not entirely untrue story

 

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.. I inform my dear readers that this text has already been posted here. I had to take it down for reasons I don't particularly want to discuss. There are a few minor corrections to the first version, but if someone has already read it, they won't learn anything new, which, as the author, I politely warn... I encourage everyone else to read it and ask for at least a small opinion, even if it's not positive. ..

eat

I used to date a killer. You know, I dated, in the sense that... we went out together. Although that might not be quite the right word. We simply dated.

I don't even remember exactly how it started. I know we met in school. It was a large complex of schools, consisting of several old, concrete buildings. Mainly post-secondary studies: computer science, nursing, pharmacy, marketing, makeup artistry, management, and a whole host of others. You name it. High schools for adults, vocational courses for people wanting to retrain, and even some artistic fields. For stained glass artists... or something like that. It's not really important. And she, she learned to sew. Although I doubt she intended to work as a seamstress. I think she wanted to learn how to make something cool for herself, or just occupy her free time somehow. I never asked her why she chose that particular field. And what's so strange about it? It's a very feminine pursuit. I was pursuing photography back then, also purely for pleasure, of course. Although perhaps each of us had some subconscious hope for such a peaceful profession. But well... even if we did, neither of us took it seriously. Such a school was simply the perfect job for someone who worked part-time, not much more than a dozen days a year, and had no need or desire to explain unannounced trips or absences.

She was very beautiful. How old could she have been? Actually, I know exactly. She was a year younger than me, you could just count. Not some poster "beauty" like a Playboy Miss or a top model. Many guys didn't even notice her. When I often mentioned her to my friends, even after a lengthy description, they didn't know who I was talking about. And yet, they'd often passed each other in the hallways. One glance was enough for me. And a completely accidental one at that. Small, petite, very nice, such a sweet little girl. She wears her hair fabulously long, always perfectly combed, perfectly straight. Sometimes, of course, she'd tie it up, in a bun or something else. But the way I see her, whenever I close my eyes, is with her hair hanging loosely, reaching all the way to her butt. Very feminine hips. You see, you couldn't say she was skinny. Besides, you know what I mean. Maybe some people don't like that type of woman. Everyone admires those anorexic women on the runways. But for me, it's... what tigers like best.

You know I have a terrible memory for faces; people greet me on the street, and I have no idea who they are. But her face, her smile, her lips, her always perfect hairstyle, her always perfectly painted nails. I remembered her from the first time I laid eyes on those slightly misty blue eyes. Do you know where else you can find that color? Glacial ice. The color of deep crevasse walls. When you look at it from the right angle, the blue transforms into opal green. She immediately remembered me of the ice caves on Spitzbergen. Right at the beginning of our collaboration, the company sent me there on, let's say, a research expedition. But I digress.

I realize I'm overusing one word, but that's exactly what she was—perfect. At first glance, and even after two, and even after five, hours of constant staring. She dressed exceptionally well. On one hand, blacks and muted grays; on the other, pastels, blues, pinks, purples. But everything always matched...perfectly. Extravagant enough not to get lost in the gray of the crowd, yet calm enough not to be conspicuous.

I've never understood that either. How does she manage it? She's the most intriguing and unsettling person in the company, yet no one pays much attention to her, or if they do, they forget the moment they look away.

I mean, don't think she was some kind of gray mouse. She didn't speak to anyone, she hid in corners, and she was ashamed of herself. That would be a completely false notion. Among friends, she was always cheerful, even talkative. She laughed loudly and joked often. Full of energy, full of life. But she could disappear, isolate herself from her surroundings, just as well as stand out. What I'm saying may sound a bit inconsistent, but that's exactly how it was. I can't explain it any better. She was phenomenal.

I know that, despite giving the opposite impression, she didn't trust people, didn't blindly believe in good intentions, in the appearance of friendship. She never let on, but she was always cautious. Too cautious for an average girl her age. Studying tailoring at one of the most formulaic schools imaginable. Did she trust me? Mom, I sincerely hope she didn't completely. And I really wish it were true, because I betrayed that trust.

