Me, me and me again

I woke up in the middle of the night. I felt consciousness creeping through my stray, not-so-normal thoughts—something about giant strawberries swarmed in my mind. But I didn't open my eyes. I didn't want to wake up. I rolled over. I rested my cheek against her shoulder—bare, naked, and so hot it was almost scalding. Instinctively, I pressed myself closer to that most wonderful source of warmth: the closeness of another person. I put my arm around her and hugged her. Only after a moment did I realize that Ania hadn't slept over at my place that night, nor had I slept over at hers. So we definitely hadn't slept in the same bed. As far as I remember, Ania had never had particularly powerful shoulders, let alone a muscular, hairy chest. To my horror, I'd clearly slept with a guy and had just eagerly snuggled up to him. "Jesus Christ!" I screamed. I started punching and kicking blindly. He woke up too—because who wouldn't after a kick to the kidney—and I guess he was trying to defend himself, or at least figure out what was happening, because each time I kicked him, he was met with his arms crossed in defense. This only reinforced my conviction that I needed to hit him even harder. Finally, he slid off the bed and collapsed onto the floor. "Ow..." he groaned. I jumped over him—or rather, over him—onto the carpet and ran to the door to turn on the light. Not so much to get a closer look at him, but to find something heavy and methodically beat him with it. I grabbed an old, slightly rickety chair and turned around to give the bastard who had not only broken into my house but also climbed into my bed. I froze, the chair raised above my head. The blood drained from my face and seemed to go into hiding, and I suddenly felt both cold and terribly hot. I lowered the chair as my arms went limp, but I didn't set it aside. I still gripped the backrest as if I wanted to break it, holding it in my withered hands like a shield, not a weapon. I could have beaten him to a pulp with that chair—a flimsy chair, but wood is wood—if I wanted. That's basically why I took it. But... but I didn't want to anymore. Not that I'd undergone a spiritual transformation in those five seconds, or that I'd renounced chair-killing in emergencies. No, no, guys breaking into my apartment and climbing into my bed definitely deserved a beating. But... I couldn't. I couldn't just beat him up. Not him. "Who... who are you?" I managed weakly. "Marcin... Marcin Kowalski... " "No... No... That's impossible..." I gripped the chair tighter and raised my hands slightly, as if to defend myself from what he was saying. "You're lying!" I groaned, shaking my head. "For God's sake..." he groaned. He curled up on the floor, completely naked. "It's fucking impossible... " "It's just a dream... It's just a bad dream..." he muttered, looking from me to the chair with wide eyes, my eyes. I would have punched him—because he'd come into my house and snuggled up to me in my own bed. I would have punched him and spat on him—if it weren't for a small detail that bothered me. Two things, actually. My name was Marcin Kowalski. And the guy lying on the carpet in my bedroom—curled up and naked—had my face. My face, my eyes, my ears—one sticking out, the other not. My surgical scar and my goatee. And my tattoo on his left arm, which the same tattoo artist had somehow done in exactly the same way. "Tell me, who the fuck are you!" I hissed, trying to scare him, but I was probably just as scared myself. "Well... Marcin Kowalski..." he insisted. He grimaced as if he wasn't proud of it at all. "Date of birth! " "March twelfth, class of seventy-six... " "Mother's and father's names! " "Henryk and Eleonora..." Jesus, what was this? A police interrogation or something? It could have been like that. But I had the chair, and he was lying on the floor, so I made the rules. Although he was right, the questions were stupid, and I'd probably have to beat him up with the PESEL number, because I didn't remember mine, so if he was me, he wouldn't remember either. And if he remembered, I'd have to beat him even harder. I had to take him seriously and ask him about something that wasn't written in black and white on my ID. Something no one knew about. "Favorite cartoon!" I shouted, pointing an accusing finger at him. He blushed and pursed his lips. "Ha! I've got you!" I lifted the chair. "Sailor Moon..." he groaned, covering his head. I blinked. I let go of the rickety piece of furniture. I shook my head in disbelief. "Damn..." I whispered to myself. No one, absolutely no one, knew I liked—nay, adored!—Sailor Moon. Not my mom, not my dad. They probably would have disowned me. None of my friends. They wouldn't have let me live. Not even Ania—and I told her all sorts of strange things. Besides, she didn't even like Dexter's Laboratory and thought that the serious man I was supposed to be shouldn't watch—as she always emphasized with a wry smile—cartoons for toddlers. And she was probably right. Admittedly, I'd be the worst father in the world if I let a four-year-old watch Cartoon Network, but a man almost thirty with a tattoo on his arm shouldn't watch, let alone be fascinated by, Sailor Moon and her friends with big eyes, great powers, and enormous breasts. But what can I do? I wondered about it myself, and I had periods of doubt, but even though I didn't fully understand myself, I loved Sailor Moon. These twenty-minute episodes culminated everything every guy liked, regardless of age, from a young age: leggy girls, two-inch skirts, violence, and bright colors. Deep on the bottom shelf, behind old books, I had about ten videotapes, filled from end to end with debauched cartoons. The tapes were practically worn out from watching them, and after every evening in front of the TV, I had to clean the head in the player so as not to damage the other tapes. I considered ditching Ania and buying the entire series—and the full-length film—on DVD so I could proudly display them on my shelf. Yes, everything was on DVD now. Someone had even released Żwirek and Młodomorek on DVD, in Dolby Digital 2.0. And the naked man on the carpet who had crawled into my house, into my bed, was clearly me. I sat down on the bed and buried my face in my hands. I was breathing heavily. "Can I get up now?" "He asked, bored with lying on the floor in a rather uncomfortable, pleading pose. "Sure, sure..." I replied, confused. "Put something on." He got up from the floor and looked down at himself. "The panties are over there, in the second drawer