monstrous castle for ages.

It's been two weeks now.

Bring Dominikka breakfast, lunch, dinner, sometimes coffee or tea, if her pride allows her to ask. Sometimes she even allows herself to be helped, usually in the bathroom, or in the evenings when she wants to lie down, but that happens very rarely.

Her forced independence, vegetarianism, starvation, shouting, rejection of everyone, cynicism, and arrogance are all protests. But against what? Against life? Against her parents? This is her cry for notice…

It's the end of October.

The weather has completely turned. It's cold. It's windy.

I don't sit on the balcony anymore. But I go out into town very often. No one says anything to me about it, but whenever I return, Mrs. Weronika asks where I've been. And I usually go to the library, from where I bring a ton of books.

I have to admit, my mere appearance in town causes a sensation. People fall silent and, as if casually, watch my every move. The librarian carefully examines each title I choose, and the young grocery clerk, always dressed in bright sweaters, hands me everything with obvious reluctance, so everyone in the store can stare at me as they please.

More than once, I've heard comments like, "It's the new one from that disabled woman," or "The next one came to that rich woman in the wheelchair." They wait for me to say something, but they don't, not because of Mr. Kacper's prohibitions, but out of simple human decency. I won't let this girl's suffering become fodder for a sensation for all those old hens who spend all day on benches in front of their houses or outside the store.

It's already quite cold outside, but Dominika spends most of her time on her terrace anyway, and I can't say she's warmly dressed.

Sandwiches with yellow cheese, cold cuts, and tomatoes. Hot tea. I enter her kingdom.

"I don't eat meat." "I'm a vegetarian," she says with disgust at the sight of the ham.

"Your mother said you're a vegetarian on average every fifth day of the year and that I shouldn't worry about it." I set the trays by the bed and headed for the exit.

"She has no right to decide what I eat. Neither do you! If I could..." She stopped and looked at her feet.

Every outburst of anger takes a lot of her energy. She's actually very weak, and all the yelling and forced independence only make her even weaker.

She wanted to move to the bed, but she couldn't.

"Need help?

" "Objects don't need help," she replied angrily, finally managing.

I can't stay angry with her. Even though she's impertinent, I ignore it.

She'd once treated me to a similar remark before. I brought her dinner. It was cold that time, and she was sitting on the terrace in a thin sweater. I asked if she wasn't cold, and she replied that objects don't tend to feel the cold. In situations like that, I want to punch her in the face.

Now, at least on one level, I understand her parents. Getting that girl to utter a single human word borders on a miracle.

I'm beginning to understand why those women fled after a week at most. It wasn't about Dominika at all. She was just an unpleasant addition to the existence in this house.

A young woman, let's say educated and with prospects, takes a well-paid job with an apartment. She has every possible comfort in town, but she feels like a prisoner here. Everyone looks at her like a thief, yet at the same time, they pay her to stay. Her movements are restricted. She feels suffocated in the enormous house.

When she quits her job and, suitcase in hand, closes the wrought-iron gate behind her, she feels herself begin to breathe, as if she'd been forbidden to do so for the past few days.

Dominka's behavior is bearable. The rest of the household isn't.

I stood in front of the mirror.

I'm twenty-seven years old. I'm educated, but without prospects. For now. Love... I guess there was something like that in college, but he went away on a scholarship and never came back. After that, only fleeting acquaintances, no strings attached, ending in bed. Mine or his, it doesn't matter anymore, because afterward, all that was left was a never-used phone number.

Dark, loose, shoulder-length hair. Blue eyes. Breasts not too big, not too small. Just right. Indentation, hips. Everything average, yet life in "freedom" offers some prospects. If only a heady night at some handsome guy's expense. Here, the most I can hope for is a heady night in the company of the TV.

All Saints' Day.

My graves are too far away. First, I left my town for college. Only 250 kilometers. Now I've arrived here. It's a bit too far to go and come back in a day. My parents went to Algeria to work and have no intention of coming back. Why should I go anywhere?

I'm left alone with Dominika, who refused to leave. The housekeeper will be back this evening, and Mr. Kasper and his wife won't be back until tomorrow morning.

I have to do the cooking myself. It's no big deal.

"You're not quitting your job?" she asked mockingly as she brought her cornflakes with milk. "It's been over two weeks. Hasn't it been too long? I'm bored..." The irony in her voice. "This monotony is starting to get to me." My hand on her cheek...

I left.