I know it sounds trite, but something needs to be said first. So here it is: The whole story began the day we first noticed each other. And although I don't remember when or where, I'm certain we both became interested in each other at the same moment. And yet, it's even more than certain that we must have passed each other somewhere before. Our classes, the places we went with friends, our daily schedules at the time. They were so simple that it would have been impossible for us not to have passed each other at least once. In the hallway, in the cafeteria, in front of the office. Or in the bar behind the school, where we spent long hours, every day, but each one separately. Something must have been in the air then, I don't know. The alignment of the stars, some magical coincidence, the butterfly effect. In any case, one careless glance, a thoughtless shift of gaze, was enough. A split second of genuine surprise, followed by a studied, seemingly confident, slightly curious look on my part, and one full of innocence, curiosity, and feigned embarrassment on hers. After that, not a day went by without our eyes meeting, sometimes for a fleeting moment, sometimes for what seemed like an eternity—a minute or two. Of course, always "by accident" and "accidentally," because we'd never even spoken to each other before. They didn't even know each other's names, at least not officially. So we acted like little children. We pretended not to notice each other.

But somehow, we happened to have mutual friends. Someone finally introduced to us. Just like that. Blissfully unaware of the facts, without even the slightest idea of ​​what it could lead to. Her name was Beattrice, or at least everyone called her that back then. I suppose it was true. I thought then that since the situation had progressed this way without any interference from either of us, then it must be the right path and we were needlessly avoiding what might happen. I ignored my premonitions telling me to forget everything, erase it from my memory, and get out of there as quickly as possible, before I messed anything up. I allowed myself to forget that I knew exactly how and why it would end. And that was my mistake. People always make mistakes, small or large, especially when they allow themselves to be ruled by passion.

After that, things just sort of fell into place. "Chance" meetings, at first in places where they could actually happen by chance. Walks in the nearby park, shared lunches, late breakfasts, early dinners in the cafeteria. Sometimes a beer or two at the place I mentioned earlier. But mostly walks, those are what I remember most. We were lucky. Spring started very early then, and autumn ended much later than expected. So most of our time together was spent outdoors. Walking, sitting on park benches. Wandering at night through all sorts of strange places. From a forgotten forest cemetery to the post-industrial ruins of a closed mine, or railway sidings full of rusted wrecks of wagons and locomotives from an old narrow gauge railway.

I realize now that she had the same doubts as me all this time. She wasn't sure if she was doing the right thing, she was afraid to trust, and I think she was also afraid of my trust in her. At the time, I didn't consider it from that perspective. The fear of letting her down, and then the guilt of having done so, kept me from seeing it that way. I thought she was afraid of disappointment, but that wasn't the whole truth. Although... maybe I'm just saying that to justify myself. Because, you know, a lot of time has passed. How long will that be? Six, not seven. A lot has changed since those days, but I still feel guilty when I think about her. And you know what hurts the most? She really wanted to trust and tried very, very hard to change herself. And she just had to find me. Apparently, misfortune attracts.

Was I afraid? Of her? Yeah. I certainly wasn't afraid of her. She knew I knew. That I knew her past. Or rather, that I could guess some of her past. And I think she felt it didn't matter much to me. Or rather, that the forces drawing us together were so strong. And the others? The others didn't know much; she never shared much about herself, not even me. In fact, we never talked about the period before our "career" in that second-rate adult kennel. It was taboo. It was never mentioned. similarly, she wouldn't let me ever take her picture. That was her condition. I was learning photography there; I had decent equipment, lighting, a school studio at my disposal. And I really wanted her to agree to pose. But there was no chance. She didn't get angry at repeated offers. The answer, however, was always no.

There were also rumors. As always. Someone heard something, repeated it, others added their own. Nothing sensational shoe. All you had to do you look at this tiny girl and all those sensational revelations were immediately dismissed as fairy tales.