from the top," I pointed. He scowled at me, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I know. " "Yeah..." I slapped my forehead. He opened the drawer. When he pulled out some panties, I asked something that only after a long moment of thought crystallized in my head. "But... actually... how did you get here..." He froze in a clumsy pose, on one leg, pulling on the panties. He looked at me askance. "What do you mean, where? This is my house!" he grumbled. "Is it so strange for someone to go to sleep in their own bed? No, that was normal. Quite normal. It was strange waking up at four in the morning next to someone else. " "And... what now?" - I asked. - What's that supposed to be? "Well... are you planning on staying here like this? " "And where am I supposed to go in the middle of the night? " "Well, I don't know... " "This is my house. " "Well, yeah..." I don't know if it was because it was four in the morning and I was passed out from exhaustion, or if I kept thinking it was a dream, but I kept treating him as if he were just a strange guy in my underwear who had somehow found himself in my house. But instead, it was just me. Me twice. "So what now?" I asked, probably just embarrassed by the whole thing. "I don't know about you, but I'd go to bed... It's four in the morning... " "I'll go get something to drink and then go to bed soon." I yawned and, squinting my sore, bloodshot eyes, shuffled into the kitchen. I grabbed a juice glass from the cupboard and poured myself some tap water. I didn't want to be messing with my digestion at four in the morning. I downed the glass in one gulp, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and went to the bedroom to lie down, fall asleep, and wake up in a few hours in my normal world. "What are you doing in my bed? " "I'm lying down," he said. "Then piss off, this is my bed. " "Just in case on the way to or from the kitchen you forget that you're me and I'm you... This is my bed. " "Okay, okay..." I sighed heavily. "I'm going to sleep in the other room. " "Do you know where the blanket is?" he asked. "I know," I grumbled. I collapsed onto the couch like a log. I pulled the blanket over myself. As I fell asleep, I thought it was the stupidest dream I'd ever had. Including the one where I lived in a giant, hollowed-out apple. *** Waking up, I didn't immediately remember the strange dream. As dreams do, they slipped away the moment I opened my eyes, scattered by the flutter of my eyelashes and the jerky movements of my waking state. But the very fact that I woke up in the living room, on the couch, under a blanket, struck me as strange. For a moment, I thought I might have fallen asleep in front of the television. But when I got up, something told me to check the bedroom. I remembered that—unless I had simply dreamed it all—someone should be sleeping there. I should find myself in my bed. Another self. Tiptoeing, I slowly approached the door and tentatively peered through the crack in the half-closed door. I stuck my head inside. I almost laughed when I saw no one under the disheveled sheets. The bed was unmade—as usual in my place—and empty. I felt relieved. I sighed. What a stupid dream. To scare me like that! My nerves made me terribly hungry. I was craving toast with melted cheese. "Oh, good, you're here," he said. "I was just about to call you." He was sitting at the table in my white T-shirt (I liked white T-shirts; I probably had ten of them), my jeans, my socks, my slippers—and with my face on. He was eating my toast with melted cheese. And he had every right to do so, just like I did. "I made it for you too," he pointed to the plate on the other side of the table where he was sitting. "Thanks..." I just stammered. "Will you make some tea?" he asked. "Okay..." I agreed. "Loose tea or tea from a bag? " "Think about it. Right. Just loose tea. After all, he was me, and I only drank Yunnan tea with a teaspoon of sugar. I was him, and he was me—and clearly he was the one getting used to it faster. And I was the stupid one. *** We were sitting on the couch watching the news. It was Sunday morning, and as part of our weekend of laziness and doing nothing, I'd arranged a morning session in front of the TV. I was finishing my tea and he was fiddling with the remote. I could give it back to him—at least for a while—because I was sure that since he was me—and he was—he was going to watch the same thing I was. There was no risk of him getting lost and interested in some stupid show when "Cow and Chicken" was on Cartoon Network. He changed the channel the moment I would have—or even a little faster. I was wearing—like him—a white T-shirt, faded jeans, and the same navy blue socks. The only thing I didn't have were two pairs of identical flip-flops, so we had to share what we had. Now he had his left foot, and I had my right. We both agreed it was funny—though not very comfortable. We sat on the couch—me on one end, him on the other—like mirror images. We were identical—like the Kaczyński brothers. Or even more so. We looked the same. The same face, with a small scar under his lower lip. The same messed-up tattoo on his arm. Even their fingernails were the same length. No twin in the world had that. On the surface, they seemed identical, but when you looked closer, more carefully, the differences became apparent. Because one had a scar from his appendix, and the other didn't. Because one liked this or that type of girl, and the other a completely different one. Meanwhile, I had an exact replica of myself, who not only adored Usagi Tsukino as much as I did—no more, no less—but even had identical fingerprints. And we both called each other "Hey!"