How terribly her calves itch. She scratches so hard you can see blood trickling down them. But she feels no pain. She can't see the blood, it's unclear if she sees anything. Now she thinks of only one thing. She begins to rock nervously, biting her dirty, neglected nails. She took it five hours ago. She has to hold on, at least until evening. She's strong and she can do it. She tries to concentrate on reading an old newspaper she found ten minutes ago in a street trash can. In her right hand she clutches her treasure, her life, her death, a white powder. He's her passion now. Not long ago, she had a wonderful man, friends, family... Now, that's all she has. But that's all that matters to her now. That's all that matters. She nervously flings the newspaper. She slowly stands up, not easy when every part of her body feels like lead.
She leans against the old, gray tenement houses. She tries to reach the toilet. It's not far. She's arrived. She opens the sticky stall and sits on the floor. She takes a small spoon out of her pocket. She looks at it carefully. She remembers it very well. It was her favorite spoon. She doesn't remember ever having a complete set at home. No, there wasn't one. She brought it home from kindergarten once. She rolled it up after breakfast because she liked it so much. It was so tiny. It had a beautiful pattern on the handle—a twig with tiny leaves. After every dessert, she loved looking at that twig. Now the spoon is burned at the bottom. Never mind. It doesn't matter now. The girl throws the spoon at the door of the station restroom, which bears the marks of the young writers' questionable work. She looks at the plastic bag again. She has to take it. She can't hold it any longer.
She reaches into her pocket. She takes out a clean tablespoon, a lighter, a dirty syringe, and a needle. Her standard package. With trembling hands, she rolls up the sleeves of her loose blouse. She carefully examines her forearm. There are adhesions everywhere, she can't get the injection in. She has to find a new spot. She nervously takes off her shoes; the only sensible place for the injection seems to be her feet. Yes, that's a good idea; she should have thought of that before her arms started to resemble one giant scar. All summer, despite the heat, she had to wear long sleeves. She didn't want anyone to see her... addiction.
Carefully and very slowly, she pours the powder onto a spoon, then heats it with a lighter. The whole thing is done automatically and seems like a ritual. She places the needle on the syringe, draws the liquid into it. She pulls her foot up, finds a suitable spot, ties the lace, and slowly, reverently, injects herself with the drug...
Oh, her mother came to see her. She brought her favorite plum cake. Paweł is with her. He looks so young. He smiles at her, and small dimples appear in his cheeks. The girl tries to rise. She holds out her emaciated hand to her beloved. How wonderful it is that they are here together. How fantastic she feels, free, as free as a bird that has just flown from its cage. How good...
The girl falls to the ground. The syringe flies out of her hand. She will never need it again. She is finally free from heroin. Forever...
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