But what was it really like? I wouldn't be far off the mark if I said that less than two years before we met, she experienced had some very... unpleasant experiences. Someone had hurt her deeply. And she was trying to save herself. That much I knew.

I learned the details a few months after we had already parted ways. By pure chance. A friend from Dresden had a moment to reminisce. After six hours spent staring at, at least uninteresting, CCTV footage, any story is a good way to combat boredom. Besides, I don't know why they needed Nimrod at that meeting. But whatever, it's just work.

Anyway, I wanted to say that the guy who was sitting with me at the time, observing, was killing time by telling me some local trivia: She wasn't even twenty, but she took them out so efficiently that no one knew what had happened. They were trafficking people, apparently also organs for transplants. Certainly women, for a known purpose. He didn't know how long it took her to escape or how much harm they had done to her. But the local police hadn't seen such a mess in a long time. Four corpses in a hotel room. One with his throat slit with a piece of broken mirror. The other three with their heads bashed in. They each took a bullet from the Desert Eagle of the one who bled out. Apparently, none of them even had time to reach for their guns. Can you imagine that, such a tiny girl, from such a cannon. Three shots in a matter of seconds, centered in the head. And no panic, no banging on the walls, no shooting at the corpses. There were still six bullets left in the gun. But this child had probably never held a gun in her hand before. They found another one in the garage, in the same condition. She drove off in his car. Despite witness statements, the police didn't even want to believe a teenage girl had done it. In fact, it suited them that someone had definitively ended these men's business, so they didn't pursue the case any further.

So that's how it all began for her. Hurt, fear, uncertainty about the future, and suddenly, a revelation. She's strong enough to control the course of events. From victim, she's become predator. Someone with a graveyard sense of humor might say she's found her calling. Just don't imagine her now as some crazy woman shooting people on the street. That's not the case. Bea is a professional, she's just doing what she does best.

If I'd known these facts before, would I have done anything differently? Or not done anything? I don't think so. I knew who she was, I knew it was Hunter. I didn't need to know the details. The only thing I was afraid of was the moment I'd have to tell her it was over. And not because I was afraid of what she'd do; I'd already explained that.

But we were together, regardless. Months passed, and we acted like scared teenagers. We'd just sit and stare at each other for hours. We'd hold hands when no one was watching, hug only when no one was around. Our first kisses were shy, as if we were kids not wanting to be caught by our parents. Honestly, we didn't even sleep together. Don't laugh. You know what life was like back then. And if it makes you feel any better, I can assure you that if we had, she wouldn't have been my first. And she wouldn't have been my second, either.

This was something else; we were afraid we'd break the mirror, shatter the crystal ball, and all the magic would vanish with it. Well, maybe she was more afraid of that than I was. But you know how it is: The sadness of a fairy tale comes true. We both wanted it, but somehow we lacked the courage... and happiness. Happiness, I guess, more so.

What the hell! I felt like waxing poetic, paranoid. To put it trivially and indelicately, we couldn't seem to get in sync. When she was in the mood, I'd have some strange, idiotic whims, other times the same thing would happen to her.

I'd even been to her house once or twice. She invited me over under some contrived pretext. She lived as you'd expect of an ordinary young woman. A cozy room filled with colorful glass ornaments, a few scented candles, the scent of vanilla incense, dried flowers. On the table, a frame with a photo of a small child. She said it was her brother's daughter. A clean ashtray on the windowsill, full of seashells. She'd never smoked since I'd known her. We'd sit on the couch, drink strong, overly sweet coffee with cinnamon, and listen to records.

She really liked Bjork. She explained that her music allowed you to open up to space and release all your negative thoughts. It didn't quite work that way for me. But the fact is, I'd also been eager to reach for the same records, even before we met. So we had no trouble understanding each other on that level.