—because I was embarrassed to call him Marcin, and he probably was embarrassed to call me—since he was me—too. "Hey, Powerpuff Girls! " "Hey, I know..." he replied emphatically. He shook his head and switched to the best channel on cable. I glanced at the guy sitting next to me and marveled. He was like the brother I never had, like a best friend. I still couldn't get used to the fact that he looked like me in photos, not like in the mirror, and sounded like me when I heard my voice on tape. But that was me. I had a rare opportunity to observe myself from the outside—and I liked it. And only when he beat me at Tekken five times in a row did I feel uneasy. Because, after all, he wasn't that much better than me. He was the same. *** It was only after eleven, but my eyes were already starting to droop. I was sitting on the couch, trying to watch a movie, but it wasn't very good because I kept dozing off, missing half the threads. "Hey, I'm going to bed," I said vaguely to myself, who was sitting next to me, focused on the movie. "Okay, I'll hang out. Then I'll tell you what happened." "No need, I'll watch the rerun. " HBO had this special trait—sometimes an advantage, sometimes a disadvantage—of airing anything at least five hundred times before finally taking it off the air on that buzzy Last Chance Monday. I just had to wait for a rerun of "Faceless" at a more convenient time. "Hey, wake you up at six?" he asked. "Sure! Are you going to get some sleep? " "One more cup of coffee at work won't hurt me," he shrugged. I shuffled into my room. I was falling asleep standing up. Suddenly, I had a flash of insight. I stopped in the doorway and looked at myself, still sitting on the couch, staring at the screen. "Listen..." I said. He looked at me expectantly as I took a long moment to collect my thoughts. "So? " "So," I continued, "we're going to work tomorrow morning, right? " "Yeah... " "But the trick is, not all of us have jobs." "How so?" he grimaced. "I have a job. " "Exactly... You're a computer graphic designer..." He nodded uncertainly. "But..." I continued, "I'm a computer graphic designer too, at the same small, growing company..." He took a moment to process what I'd just explained. Apparently, he, too, was having a hard time thinking at this hour. "Well, yeah..." he finally agreed. "The catch is, you're me and I'm you, and the chair at the company belongs to me as much as it does to you. I think the boss would be surprised, to say the least, if we went there together tomorrow." He laughed. "Well, that would be fun." "But that won't work," I shook my head. "Supposedly, more hands, but at the computer company, they're tight, I only have one left, and there's no time off, so one would be sitting there completely useless anyway. Besides, I doubt the boss would want to pay double the Social Security contributions for the same person in duplicate. Why would he need two of us, if each of us can do the same thing, only as much as the other, and if he slack off, he'll be fired, one way or another. " "So we can't go to work together," he agreed. "And I was thinking maybe you'd go in for me tomorrow... " "You know, I was thinking the same thing! " "So what? Are you going tomorrow? " "No, I was thinking maybe you'd go in for me. I've always liked the fact that I could always manage to get my act together. Now I was suddenly starting to regret it. If I'd been a bit more stupid, I'm sure I could somehow persuade myself to do something I didn't want to do. I wanted to snore until noon. " "Why me?" "Why not? Why me?" he bargained. "Because... err..." I thought, searching for an argument. "Because if you don't go tomorrow, you'll be fired. You can't miss a day of work. Not now! The game has to be ready in two weeks, otherwise the publisher will kill the boss, and the boss will fire you on his ass and find someone else to take your place. And then I'll have to go to work. " "Hasn't it occurred to you that by firing me on his ass, he's also firing you. After all, you're me. Will you go explain to him that you're not you? If they come to tie you up in a long-sleeved vest, you can explain to the doctor too. Too much hassle, man... " "So what do we do?" "I don't know... I don't feel like going to work when you can... " "Same to you! " "A lottery ticket? " "Okay... Wait, I'll see if I have a coin." I rummaged in my pocket, but all I found was some lint. Probably some grocery receipts. "I have it," he said. He pulled a five-zloty coin from his pocket. "Heads." "Tails." He tossed the coin up, caught it with his overhand grip, and slapped it against the back of his other hand. It landed heads. I frowned at that triumphant smile. My winning smile. It seemed more sarcastic than usual when I saw it in the mirror. And, frankly, it annoyed me. "Hey, look on the bright side: tonight you're sleeping in bed because you need a good night's sleep," he said with a smile . My attitude towards work was moderately enthusiastic. When I mentioned in company that I was a computer graphic designer, everyone nodded approvingly, and when I mentioned that I worked in games, the people I hung out with tended to think I was a cool guy. A huge lump would form in my throat when someone was too inquisitive and asked what exactly I was working on. Then, in a hushed voice, I'd reply, "A platformer." And at that moment, the questions would cease, and I would irrevocably lose the respect of everyone within a ten-meter radius. It was a good thing I didn't have to say anything more about Penguin Pong. Such things interested no one except six-year-olds and desperate parents trying to keep their children occupied because they had real, serious jobs. No one serious cared about us. The industry press gave our games a wide berth. No reviewer—usually over the age of fifteen—could even look at what we were doing, let alone play our games. "Wprost" did a short interview with us as part of an article about Polish games, and the editor seemed very concerned about the game being developed in Poland. If we were lucky and visited a few other smaller studios, maybe we wouldn't face a complete, nationwide embarrassment compared to the competition. If, God forbid, they reached the top of the Polish game industry—which we're as far from here as Mars—and wrote something about Chmielarz's 3D shooter, or even that racing game, then mentioning our company would be just a humorous interlude in a serious article, about as appropriate as a fart in public and as necessary as a third wheel. The only hope was that they wouldn't write about us at all. Overall, I had nothing to be ashamed of; I hadn't done anything wrong. And yet, making a game about a penguin who collects snowflakes, hearts, and fish, and throws snowballs at his fierce opponents, is nothing compared to collecting bottles from trash cans—and that's always been an option. Meanwhile, I dutifully went to work every day. Today I was finishing animating a 3D model of a seal, specifically a vicious slap with his hind flipper at the penguin's beak from a spinning top. Maybe I'll even manage to make a teddy bear roar. Because, imagine that, the teddy bear doesn't even have to touch the penguin—or rather, he can't, because under normal circumstances, he'd cut the poor thing to shreds. And that was a game for six-year-olds. And the killer whale, of course, doesn't eat the penguin at the end. It doesn't even scratch him. He just nuzzles