Tag

 It happened, it attacked...

At the least expected moment, it started biting, digging into my skin, disgustingly irritating. The shirt's tag wouldn't leave me alone. A time bomb. Oh no, not a bomb. It explodes and that's it, and the material would sometimes sting for hours. A clever thread, with some plastic added if it wasn't some kind of string, would slide across my skin, irritating me. I started the day by filling my stomach. It's nice to wake up well-rested, wash up, eat, and drink hot coffee. Even the prospect of eight hours of work doesn't dampen my spirits. It seems like it's going to be one of those almost perfect days.

And yet. When I put the shirt on, everything was fine. She was a smartass, she'd done me in. What do I do now? I'm sitting in this damn office, struggling with this crap. And she seems happy with the situation. I'm going crazy, and she's just sitting on top of me, irritating me. At one point, my irritation reaches its peak, and I grab my shirt violently, knocking over my coffee mug, ruining the last week of my project. At that moment, I know I won't forget this day, but not in a good way.

I grab the back of my T-shirt, just below the collar, pull, and rip it off. At that moment, my face, strangely red and covered in spit, looks like a freshly cut watermelon. Seeds falling out and juice squirting everywhere—yes, that's what it looks like. At that moment, I'd rip my wife's ass, but I'm struggling with that label. Surprisingly well sewn. After all, it's a brand-name T-shirt, and for that price, you should expect decent workmanship, not some rip-and-tear piece of junk. At that moment, it's no longer irritation; it's fury. My eyes look and behave like I've been punched in the nose, they're watering, I can barely see, and anyway, the thought of that damn label obscures my vision anyway. If it were 5 degrees Celsius in the office, the steam coming out of my nostrils would fog up my glasses.

I'm fighting like a bull, against an invisible, yet real enemy. A smaller, physically weaker enemy, but still cunning, cleverer, and well-tailored. I've never encountered opponents like this before. This is a fight with high stakes. I don't know what it will be, but it's a fight to the death, and only one of us will walk away with a head injury. As I claw at it, I pray I catch the tailor who sewed it or some asshole designer who charges a fortune for color matching. I wish him the worst, for him and his family. And I'll get the tag anyway. I've been clawing for two seconds. The first grab fails. The little one slips away. But this is only the beginning. My work week has been a disaster, so someone's going to drop dead today. Ah, finally, a good catch. Ha ha, now I can't get the damn thing out. He tugs hard, almost with all his might, I can already feel it letting go, slipping away, but I clench my fists with all my might. My knuckles are turning white. I don't care now. He tugs with all his might, as hard as I can.

I remember back in high school, when my pull-up test came up in PE. How they laughed at me for not being able to do a single pull-up. I fought just as hard then as I do now. I don't know if I was trying to get married, even half as hard as I am now, or if I was trying to get married that fateful day. And I'm pulling and pulling. I'm bracing myself... Oh, that wasn't the best idea. I fall from the chair onto the floor. I see the ceiling and think about that damn label, and it's still holding on. That damn chair, with wheels. Another invention that's going to kill me. My elbow hurts. Because of that chair, and of course, the label, it's also a factor. In moments like these, I start to believe in all the conspiracies of some group of people, in this case probably psychiatrists, who design things to drive people crazy. Like me right now. If a doctor walked into my office and what did he see? My desk is a complete mess, everything is swimming in coffee, and I'm lying on the ground, pulling at my neck, screaming, red-faced. I wouldn't recognize my own child, I look like some lunatic who claims there's a bug on his back and if he doesn't get it out, he'll die. And I just want to work in peace. Finally, the first sounds of tearing fabric.

My God, someone really messed up with that label. Where did I buy that shirt? Oh, I remember now. In that boutique across the street from my wife's favorite restaurant. Yes, it's no coincidence. I remember how that salesman looked at me. He was ginger. Yes, ginger, ginger is a fake, insidious color. They always sell you something, and then they mark on the wall at home the next lunatic who jumped out the window because of the label. That smirk. I thought he was laughing at my tie, but he knew what awaited me, knew the torment I would endure. How can a man like that live? I'm selling a shirt to a normal, decent citizen, I'm a patriot, and he's doing this to me. As soon as I get that label, I'll go to him and smash his ginger head in. We'll see if he smiles like that. He'll lie on the ground, trying to grab his head. I'll make him so bad he won't recognize his own child. And the doctor will zip him up into his jacket right away. But first, that damn tag. My back is already wet. My hands are slick with sweat, and I feel my certain victory slipping away. He he, exactly, slipping away. Oh no, not at a time like this. I'm already pulling with both hands, tugging with all my might, thrashing around the room. I hit a wardrobe, which drops stacks of papers on me. Some receipts I'd been filling out so diligently are now rushing and tearing in my arms. Someone really tried. I can't tear this away, I sure as hell won't. I'm starting to lose hope, and that's not good. My opponent is gaining extra points. I'm starting to panic. I feel a capitulation starting to form in my camp. No, I can't allow this. And yet. I have to change tactics. At the same time, tugging, now with one hand, I get to my feet. I don't notice that the wardrobe collapsed as I stood up.

I see faces. It's my boss. What could this mean? The last battle, and I see my boss's face. And now my secretary. But I see them as if through a fog. At that moment, my filling breaks. Four, damn it, halfway through, about three years ago. The tooth was saved, but it still fell out today. That was my last stronghold. And I'm still fighting. I feel blood in my mouth, I know I'm getting close to the finale. But it's not from the tooth. My tongue is damned. Clever, teeth finished off my tongue, and then muscles finished off my teeth. I couldn't have figured it out better myself. That tag isn't as stupid as I thought. Maybe I ignored it. Maybe I should have done it peacefully. It doesn't matter now. Blood is pouring from my mouth, a good drizzle. My elbow hurts like hell. I know I bruised it, and badly. Blood has stained my shirt, already soaked with sweat. And faces all around me. Strange. Someone's trying to grab my hand. It's the redhead. Aha. I grab the scissors and plunge them into his neck. I hear a squeal. Now the redhead isn't smiling anymore. Through the fog, I see his blood squirting all over me. God, I was so pleased with myself. The redhead's down. Good for him. Now it should be easier with the tag. Her brain is ruined. Good thing I stuck the scissors in his neck; it wasn't a problem getting them out. Ha ha, now they'll deal with that bitch on my neck. When the redhead fell to the scissors, the same thing will happen to her. I'm holding enemy number one, one hand, and the other I'm stabbing her with the scissors. Pain, excruciating pain. I knew she'd fight back, but I didn't know it would be so fierce. More blows. Excruciating pain. I'm starting to lose my footing. One more scissors blow to the side for a moment to finish off the face next to her, and now I'll kill that tag. I might not survive this, but the tag will survive even more.

And at that moment, the tag attacked. I got a blow to the head. How did she do it? I don't know, but I was hit by something hard. My legs buckled. I let go of the strangely slippery red scissors. So the tag might be bleeding. Maybe. So I got it. Hurrah. I won. I collapse onto my light blue carpet, covered in blood. I start to lose consciousness. Next to me, I see the boss's face. He's lying there covered in blood, and that red mane of his that almost got me fired when I made fun of the boss while drunk at an employee party. The boss was breathing heavily, covered in blood. His breathing was slowing down, slowing down, until with his last breath, when the blood stopped bubbling in my throat, I lost consciousness.

I woke up a moment later. Pleased with myself. But still... I was sitting in a room with a door without handles, in a caftan with the sleeves tied behind my back. And the caftan's tag was slowly driving me crazy...