I once rummaged through her purse. I'm ashamed to admit it, because it was so... unkind, to say the least. I don't know what inspired me. Anyway, I took advantage of the fact that she'd forgotten it in the backseat of my car, and before I returned it, I decided to look through it. I don't really know what I expected to find there. A miniature women's spy pistol, straight out of a James Bond movie. Or some twelve-millimeter modern gadget with a recoil reducer, like a German USP. Long live the imagination.

What did I find? A phone, a notebook with a calendar, nail polish, lip gloss, lipstick, perfume, and... other feminine accessories. I was terribly ashamed of that move. And where's the room for trust, oh my god.

I see that one sentence from my story still bothers you. Just don't give me that stupid smile again. But I really didn't sleep with her. Everything else happened on its own—coincidence, coincidence, coincidence. We didn't have to do anything to get closer. But Ifni wouldn't help us with this. How can I best explain it to you?

One day we met on the highway. Again, it was pure chance. I stopped at a gas station near Gerlitz, already on the Polish side of the border. I filled up, paid, bought a Coke, and went back to my car. A black SLK with the top down cuts off in front of me. Before I could even realize what was happening, Bea jumped out and, laughing, threw her arms around me. She said she was coming back from visiting family and recognized my car in the parking lot. So she decided to stop. I can actually believe it. It's hard not to recognize my car if you've even looked at it once. I was driving the same Toyota back then as I do now. You know, you can't mistake my little thing for any other. It looks like I've just been dragged out of a Camel Trophy. And just like always, it's covered in a few months' worth of mud, making it hard to tell what color it was.

In any case, she gave me a very pleasant surprise. And she didn't hide the fact that she was very happy about the meeting. And throwing herself around my neck in such crowded places wasn't something she did very often. I don't know what caused her to burst into such joy at the sight of me, but I remember that evening, or rather night, as one of the most spontaneous and at the same time strangest of our encounters. We pulled out of the gas station. I wouldn't say my car was a sports car, so I had to squeeze everything I could out of it to avoid losing the taillights of the Mercedes she was driving. After a few minutes, she pulled over to the shoulder just before the exit onto a side road in the forest. I stopped right next to her. She simply asked me to open the back door. She took a rather large suitcase from the trunk and loaded it into the back of my car. She also grabbed her purse, threw it in the backseat, and got behind the wheel of my Toyota. I must have looked like an idiot watching this, mouth agape and with a rather unintelligent expression on my face. Finally, he asked if I was finally going to get in and if we could go. She looked very amused and generally happy the entire time.

We pulled off the highway. She'd left the Mercedes on the shoulder with the keys in the ignition, the roof down, and, as if that weren't enough, the headlights on. The muddy dirt road led for several kilometers through a marshy forest and ended rather abruptly at a washed-out, tilted bridge, torn off on one side. By then, I'd recovered somewhat from my sudden incapacitation. So, ironically, I suggested that if she didn't want to take the bridge, she could always cross the adjacent river. Or we could swap places if she felt uneasy. She refused to be provoked and decided authoritatively that there was no reason to continue. We stopped because she wanted to wait for the sunrise by that very river.

So we stayed there until morning, on the remains of a concrete bridge. At first, we talked very casually about everything. Except for the topic we both wanted to talk about most and avoided just as carefully. We never talked "about us." Later, we just sat there and silently watched the lazily flowing dark water.

I'm sure a small gesture on my part would have been enough, and your idiotic jibes would have been gone now.

Why didn't I do anything about it? I'll quickly satisfy your curiosity. Two cracked ribs and a nasty hole in my left arm, which I had stitched up quite decently, but that didn't make it any less bothersome. And on top of that, I was so stuffed with paracetamol that I wouldn't have felt even if my fingernails were being pulled out.

And that's how it was most of the time. If not because of me, then because of her. But maybe it's a good thing it happened. Or rather, it didn't.

How did I get myself into this mess? That's what happens when someone does two different things at once and still has something else on their mind. Maybe someday, someone from your company will tell you what that carnage was like. I don't feel like repeating it. But it was, to put it mildly, not pretty.