him and tosses him up—a small, dumpy, blue penguin with eyes almost as big as his own. I dreamed of making a shooter someday. To animate a real rifle and shell casings flying out of the magazine in all directions like rain. And even though these games are supposedly the lowest-tier, and harmful to boot, I dreamed of something that wasn't ostentatiously blue and pink, where enemies didn't "splash" as they fell, but rather wheezed, writhed, and spit blood to the rhythm of the motion-capture. Krzysiek, the texture designer, was currently poring over an image of a teddy bear's face, which—despite its implicitly bloodthirsty intentions—was smiling. Well, that was what a specific audience demanded. On his desktop, however, he had a picturesque bloodstain that he'd embroidered in Photoshop in his free time. *** Descending the steps of the small company building—paid for by a wealthy sponsor who demanded shoddy games made in record time—I reached into my pocket to check I had everything. My cell phone was in my left pocket, my wallet in my back, my keys in my left. I breathed a sigh of relief when I realized nothing was missing. The car alarm blared, and the unlocked interior door handles squeaked. I froze with my hand on the door. I realized I shouldn't have had the keys. I should have left them with him so he could leave the house. The problem wasn't that he couldn't lock the door if he left. The problem was that I had locks on the inside as well, not padlocks. So he was essentially grounded. He couldn't leave the house, and I could only guess what he'd done during those ten hours while I'd been at work. He could have gotten angry, smashed something, broken the door, or called the police to do it for him. I dreaded even thinking about what he was capable of—he was me, after all—let alone the consequences. I screeched to a halt in front of the house, nearly running over the hooded guys loitering in the parking lot. I jumped out of the car and ran into the house. The activated alarm chirped somewhere behind me as I ran up the stairwell. I rushed upstairs. My hands were shaking with nerves, and fumbling with the key took longer than usual. The fact that the door was intact and showed no signs of being forced should have calmed me down. But it didn't. Panting, I burst into the apartment and, with darting eyes, searched the rooms for myself. "I'm here," came my own voice from the kitchen. "Jesus, man, I'm sorry..." I gasped. I instinctively took the key with me. He looked at me calmly. "No problem," he replied, shrugging. "I wasn't planning on leaving anyway. I'm just sitting here, binge-watching Tekken, drinking a beer... What more do you need to be happy? " "Are you missing anything?" I asked. I was convinced that I had to take care of myself. "There was no bread, but I made myself some cereal with milk," he reassured me. - And the beer is already over. "You should have left it for me!" I groaned. I was feeling parched like hell. I dreamed of nothing more than a cold beer straight from the fridge. "There was one!" he defended himself. "Well, even more so! It's my beer, after all, bought with my hard-earned money!" He tilted his head. "It's also my beer, bought with my hard-earned money," he replied coldly. "Because you're me, and I'm you." I covered my face with my hand. I sighed heavily. I desperately needed a beer. I turned on my heel and left. "I'll be right back..." I muttered. *** As the hops washed down my throat, I felt much better. Bottle in hand, I settled on the couch. With my free hand, I pressed the play button on my phone. "Hi, Marcin," Ania began, her voice hesitant. I sounded the same way when I sometimes left her a message. Hesitant. Because it was strange with Ania. We'd been dating for a long time, but I had no idea where we stood. We met rarely, less and less, and getting together felt like a cop-out. As if each was doing the other a favor. As if we were meeting casually, on a whim, for lack of a better opportunity—a full-time one. And yes, it was nice, and when push came to shove, we ended up in bed a few times, and that was fine too. But we did it out of boredom, just with each other, out of a sense of humor. There were times when things got heated, but there was no real love. We were like Mickey and Minnie Mouse—associated with each other, but at best we liked each other. I bet Donald and Daisy had a much more interesting sex life. So, my Minnie Mouse called me; I think she missed me. "I wanted to..." Suddenly, the message cut off. "Why didn't the message finish recording?" I shouted toward the kitchen, where he was, probably knowing something. He left and stood on the threshold of the room. "Because I answered. " "You said I wasn't in? " "What about me?" he snorted. I widened my eyes at him. I felt bile rise in my throat. He was talking to her. The bastard was talking to her, and worse, on my behalf. He was probably flirting, whispering sweet nothings, seducing her. Ania. My Ania! " "So what? You went out with her?" I asked suspiciously. I would have beaten her if he had. I couldn't imagine him going on a date with Ania, and worse, ending up at her house, under the covers. I don't know where I stood with Ania; there was no love there, but the thought of her being on the side and letting someone else do her thing made me nauseous. Even if that someone was me. "No," he replied curtly, which calmed me down greatly. "I dumped her. " "What?! "I yelled. Beer went up my nose—which, despite my great fondness for the drink, is not a pleasant feeling. "Are you deaf?" he shrugged. "I dropped her." "You idiot! You moron!" I thundered. "And why? " "Because she pissed me off, the stupid bitch..." he muttered. "With what? " "With that phone. I'm playing Tekken, I almost took out my grandfather on the hardest difficulty, and then out of nowhere, the phone rang, the joypad flew out of my hand, my grandfather knocked me out with two punches, and I got angry. I thought about it for a moment, and I realized I probably would have been pissed too. "But you should have dumped her right away? Can't you just throw a bunch of strings or vent on the joypad?" I explained. "What am I going to do with the joypad when she pissed me off? A monkey! Zero sense. She doesn't even know when to call. Or maybe she did it maliciously! You know how much she hates Tekken..." I knew. After all, I was him, and he was me. "Fuck..." I sighed. "Call, undo it now! Apologize, beg on your knees... " "I wouldn't dream of it," he snorted. "I don't want to see her anymore, she's bored, I'd