I couldn't believe I'd done it. I hadn't let myself be provoked for three weeks, but I finally had to react. Damn, I didn't want this! What was that girl thinking?!

I don't think anyone's ever hit her before. It would be a complete disaster. I wonder if she'll tell Daddy everything and if they'll throw me out. It wasn't very pleasant here, but at least they paid a lot.

Dominika turned up the music so loud it shook the tracks in the whole house.

Is she crying?

I went into her room.

She was sitting on the terrace. In the seven-degree heat, she was wearing only a short-sleeved blouse. I turned the volume down. I grabbed a blanket. I pulled a sweater out of the cupboard. I covered her legs. She ignored my presence. But tears were streaming down her cheeks.

"Put it on. It's cold." She turned her face away.

I placed the sweater on her lap. I left. I didn't want what happened to happen, but I'm not going to apologize. I don't expect her to either.

I made dinner from the ingredients I found in the fridge. I took it to Dominika. When I entered her room, she was still sitting on the terrace, but she had the sweater on. She didn't cry, but sadness radiated from her face. She entered the room and turned off the radio.

"Could you close the terrace door?"

I closed it and left.

That day hadn't been a success. I spent the entire evening with a book in my hand, listening to the first CD that came along, trying to forget about the day's incident.

A few days later, to my questioning look, she replied matter-of-factly.

"I didn't tell your father. I'm sure he would have praised you. You did something he never had the courage to do."

She calmed down from then on. At least she was easier to live with now.

But then came the time when she started causing trouble again. She stopped eating. She only drank juice or coffee.

She responded to her father's shouts with silence, and my words were even more ignored. She asked her doctor, Dr. Kawka, to leave her room, or rather, she shouted at him to force him to leave.

Finally, everyone decided she would come to her senses on her own. I tried to talk to her, but what could I do?

One evening, I brought her dinner. I knew what fate awaited her, but one could always try.

She was sitting at her desk, writing something. She turned her pale face toward me. She was very weak. She tried to move to the bed, but fell to the floor. She had no strength to get up. Subsequent attempts were futile.

I wanted to leave.

Finally, she began pounding the floor with her fists, then hitting her legs. Tears fell one after another. She began to scream. Another moment, and nothing would be able to control her hysteria.

I went to her. I knelt on the floor and hugged her. She slowly began to calm down. I thought that if her father appeared now, the hysterical screams would start again and Dr. Kawka would have to be called. Fortunately, nothing happened.

I helped her sit on the bed and change. Teary eyes looked at me with sympathy for the first time.

"My father is a monster..." she began.

Then I heard her life story. Her mother was fifteen when she became pregnant with Kacper, who was then twenty-three. She came from a good family and had plenty of money, so the marriage was concluded as quickly as possible. As a wedding gift, they received an old, enormous manor house that had once belonged to her family. It simply needed to be renovated. The marriage wasn't a happy one. He only cared about the money, so Gosia, the name of Dominika's mother, signed over her entire estate to her daughter. She did this secretly from her husband.

"I was eleven at the time. He came here and told me my mother was in a psychiatric hospital and I would never see her again.

Kacper had his wife legally incapacitated immediately after he found out what she had done with the money. It was retaliation. The divorce was a mere formality." Then he met Weronika.

"The estate is mine, but officially, not until I turn eighteen... and my mother took care of that. It's not my father who manages it, but my mother's lawyer, old Mr. Kraczyński. My father hopes he'll die before I turn eighteen, but not seeing him through…

The fetus's spinal tumor was diagnosed too late. It was too late for surgery, and the one performed immediately after birth was ineffective. Dominika was born with partially disabled legs. After Kacper deprived her of her mother, Kamila, Gosia's sister, took care of her, but four months ago she decided to get married and left. Dominika claims it was all her father's doing.

He always hurt her. First he took her mother, then Kamila, but he didn't let her take her own life. She didn't want to talk about it.

If she underwent surgery and rehabilitation, she might have a chance of walking again, but she didn't want that.

She looked at the dinner tray.

"Can you make an omelet? Mommy always made it for me with cherry jam?" she asked, looking at me quizzically, feeling far away, with her mother.

"My name is Justyna. Of course I can."

I smiled at her and left. She was a little girl now, wanting to be with her mommy. She spoke of Gosia with such warmth. I didn't think she was capable of such a thing.

Did so much have to happen for her to understand that not everyone means her harm? I found common ground with her, but that's only the beginning. What's next?

P.S. Truth be told, this was supposed to be the start of something bigger, but you'll decide if it's worth continuing.