That night, she must have sensed that something was wrong and that it wasn't her fault, so we sat through it peacefully until morning. Together, close, and that was enough. We didn't see the sun. Just before dawn, the sky was covered with thick rain clouds. It started raining from noon and wouldn't stop for the next three days.

When we returned to the highway, there was no trace of the Mercedes. That was more than certain in this country. Someone had unknowingly saved her the trouble of getting rid of her car. I feigned surprise and asked, terrified, what she would do without her car now. She just laughed and asked, "What car? I don't even have a driver's license." I then mentioned that she must be an angel to have found herself alone last night, in the middle of a road leading nowhere. Without a car, she'd probably have to fly there. Still smiling, she replied that if I thought so, she wouldn't argue, but that she absolutely didn't want to fly away right now. Instead, she desperately wanted to grab a hot cup of coffee and something sweet for breakfast.

For those few warm months, as we got to know each other and began to bond, every day felt like a dream. But good dreams can't last forever.

With the onset of winter, which didn't arrive until mid-January that year, everything fell apart. I had to leave, to leave her. Not for a month or two, not even for a year or two. Putting it that way wouldn't have made the slightest sense. Why? I have no intention of telling you or anyone else about it, and I have no desire to. In fact, I knew it would be like this from the very beginning. And that's why she holds the greatest grudge against herself.

But I postponed that moment as much as I could. It didn't help much. For the past week before the last time I saw her, I probably didn't sleep a single hour. I avoided company, her or anyone else. When we finally met, I would look away, staring with the same dull fascination both at my feet and at the ceiling. Anything to avoid meeting her eyes. I wandered from bar to bar, getting drunk several times. I didn't know what to say to her, how to apologize. And I think I would have finally fled without a word, if it weren't for her.

She found me in some bar, sitting in front of an untouched mug of beer. She bought me a drink and sat down. We talked, or rather, she talked. She talked about her dreams, the CD she'd recently bought, the dress she couldn't finish, the book she'd recently read. She said she hoped it would finally snow soon because she really wanted to go skiing, and that she wanted to learn how to snowboard this year. Not a single word about us.

I didn't even touch any alcohol that night; she drank a martini. We were the last to leave the bar. I walked her home. We stood for a long time by the door, in the freezing cold. Finally, she asked me to at least hug her goodbye.

"Go ahead, I won't look for you. Quickly, before I cry and change my mind.

" "Happy hunting, little angel."

I couldn't think of anything smarter. "Goodbye" wouldn't have crossed my mind, and "see you later" would have been a blatant lie. She understood. She smiled uncertainly. I don't know if a tear rolled down her cheek or if it was just my imagination.

Then I gathered the long-packed bags from my apartment—there weren't many of them. I threw them in the car and drove away. Anything faster, anywhere farther.

I still had plenty of time before our appointment, so I didn't have to fly. I could easily drive the 2,000-something kilometers. This was so good because I didn't have to leave my little one unattended and worry about getting a new car locally. You know how attached I am to that old Land Cruiser. And the monotony of the highways is soothing.

You're probably wondering why I'm telling you all this? And why now, because after all, we've known each other for a few years. The reason is damn simple and devastatingly obvious.

On the right. Alone at a two-person table. Watching everyone who enters through half-closed eyes, Bea sits. I'd be surprised you didn't notice her when we walked in. She's facing the door, not even pretending not to be watching the guests. I'd be surprised if any other equally attractive woman were sitting there. But I've already told you how it is with her. And she hasn't changed a bit. Just as young and girlish as I remember her. The same perfectly combed, long dark hair, perfectly painted nails. The same astonishment, which in a split second transformed into a look of innate innocence, genuine curiosity, and feigned embarrassment. I have no doubt that she recognized me and that she wasn't expecting this meeting at all.

And I'll tell you one more thing: we're not the only ones here; we're on a hunt today