Paradox:
Can the darkest night seem like day?
Can something infinitely black seem white?
Lying next to the person you love,
doing nothing.
Saying nothing,
thinking about nothing.
Just lying there.
Lying there and savoring the moment.
This feeling is the most human,
yet the rarest among humans.
The darkest night is day!
And everything infinitely black is white!
Shadow from Camp Twenty-One:
A large, dark room with only the lights dimmed. Curtained windows, a rolled-up carpet, and a roar. The roar of speakers provisionally connected to a computer manned by a homegrown DJ. Seats against the wall were temporarily imported from neighboring rooms, and people had grown into them. Forty people, five of them friends. Every other one claimed to be a dude.
One sat alone, lost in thought, daydreaming. He sat waiting for salvation. One of the gorillas occupying the seats opposite stood up and staggered across the room.
"What's your name?" "He asked, trying to shout over the loudspeakers
. The man in the seat looked at him indifferently. He wasn't concerned. He was one of those clowns who had entered uninvited, unwanted, and disliked by anyone. Without saying a word, he averted his gaze and continued staring at the floor.
"What's your name?" he repeated
. "None of your business," he replied calmly, not even sparing him a glance.
"What?" The intruder leaned over the interlocutor
. "None of your business," he slowly repeated.
"What's your name and where are you from?" he repeated nervously.
"Are you deaf?
" "No, I just don't like your face, and if you keep jumping, you'll eventually get hit!
" "Piss off," he replied dismissively.
"I already told you if you jump, you'll get hit!" he threatened, grabbing the man by the shirt
. "And I said piss off," he replied, twisting the attacker's arm holding his shirt. "But if you want, you're welcome to come outside." And I'm not alone here, but I'm not going to bother my friends with my guitar just because some jerk picks on the wrong person. And if you have any honor left, you'll be leaving alone too," he finished, pushing him away, sending him sprawling in the middle of the room.
The stranger stood up and returned to his seat, furious. His friends were mocking him, but none of them wanted to get up. The loner just stared at them defiantly. He was sure none of them would move; they weren't that type of people.
Meanwhile, a girl entered the room. She had long blond hair, flowing freely with the rhythm of her energetic steps. Her slender figure was clearly defined in the dim lighting through her tight white blouse and jeans. Her facial features were indistinct in the dim light, but he didn't need the light to see her face… She approached the guest, who was staring intently at the dance floor.
"Did I miss something?" she asked, sitting on his lap .
"Nothing interesting," he replied calmly, glancing at the friends across the street.
She leaned in and kissed him. He wrapped his right arm around her waist. She rested her head on his left shoulder. She closed her eyes. He gently stroked her hair. They stood there, savoring the moment, feeling the closeness of their bodies, the breeze of each other's breath, the warmth of their skin. They stood there, completely still. He pulled his left arm from under her and wrapped his arm around her waist. She didn't even flinch.
"Shall we explore the dance floor?" "
Why not? " he suggested after a long moment. "Why not
?" They stood up and soon were staggering across the dance floor. She rested her head on his shoulder again and closed her eyes. She felt strange, out of place, absent. It was around three, so maybe she was tired, sleepy? She snuggled into his arm and let him lead. She wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned on him as they danced. He practically held her waist. What was going on? What was wrong with her? Maybe she wasn't feeling well? ...
Suddenly, she loosened her grip on his neck. She slipped out of his arms. She fell onto the hard parquet floor. Her head hit the floor, bounced, and rose two or three centimeters. She fell again and slowly rolled to her right side, quivering slightly for a moment longer. Her beautiful, long blond hair chaotically covered her face. Her torso was unnaturally contorted. Her left arm lay on the floor, outstretched, palm open.
He stood still, hands lowered. He stared at the girl. Why had she fallen? What had happened? A terrible thought formed in his mind… He approached her. He bent down and placed two fingers on her throat, listening for her breathing. He closed his eyes and sighed with relief. He reached into her trouser pocket. He took it out and put it in the other one. He pulled it out after an excruciatingly long moment. He didn't need to open his hand to be sure… He was holding a small, clear, waterproof bag containing a white powder. Without a second's thought, he pocketed the treasure so that no one would notice.
A bright light flashed, almost blinding everyone for a moment. The ambulance was already on its way. The attendees clustered around her. He ignored them. He crouched, staring at her face, covered in a net of individual hairs. He slowly brushed them aside. He studied her chest intently. Up and down, up and down, up and down… His heart was pounding. His wheezing breath almost drowned out his thoughts. He wouldn't have been able to focus on anything other than her chaotic breathing – not evenly spaced, but rapid, with irregular, shallow breaths. It was rather chilly, but beads of cold sweat broke out on his forehead. Up and down, up and down, up and down… he analyzed carefully.
The music stopped. The room was almost completely silent, broken only by the sound of rain on the metal gutters. Bright light from two symmetrically placed lamps on the ceiling illuminated the entire room. The bottles had disappeared, and those not in public had been led to another room. Only in the center lay an unconscious girl, and beside her knelt a disoriented boy. She lay motionless, her hair scattered across the parquet floor around her head, her body in an unnatural position, her arm outstretched toward him, her palm open, and her head deliberately avoiding his gaze. This was the drama: a fallen angel of humanity lay unconscious on the floor, motionless, senseless, flawless on her beautiful body. He knelt. He stared at her face, her breasts heaving with the rhythm of her unsteady breathing, her hair scattered in disarray, her small, half-closed mouth, her slight, oval chin, and her deathly pale cheeks—the only evidence of her disability. His calm face betrayed no emotion. Only his fixed eyes betrayed anxiety, regret, and sadness.
