7

 

...And that's exactly the point. – The man sitting on the other side smiled the venomous smile of a lizard waiting for its victim, who knew that victim was already its own. That's the whole idea. To drive you almost to the point of losing your mind. Almost, because you have to know what will happen to you when my child catches you. Almost, because you have to feel. Almost, because then you'll know who did this. Almost, because Marcel has to suffer just like you...)

Trembling all over and sobbing desperately, Laura tried desperately to calm herself. Each time, with each outburst, with each scream, it became increasingly difficult for her to maintain her mental balance, increasingly difficult for her to regain her composure. I open, she decided. “No matter what, I open.” She gritted her teeth, full of apprehension and fear, but at the same time full of hope. Hope for rescue? Hope that the box would turn out to be empty and not filled with something disgusting? For whatever it was, I open.

She opened it. She looked at what she held in her hands. The box was empty. Frantically, chaotically, she began opening another, and another, and another. And each one proved empty. Empty, empty, empty. As empty and dead as only a matchbox can be. Or rather, a matchbox. She reached for the last one. It felt heavier than the others. She gently lifted the lid... She held her breath... There it was, there it was, something inside!! Matches!! Finally!! I'm saved. But the sea of euphoria quickly turned into an ocean of despair (it's amazing how quickly a person can shift from one mood to another, noticed the probably no longer conscious part of Laura's mind, over whose thoughts and considerations Laura no longer had any influence. Or maybe she never had? Maybe she just imagined she did?) when she saw that the matches, every single one of them, were... yes, burnt out!! Quickly, without thinking, without the slightest trace of hesitation, Laura, like a madwoman, as if in a trance, began blindly opening the remaining boxes one by one. Each one, however, turned out to be filled with matches, every last one burned out. Desperately, she scattered the boxes' contents across the kitchen, digging through them on her knees, desperately hoping that at least one match would turn out to be unburned, that the madman who had locked her in there had missed at least one, that she still had some glimmer of hope. As the boxes in the drawer dwindled and the pile around them grew, as the clean kitchen floor became covered with burnt-out matches, Laura began to understand that her last hope had failed. That there was no hope left for her. That she would die now, in a moment, in a few hours—what difference did it make, after all? She would die because it was her destiny. She would die because someone had planned it. She would die, and she would never know why. She would die, and it would not be an easy or light death. It would hurt. Like never before in her life. Only two boxes remained in the drawer. The woman reached for the second-to-last one and—though she had never been particularly religious—began to pray. Or rather, she began to whisper isolated sentences and words from various prayers she remembered from childhood. I beg you, God, save me. Don't let me perish. Hail Mary, Our Father, O Merciful Allah, and the like crowded the lips of the distraught woman. At moments, she didn't know what she was saying, whether the words she was uttering made any sense at all, whether the sentences she was stringing together actually came from the same religion, whether what she was saying wasn't just a figment of her sick imagination, driven mad by terror. But none of that mattered, if only God—or any God, really—would agree to save her. With the last vestiges of her consciousness, Laura realized that this wouldn't happen. A familiar knocking sound from behind the door made her decide to open the second-to-last one. The result, she had been convinced from the start,It was the same as with the previous boxes. Burnt-out matches lay at the bottom, sneering at the terrified woman. "See," they seemed to say, "see? You failed again. We're on top again." Laura, as if in a trance, reached for the last box. Slowly, with the practiced movement of a madman, she decided to open it. For a moment, she held her breath, for this time there were no matches in the box. Something white flashed before her eyes. A mouse? Dead or alive, it didn't matter, Laura was terrified of mice. She was terrified of animals in general. Probably all of them, anyway... With a disgusted movement, she shook the contents of the box onto the floor, far, far away from herself, simultaneously jumping back to a safe distance. The white fragment didn't move, didn't even twitch. Somewhat reassured by this, the woman moved a little closer to the thing. "Even if it was a mouse, it was definitely dead," she told herself. If she were alive, she would have moved by now, right? She tossed the question into the distance and fell silent, as if expecting an answer that would never come. As if she still held onto some hope that this was all just a bad dream, that she wasn't alone. She wasn't. In fact, the increasingly louder, stronger, and more impatient knocks coming from behind the door made it clear to Laura that she wasn't alone, that there was someone else with her, someone who hadn't forgotten her, someone who was still trying to find a way to get to her. Fortunately, the beast seemed to be stuck in one spot, because for some time now, the knocks had been coming from the same spot constantly. This wasn't much consolation, but it meant that either there weren't any holes in the kitchen wall—which Laura didn't really believe—or the