rather be alone. " "Well, that's your problem, but there's another me who wants to go out with her, so I should do something about it." "Dude, if you're the one who's willing, then you should figure it out," he shrugged. "A motivated person is much more effective than a tired one." He collapsed into the armchair, nearly spilling beer all over himself and the upholstery. He turned on the TV. I picked up the phone and went into the other room. I slammed the door shut. *** "Ania, I'm sorry about that," I muttered. "You bastard!" she screamed through tears. "You lousy boor! You still have the nerve to call me after all this time. " "Jesus... I don't remember much... I was drunk..." I lied. "Well, let me remind you!" she hissed. "For starters, you told me you weren't drunk because you can't, quote, get drunk on one beer... When I asked why you weren't at work, you said you were, quote, bullshitting... Then you told me to leave you alone once and for all... Then... Then, when I tried to reason with you, to remind you that we had so much in common, you told me that was bullshit, you never felt anything for me, and you only went out with me out of boredom... That at first I seemed nice, worth the effort, but the further you went, the worse it got, because I turned out to be boring, unforgiving, not caring enough, not passionate enough, not supportive enough... so why be with someone like that?" she burst into tears. "I said that?" I asked hoarsely. "Yes, you, sweetheart... And what kind of girl doesn't like Cartoon Network, doesn't speak perfect English, can't and won't play your shitty preschool games...! " "Hey, hey, Tekken..." "Shut up!" she screamed, sniffing. "Don't make it worse..." "So..." I asked hopefully, "we'll sort this out somehow? " "Oh, yeah," she said through tears, her voice offering no assurance at all. It dripped with irony. "There really is something left to salvage, after you told me I didn't deserve someone as wonderful as you!" I was speechless. Completely speechless. I couldn't get a word out. Anne clearly hadn't expected me to have anything to say. "Well, my dear, you know you're not worthy of kissing my heels, and it makes me sick to think I ever let you get closer than a stick's length..." she seethed. "Goodbye... And don't call me again!" Before I could protest or say anything at all, she hung up. I sat on the bed for a good five minutes. My legs felt like jelly. I couldn't get up. "So, Don Juan?" he shouted from the other room. I wanted to stab him with the antenna of my earpiece. Honestly, I don't know why I didn't. *** I lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling, munching dry cornflakes. It was past noon, and at this hour, the television had absolutely nothing to offer. HBO was playing the hundredth rerun of some Danish children's film, MTV was dreary, and Cartoon Network was pretending to be cool by airing the new Scooby-Doo series. I always thought it was some kind of collusion with Scooby-Doo, some kind of cosmic scam. The creators would have to be utterly narcissistic to like it, and the TV executives would have to be idiots to buy it. They were probably counting on the naivety of kids, thinking such little ones would swallow it all. But I guess they were wrong, because from a young age, I personally thought it was the stupidest cartoon in the world, and I didn't know anyone who liked it. And Daphne could give up those purple tights. And shorten her dress. And HBO could take into account the fact that there are slackers in this country who spend their working hours sitting on the couch, doing nothing, and would love to watch something good. After all, I pay the subscription fee for a reason—and it's certainly not to watch Danish children's films at convenient times. I would have made a date with Ania, but since I had broken up with her completely without my knowledge and in my absence, that was out of the question. While I was lying comfortably and utterly bored, my other self sat in front of the computer in a swivel chair, laboriously tinkering with a 3D model of a bear, trying to teach it to roar. He was probably listening to the roar, previously recorded in the sound studio—in the next room—trying to synchronize the animation with the sound. The roar was truly terrifying, perhaps even more so, which was quite a success, because without a real bear, we achieved that sound thanks to Antoni. Antoni wasn't a sound engineer or a programmer, and generally stayed as far away from our work as possible, working in this building. He was our errand boy, our handyman—if something broke, he saved us—our source of coffee, and generally essential to the company's operation. We tried everything with that bear, pulling everyone from their work one by one, calling them into the next room, and telling them to roar. Most of us, however, sounded like ducks, and Krzysiek, the texture guy, was voicing the penguin. In the end, only Antoni was left. And when he roared, everyone nodded in agreement that this was it. Sebastian, the sound guy, however, said it could be a bit better. Then Krzysiek stepped on Antoni's toes with all his might – and that's how we achieved the perfect sound. *** I opened the door for him, and from the threshold – in the dark corridor – I noticed his expression was bleak. Besides, he returned much later than I expected. "What took so long? How's the work going? Is it going slowly? " "If it were going slowly," he groaned, "that's not so bad... It's worse, because all the work today has gone to hell! " "What?" I asked weakly, my jaw hanging limply. "How? How so? " "A short circuit in the wiring, a couple of computers just fried... " "And ours?" I asked hopefully. "Well, ours is fine..." he replied, but paused for a moment. "Only the hard drive is spotless." For a moment, I just stared at them with big, round eyes. "But you made a backup?" I asked, making sure. "I was going to... " "What do you mean, were you going to? " "I only had a few tweaks to make on the bear, five minutes at most, and then I would have made a backup. " "You idiot!" I yelled. "How could you mess it up like that? Now what? " "I did everything I could! Kamil and I worked after hours trying to salvage what we could! And why didn't I back up the files? Do you think I remember things like that in the heat of work? We don't get paid for backups, we get paid for results! " "So what, now I have to go back tomorrow and redo the bear, huh?" - Unless you think we have the money to pay a company that will recover the data from all the drives for