End

Aversion—that's how I could best describe the state of mind I'd been in for many months now. Aversion to everything. It certainly couldn't be called hatred; I wouldn't be capable of any vivid emotions; rather, I was filled with a silent indifference. I felt as if a merciless stagnation had imperceptibly seized me in its claws: me—a vast, lifeless puppet, trying with clumsy hands to protect the pale flame of my life from the gusts of an icy wind. Days passed, filled with the gray mush of everyday life, with which my entire brain had become infected and quickly began to resemble a quivering jelly. So what if I was aware of this? I still couldn't resist the gray, silent monster of routine that was devouring me, the murderer of ambition and youthful plans.

I couldn't live like this any longer. I felt disgust for myself, for the world, for the few remaining people whose paths I crossed daily. I often walked through the large park near my home, gazing at the joyful faces whose owners darted this way and that with a tenacity worthy of a better cause. I didn't know where they could draw the seemingly inexhaustible reserves of energy and happiness that emanated from each bright face, trying to infect the trees and sky with their cheerfulness. I sat on the edge of the fishpond and watched the occasional ripple on the smooth surface of the water—the only signs of its silent inhabitants. I was, like them, mute, or at least that's how I felt as the days passed and I couldn't and felt no need to speak to anyone. Like the last of a dying species on a dead land, left to my own devices, trying to hold back the fading sun, stretching out my arms in a gesture of pathetic despair.

She came to me unexpectedly, like a breath of freshness born from the first ray of spring sunshine, still faint and fragile, but growing more powerful with each passing day. That day, a resolution was born, and nothing more, but for me, it marked my entire life with a bold line. I decided to invite her home.

For a long time, she had been the quintessence of femininity for me, the object of my sighs and dreams awakened from their winter slumber. She seemed fresh, like blades of grass timidly peeking out from beneath a blanket of gloomy, gray, and dirty snow, gripping the earth like a tyrant, unable to come to terms with its inevitable departure and still terrifying; then again, she matured with that beautiful sweetness that bends the branches of apple trees bearing large red apples, dusted with gold and girded with ribbons of blue. I probably couldn't call what I felt love, but it was certainly a strange mixture of fascination and fatal infatuation, compelling me to change all my life's decisions in an instant and feeding me the nectar of hope.

I'd been preparing for this day all November. I'd renovated my small apartment, applying, as always, two coats of white paint to the sloping, furrowed walls and one to the overhanging ceiling. I'd thoroughly beaten all the dust and mud particles from the fluffy living room carpet, torn from the heavy boots I'd worn each evening, disgraced by the dust of my hateful work. I'd also bought a new suit. I'd considered a refined black, but ultimately settled on a charcoal gray—perhaps a bit warmer, reminiscent of a night sky daubed with shadows.

I hadn't invited anyone else. I'd long since lost friends and acquaintances, slowly retreating to their own hermitages and generously bestowing the blessing of oblivion upon each other. Besides, I didn't need them. In my black despair, I'd even forgotten the void they'd left behind—like the gaping hole left by a torn-out brick.

It seemed like I waited ages before the time finally arrived. For one long month, I aged several years, observing in the mirror the gray streaks at my temples and the depths revealed by the increasingly visible furrows on my forehead and cheeks. Bent by age, I faced the grindstone each day, as the galley slaves before and after me had done, their lives of slavery interwoven with gazes as hot as fire, chasing the irretrievably lost world of freedom. Reality chained me in the stocks every day anew, like a murderer exposed to public humiliation before a mob for which I felt neither admiration nor even contempt. This time, however, returning from work, I felt no fatigue; it was as if an energizing drug were coursing through my veins. I felt exactly like a child returning home with a report card, knowing that a few weeks of rest and carefree fun awaited them. For a child, vacations seemed like a land of eternal happiness, while I scattered the entire baggage of years of depression and hopelessness along the way: they flowed down the street like a river illuminated by the glow of the surrounding streetlights, hiding terrible secrets in its dark depths. I knew she was already with me, waiting for my return.

When I entered the house, I immediately sensed her presence. She lay on the bed and seemed to be waiting for something to happen. She looked exceptionally feminine, delicate, and somewhat lost. I smiled at her, but she didn't smile back. Today she seemed out of place, playing with her own thoughts and seemingly not even noticing me.