holes were well hidden. Too well, if even the snake hadn't managed to find them yet. Laura knew, however, that if only one was out there, sooner or later the beast would find them, and then she, Laura Marshal, would end her young life. What if? There was no "if" here. There was definitely a loophole. Laura didn't believe anyone who wanted to kill her would overlook such a detail. Why would he bother with such thorough preparation of a trap if he were to forget the most important thing—that Laura could safely wait out the danger in the kitchen? No, that was impossible. Even if he hoped she would go mad or starve to death, it made no sense. After all, someone would be curious tomorrow about her whereabouts, why she hadn't shown up for work. Besides, Marcel was coming tomorrow. The thought of Marcel made Laura start sobbing again. A small, innocent lie, not really a lie at all, but a slight twist of the truth, a concealment, a change—a tiny, single, single detail. Who would have thought it would cost her so dearly? She didn't want anything bad, she just wanted to rest, to show herself to her beloved rested, radiant with beauty and prettiness, just the way he liked her best.She meant well. Why had it backfired on her? Why? But now was not the time to dwell on that. Laura knew she had to move and see what had fallen from the matchbox. It seemed it wasn't a mouse, as something still hadn't moved, but perhaps the animal was simply asleep? Or unconscious? Or fainted from being locked up for so long and having a significantly reduced supply of oxygen? For a moment, Laura felt sorry for the potential pet. Even if she didn't have much affection for the mouse—assuming it was a mouse and not something far worse, she muttered to herself—she saw no reason why the animal should suffer so innocently. Besides, that wasn't important. Whatever the reason, the contents of the box, sprawled in a rather obscene position, were still motionless, Laura had to check it out. And she had to do it as quickly as possible. If that thing were to wake up and move any moment now, she was sure to have a heart attack. Maybe that's for the best, Laura thought with unexpected irony. "It'll spare me suffering. And the anticipation of death." Gently, as carefully and quietly as she could, the woman, almost paralyzed with fear, crawled over to the piece of fur lying on the floor. First, she gently nudged it with the box she held, but when she saw that the fur hadn't even moved, she decided to turn it over a bit more boldly. Beneath the fur, which, fortunately for her, turned out to be fake, she found a note attached. A plain, blank, folded piece of paper. She lifted the fur and unhooked the note, simultaneously tossing the fur into the sink. She automatically picked up one of the overturned chairs and sat down at the cabinet. Gently, as if afraid to disturb something unknown, she unfolded the densely written piece of paper. A letter. It was a letter. Addressed to her."It will spare me suffering. And the anticipation of death." Gently, as carefully and quietly as she could, the woman, almost paralyzed with fear, crawled over to the piece of fur lying on the floor. First, she gently nudged it with the box she held, but when she saw that the fur hadn't even moved, she decided to turn it over a little more boldly. Beneath the fur, which, fortunately for her, turned out to be fake, she found a note attached. A plain, blank, folded piece of paper. She lifted the fur and unhooked the note, simultaneously tossing the fur into the sink. Automatically, she picked up one of the overturned chairs and sat down at the cupboard. Gently, as if afraid to frighten something unknown, she straightened out the densely written piece of paper. A letter. It was a letter. Addressed to her."It will spare me suffering. And the anticipation of death." Gently, as carefully and quietly as she could, the woman, almost paralyzed with fear, crawled over to the piece of fur lying on the floor. First, she gently nudged it with the box she held, but when she saw that the fur hadn't even moved, she decided to turn it over a little more boldly. Beneath the fur, which, fortunately for her, turned out to be fake, she found a note attached. A plain, blank, folded piece of paper. She lifted the fur and unhooked the note, simultaneously tossing the fur into the sink. Automatically, she picked up one of the overturned chairs and sat down at the cupboard. Gently, as if afraid to frighten something unknown, she straightened out the densely written piece of paper. A letter. It was a letter. Addressed to her.

Subconsciously, she noted that the tapping suddenly stopped, as if the snake had decided to give her time to read the letter. But consciously, she didn't pay much attention. The letter was more important, suddenly the most important thing in the world, more important than anything had ever been. It's funny how a person's priorities can change so dramatically in such a short time. How insignificant things become things that overshadow the entire world. How something usually done automatically, something you don't pay much attention to, begins to require more and more effort. To the point of madness. But she didn't have time to think about it. She had to read the letter. She knew she would find out now. That she would finally find out who had done this to her and why.

"Dear Laura," she read. "Or maybe I should have written 'Dear Laura'? Or maybe 'Slut? Whore? Fucking Slut? I don't know. Take your pick. You can cross out what's not necessary. Well, you don't really have anything to think about. And I guess you're not capable of thinking much anymore. Well, I guess we should start from the beginning, this time properly

."