tens of thousands, in a few days, maybe two weeks... In two weeks the game was supposed to be ready and delivered to the pressing plant on the master disc. "Fuck..." I sighed. "What a mess... Good thing it's just the bear, I have to do it... Good thing I made a copy yesterday without..." I stopped mid-sentence. I remembered I hadn't backed up the data to a CD at all. I hadn't backed anything up. The seal went up in smoke, along with the bear—like at a cheap barbecue. So tomorrow I was going to have to spend all my time poring over the seal's slap in the penguin's beak from a spin, and teaching the bear to roar. "Oh fuck..." I sighed heavily. I sank into the armchair. "Give me a beer from the fridge..." He went into the kitchen. He searched for that beer as if it were hidden in the fridge. And the necessities are always on top, in the front row, at eye level. "There aren't any," he stated curtly. *** "I'm leaving! I'll be back at five!" I shouted from down the hall. He just grunted into his pillow and rolled over. He pulled the covers over his head and went back to sleep. Today it was my turn to toil at the company computer. Animating a penguin doubled over after a punch to the liver. The idea came to me quite spontaneously, somewhere on the way between home and the company headquarters. For the rest of the drive, I debated whether it was worth it or not. I weighed all the pros and cons I could think of, and ultimately decided I didn't care about the consequences; I'd do it anyway. So I parked my car on a side street near the company. Close enough to look like I was going to work, but also somewhere I wouldn't run into any of my colleagues, who would surely be surprised to see me rushing off in the opposite direction. I checked my wallet. I took out my ID and all the money, and threw the wallet itself on the floor of the car, under the steering wheel. I slammed the door and activated the alarm. Then—just as I was, in jeans, an old white Fido Dido T-shirt, and old tennis shoes—I walked to the train station. Along the way, I withdrew as much as my limit allowed from the nearest ATM. I stuffed a wad of hundred-zloty notes into my pocket and continued on my way. I threw my car keys into the roadside bushes. At the train station, I stood for a suspiciously long time under the departures board, pondering where to go. The summer season was starting, not quite vacation yet—it was only the beginning of June—and I could go to the seaside or, contrary to popular belief, to the mountains, which are also beautiful in summer, and certainly quieter than in winter. Fewer people, and the risk of getting knocked down by an enthusiastic skier was negligible. This seemed like a more interesting alternative. The crowds I saw at the station, trudging back and forth on the platform, were definitely heading to the seaside, so I guessed that the comfort of being in one carriage with them all would be comparable to an eight-hour ride in a can of sardines. "One ticket to Karpacz, please," I said, leaning over the ticket window and sliding a fifty-zloty note across the counter toward the cashier. The woman looked me up and down. Her eyebrows furrowed. She took the note and gave me change, and after a moment, handed me the printed ticket. *** As the train pulled away from the platform, I was sitting alone in the compartment, by the window, facing away from the train. I glanced at the glass. I saw my reflection in it—pale against the landscape outside, but still visible. "Suffer yourself now, faggot..." I muttered to him. I was just executing my version of the well-known maneuver called "He left the house for cigarettes ten years ago and hasn't come back yet." It's amazing how easily people, with a little good will and effort, can disappear without a trace. I wondered if these exemplary fathers who did this to their families embarked on such an escapade spontaneously, or if they planned it for weeks and then covered their tracks in a hurry. Because it was so... hmm... romantic—just disappearing like that, completely without a trace, as if documents didn't matter. Were they leaving the country? Moving to another continent, or what? Or maybe they were simply moving to another city and starting a new life there. Is it easy to get a new identity, a new name, a new ID? I don't know. I didn't intend to go that far. I was planning a small escapade, but I'd prepared for it meticulously. I didn't take my car. As soon as that idiot found out, he'd definitely report him missing to the police, so it was best I wasn't in sight when the police found him. Leaving him near the company had played quite a trick on him. He'll be sore when the police find him where they should have looked in the first place—like Mr. Hilary's glasses. They'll probably tell him not to drink so much. And he won't tell them that the other him, me, took him there, because they'll immediately hand him over to the nuthouse, if not to the sobering-up station. Anyway, I wanted to spare myself a trip to the police station, and he—if he has any sense, and since he's me, it's possible he does—probably does the same. For the same reason, I immediately withdrew as much money as I could from the ATM—because I wasn't going to do it again, at least not for a while. If he reports a significant theft from an ATM to the police, they'll search the CCTV footage and find only him, withdrawing the said sum from the ATM and counting it carefully. And then smiling at the camera. If he reports anything, he'll look like an idiot. He'll probably be surprised when he gets a call from work. His boss will yell at him and tell him to report to work immediately. And he wouldn't tell him he'd already gone there and was probably sitting in front of the monitor, animating a penguin—because the boss doesn't know there were two of us. And I bet he wouldn't believe him anyway. Especially since I wasn't there for him to show me: oh, look, my clone! In short, the guy's screwed. But he deserved it. For Ania. For those backups he didn't make. For every beer he drank. For the cable and phone bills he was supposed to pay while I was gone, which he completely forgot about, and then just shrugged. For locking me in my own toilet and then going to the bar to drink. I had to spend the night in the bathtub because he graciously returned only in the morning, with a cut on his forehead and his T-shirt torn to shreds. In my favorite red Adidas T-shirt. To shreds! He loved that T-shirt as much as I did, and he was probably as angry at himself as I was at him, but that