She was the star guest of the evening. A true star, illuminating the darkness of my modest apartment and bringing an unusual glow of change. I finally decided to invite her, and I was so happy about it. I could look at her and admire the beauty of her curves and her sensual coolness. That was worth more than anything else.

Returning to the kitchen, I lit all the candles, striking them one by one with a slender matchstick. Thin tendrils of smoke rose and spread along the ceiling in all directions. I had prepared everything especially for her arrival.

I took the prepared dishes from the refrigerator and plated them, and from the wall cabinet I pulled out a huge antique tray, made of silver interwoven here and there with decorative stones. The tray belonged to one of my ancestors and had long since been unused, but on this special day, it once again played its small role, chosen for it years ago. On the tray, I placed delicate pieces of smoked salmon, as delicate as flower petals, doused with sharp lemon juice, a pork loin stuffed with plums with an alcoholic aroma, a roast duck stuffed with hare pâté, and a seafood salad – with lobster and a kind of green algae that crumbled on the tip of the tongue. I also prepared a bottle of wine, which I'd purchased, trying to choose the most exclusive specimen possible. I wasn't a wine connoisseur and lacked the knowledge to confidently purchase a good alcoholic beverage, so I simply chose the most expensive one in the store.

I carried the tray into the living room and placed it on a crisp white tablecloth. I arranged the candles so that every corner of the table was illuminated with a delicate glow. The candlelight and the smell of melted stearin always had a soothing effect on me. They seemed to electrify the air and create a pleasant sensation of clean breath, like that which sometimes follows the passage of a violent storm.

We began the feast. I poured the wine into the glasses, intently observing the green trail running down the sides of the glasses and the bubbles racing upward in a mad race. I put on Mozart, and we reveled in the omnipresent sound. She liked the music—at least, that's what it seemed, but I didn't ask.

I ate in silence, wondering what I should do next. The clatter of cutlery, which I kept catching on the bottom of my plate, grew louder and louder in my ears: when it faded, it became the grim thunder of an avalanche, led by a black horse and death sitting astride it. Every now and then, I sipped my wine, carefully holding the goblet by its slender stem. I kept looking at her; she electrified me, drawing me in with all my senses. I sensed a mysterious aura dissolved in the air, piercing me like the chill of a black November night. The minutes passed quickly.

Suddenly, I realized the moment had arrived. The wine I had drunk was buzzing in my head and giving me courage. I stood slowly and immediately felt my heart begin to beat an unknown, wild rhythm. I approached her on soft, trembling legs. She lay on the bed—the same position I had found her in when I entered the apartment. I felt uneasy. Despite everything, I felt very concerned about my responsibilities as a host.

I carefully took her in my arms, my fingers clenched tightly. Finally, the dreams of the past few days had come true, the hallucinations of sleepless, chaotic nights had come true. All that mattered now was that she was mine, and I was hers. We absorbed each other in silence, unhurried, as if the dials of an old clock had stopped and would never again measure time with its monotonous, inexorable chime. We had only this moment to ourselves, yet I sensed the dispassionate gaze of eternity upon me—the ultimate observer, maintaining an immeasurable distance from people, things, and events. I had always wanted to be observed in precisely this way, without judgment or comment, without praise or blame, without unnecessary emotional ballast or unnecessary rapture. I wanted to feel only beauty or ugliness, truth or falsehood. An aesthete. That was how I defined myself.

It was wonderful to be silent. The music had long since faded away, and no sound violated the sweet silence. Slowly, as if the evening had plunged me into hypnosis, I brought it to my temple and pulled the trigger.

Death appeared out of nowhere and enveloped my body, as it slid to the floor, in a loving embrace. Gently, like a lover who came in the early morning, afraid to shatter the silence of the night with her sudden movement. I felt myself falling from a great height, entangled in a vast, elastic web that gripped me and constrained all my movements with the force of thick steel cables. I saw no white light or tunnel. A crimson curtain blurred all contours and the large, motionless figure standing above me. Perhaps it was an Angel, not Death? No matter. The show was over.