The silence was shattered by the growing sound of a siren. After a short, yet mercilessly prolonged moment, two doctors entered.
"What happened?
" "I don't know! She just fell," he replied, his voice breaking.
And again, the deafening roar of a siren, and silence. He stood in the middle of the room, where one of the doctors had moved him. He closed his eyes and lowered his head. He stood there for a moment that seemed like an eternity. He thought of nothing—he couldn't think. He let himself be carried away by the emptiness in his head. All he could hear was the deafening pounding of his heart. Another moment, and he'd lose his eardrums… He focused on his unusually shallow and rapid breathing. He forced steady breaths, trying to control them. After a long moment, he succeeded.
He opened his eyes. He was still standing in the middle of the large, brightly lit room. People surrounded him, their gazes fixed on him. He glanced around. A dozen or so people—mostly girls—remained relatively sober until the end. He didn't recognize anyone. The faces seemed unfamiliar, strange, gloomy,… menacing. He left the room through the glass door. He stood on the stairs. He closed his eyes and breathed—but felt no relief. The last hour festered in his memory. He descended the stairs and began walking slowly. After a moment, he picked up speed, running; it didn't matter where, anywhere, as long as he was away—away from this place, this house, this room. The silence was complete, broken only by the soothing sound of falling rain and the slap of his long footsteps. The last song hummed in his head. The one he heard when…:
"How much would I give to forget you?
All the moments that are for nothing,
Because I want to (because I want to)
Not think about it anymore, blow away all the memories
Like lingering dust
That's how it is (that's how it is)
Just not to remember
Situations in which the heart kneels
I know
I won't break away, even though I really want to,
I hope you know that too
One Eight L "How to Forget"
***
Seven in the morning. A closed door. An ordinary one – white with an orange arch at the bottom, a metal doorknob with chipping white paint, and a keyhole. Remarkably similar to the one opposite, the one three meters away on the left, and the dozens of others in the corridor. They differed only in a plaque hidden under the glass in the middle, at head height: Room 666. Everyone who left there was dead – the unlucky detox room.
He stood by the door, staring blankly at the note. He stood there for a long time, staring motionless at the door, utterly devastated. He couldn't move, much less open the door. He simply stood in the middle of the corridor, helpless, indecisive, trapped by the "last door on the left."
A nurse in a white coat appeared at the end of the corridor. She slowly approached. She looked at him with a sympathetic gaze and opened the door. She entered... He saw the girl lying in bed. Her eyes were closed. Her chest rose and fell steadily, rose and fell, rose and fell... to the rhythm of "How to Forget."
She was sleeping. So carefree. Without problems, worries, feeling no pain, no fatigue, not thinking, not remembering. She slept in the vestibule of hell, not knowing, not realizing, not feeling, not foreboding, not longing, not hating – she was incapable of hating… An ordinary bird of paradise – unaware of life.
Meanwhile, he stood in the hallway, looking at her, complaining, recounting his problems, feelings, emotions, and mercilessly burning memories to himself. And only hope – the faithful mother of fools, dying at the end. His entire life had been an idyll. A utopian game of appearances. Appearances with feet of clay. Seemingly permanent and inviolable, but all it takes is a little water… That very little trickled down his cheek. Slowly, without rushing. For a brief moment, it lingered on his clean-shaven chin, then settled on his shoes. It was a tear. A tear of pain and suffering, tinged with hatred. A second drop rolled down his cheek, followed by another, another, and another…
She opened her eyes. She turned, but he was gone! All she heard was the sound of footsteps in the hallway. Quick, long, pounding in the empty hall. He was running. She knew that sound perfectly. His heavy rubber soles, the characteristic arrhythmia of his left and right steps… He couldn't take it anymore – he ran away.
***
That same day – Sunday – she left the hospital, but on Monday she didn't come. He waited for her all morning on the wall in front of the school – in vain. He also spent Tuesday morning on the wall. He waited, torn by thoughts, his hand clutching the purse in his pocket. She appeared, beautiful as always. She walked calmly. She saw him and approached without hesitation.
"He…
" "Where's that?" She interrupted him in a commanding voice.
He was stunned. He hadn't expected this – he couldn't even imagine… He took his hand out of his pocket. He reached toward her and opened his palm. On it lay a small, clear bag containing a white powder. She reached for it, but he closed his hand abruptly. He stood up.
"Goodbye!" he said, his voice calm now.
He turned and walked away calmly – he no longer had any doubts. The still-fresh memories seemed distant and insignificant, a trifle, a trifle. He opened the bag and held out his hand so she could see it clearly. He tilted his hand and poured out the contents. The white powder flew away, carried by a violent gust of wind. The cloud rose, swirled for a moment, and then dissolved completely. The empty bag fell lightly to the ground. He continued walking.
"It cost two hundred!" she screamed angrily, lifting the bag.
He ignored her screams. It was too late for her. He wouldn't wish the future she had on anyone, but there was nothing he could do. He passed away peacefully—a shadow from Camp Twenty-One.
Without a doubt
, what comes from the heart finds its way to the heart,
creating an avalanche chain.
Should one pass it on, seeking solace,
or break it and suffer forever?
This is the human lot:
pain and suffering, to share happiness.
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