didn't calm me down at all. When I saw him that morning, I wanted to punch his drunk, smiling face so hard he looked like someone else, because I couldn't stand the sight of him. I hated him, I hated that easygoing face—and what hurt me most was that, of course, it was my face too. That's why I thought I'd leave. Otherwise, I'd go home and kill him with my bare hands, chop him into pieces, and bury him. And what would they do to me? Nobody would be looking for him. After all, for now, I was alive and well. And no one knew there were two of us. *** I arrived in Karpacz around 6 p.m. I ate a hamburger from a stand in town, washed it down with a Coke, and then set off in search of a place where I could get a decent night's sleep. There was a chance that a more modest guesthouse still had some rooms available. It was only the beginning of the season, but the nicer hotels were usually booked months in advance. I found something that looked nice from the outside and—as it later turned out—quite cozy inside. It's true that the receptionist gave me a dirty look when she saw I didn't have any luggage with me – I'd arrived with practically nothing but my ID and some cash in my pocket – but since I'd honestly paid for the entire day upfront, she didn't ask any unnecessary questions. She handed me my key and went back to solving crossword puzzles. As I was leaving, she asked loudly – ​​clearly at me: "Face, a four-letter word. Not mug, not a snout, not a snout, because it doesn't fit. " "Face," I replied. I took the narrow stairs to the second floor. I found my room. Number 208. The key clicked in the lock, and the door swung open. I locked it behind me and opened the window – because the room reeked of that typical stench of vacation resorts. A sweet, unbearable stench – nothing that would make you want to throw up your stomach, and then your stomach, but it wasn't pleasant anyway. As the invigorating evening mountain air rushed in, I collapsed facedown on the bed and fell asleep. I slept like a log until morning. I only woke up to the sound of footsteps and conversation outside . I almost squealed with terror like a five-year-old girl when, sleepy and half-awake, I went to the bathroom and saw that hated face I'd run a hundred miles from. And it followed me. Backing away, I tripped over the threshold and fell flat on my back. Only after picking myself up did I realize that this repulsive face was mine. I stood up and unsteadily stood on two feet. I cautiously peered over the threshold. Sure enough, there was only a mirror hanging directly across from the bathroom door. This calmed me—but only a little. Because, in reality, it wasn't there, but because I looked the same, I couldn't shake the feeling that it was there, that it was following me like a shadow, laughing at me with my own face. I was starting to hate myself for all this. I'd never thought I was particularly beautiful, I simply hadn't noticed—but now I felt like ripping the skin off my face and throwing it in the trash. I splashed cold water on my face, dried it on a small, rough towel, and, staring into my own eyes in the mirror, decided it couldn't be. After breakfast, I went shopping. I basically hated wandering around town with shopping bags, and usually, any offer to accompany someone meant I'd either refuse or throw up. I limited myself to short, deliberate raids on one, or at most two, stores at a time. I only did this out of obligation—if my shoes started falling apart or my pants ripped, I'd buy new ones. I only liked nice T-shirts, and I sometimes bought them spontaneously, out of necessity and without occasion. I bought a red one like the Adidas one he'd ripped off. I immediately changed into it and threw my worn white T-shirt in the trash by the exit. I walked the streets, gazing absentmindedly at the shop windows—and time and again, I was startled by the reflection of his face in the windows. My face. When my reflection glared at me from the hairdresser's window, I stopped and decided something had to be done. *** "What are we doing?" asked the hairdresser. She was very young and, judging by the timid enthusiasm with which she approached my bristling head, probably an apprentice. "Shall we cut it? Dye it? Shave it completely off?" I'd be terrified if she were to cut me, especially if I had nice, long hair. Luckily, I didn't grow a long mane. I went to a hairdresser I knew, and he always shaved me the same way, almost flush with the skin, leaving a millimeter of stubble. In the meantime, it's grown a bit, almost a centimeter—not much, but enough for a young, untrained hairdresser to do something creative with it. "We're dyeing it," I replied after a moment's thought. "What color? " "Hmm... I don't know... " "I'd make you a furious redhead," she said. I considered that option for a moment. But I wouldn't feel comfortable with carrot salad on my head. "Uh, no," I shook my head. "Platinum blonde? " "Oh, no, no," I protested fiercely. "I'll make you brunette, and that's it," she stated firmly, as if she'd had thirty years of experience. I shrugged. My hair was a bland, mousy color that would be difficult to create anything interesting with. Let it be black. She applied the dye, dabbing it on my head carefully at first, then more and more boldly—as if she were just learning how to do it on me. She had professionally done the highlighting herself. When she finished tapping my scalp with the brush, she sighed with pride. I knew nothing about dyeing, and it seemed to me the dye had been on my head too long. I could almost feel it eating into my skin and crushing my fragile hair follicles. The wait seemed unbearable, and the smell of the paint pricked my nose, practically burning my nostrils. "What happens if I sneeze?" I asked timidly. "Possibly nothing," the girl said, "but I wouldn't risk it if I were you." Finally, she changed her mind and rinsed the caustic, stinking mess from my head. She wiped my head, then held up a mirror for me to look at. "So?" I looked at myself with black hair—and I looked quite good. Maybe it was the perfect color for me. But something still didn't sit right with me. I still looked like him—only with black hair. I grimaced. "What, you don't like it?" she asked, disappointed. "No, no," I reassured her. "The color is nice, but... Would you trim that goatee right away?" She beamed. "I was about to tell you to shave it off," she said. "Such a nasty thing, a growth on your chin, like lichen... " "You don't like it?" I raised my eyebrows. "Not at all," she replied, shaking her head. "A man's face should be as smooth as a baby's bottom! I'd be happy to shave that nasty thing off you. All artists wear it and think it's cool..." She sighed heavily. "What are you? A musician?" she asked hopefully. "No. " "A painter? " "No. " "Do you draw comics?" she suggested contemptuously. "Not either," I replied. "But close. I'm a computer graphic designer. " "Oh!" she said admiringly. I think I'd earned her respect, or at least interest. "What do you do? " "Computer games," I replied honestly, knowing I was irrevocably losing her respect. "What kind? " *** Late in the afternoon, I returned to the guesthouse where I was staying. I could have looked for something else, but I neither wanted to nor needed to. I casually made a circle around the city, and with a few nets in both hands, I came to a familiar area. The woman at the front desk didn't recognize me—which somehow pleased me. She looked up from her crossword puzzle, narrowing her eyes. But when I handed her the money for the next day's stay, she lost interest and went back to solving her puzzle. I went upstairs to my room. There, I took two rolls, butter, and jam from the bag and made myself some sandwiches. It felt just like vacation, I thought. I wiped away the jam dripping down my clean-shaven beard. Outside, it was pouring, drizzling, and overcast, effectively discouraging me from even poking my nose outside. I'm naturally cold, and I consider rain the worst nightmare of humanity. So I sat in my room, on the couch, staring out the window, wondering where I was going. I'd come to Karpacz for a vacation—spontaneous, unplanned, and probably not entirely thought out. I had no plan. The basic plan was to get out of there, to take a break from living one life with two people, to have one life all to myself. I escaped—like a criminal from prison, burning all my bridges, covering my tracks. I arrived empty-handed, with my ID and a wad of cash in my pocket—and nothing else. I had neither a car, nor a driver's license, much less an apartment. I had some money, and I spent it on both necessary and unnecessary things with wild delight, as if I'd stolen it. In a sense, I'd swiped it, true, but it was my own money. I'd robbed myself and taken a wild vacation on my own dime. And vacations have a way of ending eventually. I realized mine would end when I spent my last penny. Then I'd have nothing left, and nowhere to even go. I got up and went to the window. Outside, it was still pouring down in torrents. Raindrops were pattering against the panes. The world was disappearing in the gray torrents pouring from the sky. For a moment, I thought I saw his crooked, smiling face in the reflection. My hands clenched into fists of their own accord. *** I sat alone in the compartment. I had nothing on me except my ID and a few banknotes, which would have lasted me a few more days of vacation, at most. I was going home. Not remorseful. Not defeated. Furious. I was going to reclaim what was mine. The thought of him sitting there, carelessly enjoying what I'd earned for almost thirty years infuriated me. Driving my car, living in my apartment, earning money from my job—and I was worried about how I'd survive. I couldn't afford that. I simply had to go back and restore order. I was furious with myself for that moment of weakness, and for that entire vacation—most of which I'd spent sitting in my room, staring out the window at the rain. I didn't know what I was going to do yet, but one thing was certain: I had to get my life back, and I wanted to live it on my own. I didn't want to share it with anyone, and certainly not with him. Besides, it wasn't so bad when two people lived side by side, each with their own life. He, on the other hand, was living mine, mine alone. And he was ruining it. Destroying it. I wanted to go there, beat him to death, cut him into pieces, and send him in parcels to all corners of the world. Or strangle him and bury him in the yard—deep enough that no one would find him. No one would look for him until I, too, disappeared without a trace. And I intended to move into my life for good. I got off the train and walked home. My heart was pounding, and criminal plans were forming in my head. Beat him. Chop him. Shoot him. Fry him and eat him. Burn down the house. Lie in the gateway, kick him, and take him to the forest. My greatest fear was that he would surprise me. He would run into me in the stairwell and flee in terror before I could finish him off. I thought I was going to have a heart attack when my neighbor opened the door to the hallway right in front of me. "Good morning," I muttered. I slipped into the hallway and fled before she could get a look and recognize me. My legs felt like jelly. I climbed step after step, desperately grabbing the railing as if I was about to fall. My heart felt like it was about to burst when I finally stood in front of my own apartment door. Dark spots filled my vision, like that memorable time I'd fainted in church. I gently pressed the doorknob. The door, surprisingly, gave way. I slipped inside quietly. I closed the door behind me as gently as I could and tiptoed down the hallway. Standing in the doorway, I saw myself. I was sitting in an armchair, in front of the turned-off television. My head was tilted, my eyes bulging, unblinking. The handle of a knife protruded from my chest, and the T-shirt and couch were covered in blood. I stood in the doorway and couldn't believe it. He... was dead. The one who had nearly driven me mad, the one who had forced me to flee, now lay dead on my couch, soaking in his own juices—and I couldn't help the stupid smile that twisted my face. I was happy to see that hated face, its dull, terrified expression staring into the void. I'd walked here with a head full of plans that were beyond me—and it turned out someone had done the hard work for me. "Serves you right, you son of a bitch!" I shouted. "Serves you right! You've earned it! This is what happens when you ruin someone's life! And now you have it! You're sitting there dead, looking stupid! And no one will care about your death! Because you were never there!" I was surprised because the words, though clearly mine, seemed to come from outside. And though they perfectly reflected my thoughts, they weren't mine. Then I appeared in the kitchen doorway, covered in blood. "What the hell?" I muttered, scratching my clean-shaven head with my bloody hand, looking from myself lying on the couch to myself standing in the hallway, dyed brunette like an idiot, and beardless.