father

A little boy cowers under the covers. He trembles with terror, wishing he could disappear, vanish into thin air. He's afraid of them. Lest they eat him. He's right. They came, found him, and devoured him. Just like yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. It will be the same tomorrow. But the boy doesn't know this. Now he's only being digested. He hasn't been reborn yet, ready to die again. It's been this way forever, from the beginning of the world, and it will be this way until the end. Only death is different. Or maybe it's the same. The only blessing in his sad existence is that he doesn't remember the days before. Perhaps some forgotten god has taken pity on him. Every day he's born anew. Without the knowledge of the day before or the day after. This ignorance is his only hope. Without it, he would sink into the depths of madness... Or maybe not? Perhaps this is his greatest curse. If he remembered, if he knew what had happened to him and what awaited him, perhaps he would have tried to fight. Hatred would have overcome fear. He would have eaten them. Then he would have won. But isn't there another way? Are there only two possibilities: monster or victim? What if we could rise above this? Soar into the sky, soar toward the stars, and never return? That would be beautiful. Unfortunately, it's impossible. My power doesn't reach that far. But hatred. Hatred and fighting. This is what I can do for him. So let's play god one last time and inspire the boy with knowledge of what was, and if that doesn't help, then knowledge of what will be. Let's immerse ourselves in this boy's soul, so painfully tried. Come with me, if you're not afraid, for it will be terrible. But I haven't seen things like this before. Perhaps it will even amuse me and shorten the torture of the prison I've been in for centuries. Come, let's exchange one cell for another. I'm unleashing the powers bestowed upon me by Hell, and this boy's liberation will be mine as well. Together, we'll break the chains that bind us. And then, beware, you who locked me in here. Boy, beware, I'm coming too.

"Come out, you brat! Now! I'll find you anyway," he roared like a rabid animal. I was sitting under my desk in the darkest corner of my room, trembling with fear of what was about to happen. I hated him coming home like that, sloshed like a pig in mud. But even when he was sober, I didn't feel much positive about him. In fact, when he was sober, I felt nothing. I was just waiting for the fear to return, and with it, the pain and humiliation. I knew he'd find me soon. It was only a matter of time, and how drunk he was. I think he always knew where I was right away, but he enjoyed looking for me. He reveled in my fear.

"Come out, you little bastard. If I catch you, you'll regret ever being born," he muttered, untying his belt. I heard his footsteps. Slow and irregular. Fear paralyzed me completely. I knew what was about to happen. He prowled the area like a hunter, and I was his prey. How I hated him. I know it's a sin, and God will be angry with me, but I couldn't help it. He opened the door, and I heard malicious laughter. "Come out, I know you're here. At least say hello to Daddy, you little prick. What? You're scared, but there's really nothing to be scared of. You know you've been naughty. Now you have to get a beating as punishment." He didn't turn on the light. "Maybe he won't find me," the thought flashed through my mind, but I knew it was inevitable. The light from the hallway reflected off the police badge on his uniform. He unbuckled his gun holster and placed it on the table. He picked up his baton and began banging on the furniture. He hummed a childish rhyme as he did so. I used to like it, but now I don't.

"Bad—baton—chin—chick—frog—be…" and so on, over and over again. With each syllable, he broke one of my toys. If Mom were here, I'd be safe. Dad is always kind and calm around her. She doesn't suspect a thing, and I didn't want to worry her, ever. Luckily, he's coming back tomorrow.

"Come on, kid, get out of here, that's enough. You're being very naughty for a ten-year-old. Dad needs to give you a beating, and you know how much he hates that. He's very angry with you, you little shitty brat.

This game is over. Now it's time for another one." He walked over to the desk, grabbed me by the neck, and lifted me up. What strength he has. Someday I'll be that big and strong too, and then… "Give me your hand." It was always the same. My father took the handcuffs and strapped me to the radiator. "Well, you've done it," he mumbled in a drunken voice. "Now you'll see. Why were you even born? Tell me, why?"

I remained silent. I knew it wouldn't change anything. I used to wonder why he did it. Finally, I came to the conclusion that all fathers are like that. It's an innate trait. I'll probably be like that too. I felt a dull pain in the back of my head. Not too low, so there were no visible marks. Mom always washes my back. She would see. And you shouldn't bother Mom. Those are, after all, manly things. I doubled over in pain. I hated punches to the stomach the most. You could get used to the others. I slowly fell into a numbness. With each blow, I was transported to a different place. When I was younger, I used to have a clock in my room. Unfortunately, one day, my father came home drunk. At first, I hated it because it ticked so loudly that I couldn't sleep. But then I got used to it. The same thing happened now with the pain. I knew it was there somewhere and that tomorrow I wouldn't be able to move, but now I just couldn't feel it.

Finally, my father got tired. He spat on me and left. I leaned against the radiator with my hand raised. It was part of the ritual; he wouldn't remove the handcuffs until morning. I knew that if I wanted to, I could reach out without the keys, as the handcuffs were a bit too big, but then my father would be angry. When I woke up, my father was gone. I was curled up under the desk. My father wouldn't be back until nightfall. I have some time. And my mother will be back tomorrow. Tomorrow. Only tomorrow...

      

I lie unconscious. In the hospital. I don't know why, but I just feel like I'm in the hospital. Unconscious. I've been unconscious for weeks. I think it's called a coma. But I'm not sleeping. I can hear what's going on around me: patients walking around and doctors talking. They're talking about me too, but I can't respond. I can't do anything, not even open my eyes. It's like some invisible force isn't letting me move. I don't know who I am. Where do I come from? What's my name? I don't know the answers to such questions. I'm certain they exist, and in some way I do. I know the answers I crave, but not right now. As soon as I think about them, I forget. I just feel them circling my mind, hiding in the most inaccessible corners. I just lie there all day and think. And one more thing: I'm afraid. I constantly dread the coming of night, because with it will come the dreams. It's from them that I so desperately want to escape. They're terrible, terrifying, and repulsive. Wow, even thinking about them right now, I can't help but shiver, even though I remember almost nothing about them. They've been with me forever, I think, but I've only recently begun to realize they exist. It might sound a bit strange, but it's true. There used to be a time when I woke up, when I remembered absolutely nothing. A complete void. Even vague and jumbled images and sensations. I simply fell asleep and woke up. Now I'm slowly beginning to realize what I experience in my dreams, and it seems to me I'd rather die than go back there even once more. But sleep is slowly coming. It's getting closer. Another night, another fight. I'll lose this one too. Will it be like this forever? Help...

Drip, drip, drip… the water drips from the ceiling. Regularly and steadily. Without rushing. In the end, it will prevail. Nothing can resist it, even if it takes a thousand years. It carves tunnels, squeezes through the smallest cracks. It even reaches me. To the very depths of hell. To a place where the light of the sun, or even the moon, never reaches. Ah, the sun, the starry sky, the forest. And the flowers. How I long to see them again. If only once. I've almost forgotten what they look like. But I doubt I could ever experience such happiness. I lie on my bunk. Darkness surrounds me, but not like a room at night with the lights off, but absolute darkness. I can't see anything, not even the faintest outline. Sometimes I think I've gone blind. But every now and then, a guard walks down the corridor with a lantern in his hand. I press my whole body against the floor, against the single crack in my door. She's my link to the outside world. I absorb this meager semblance of light with my entire being. Sometimes I think I've gone mad. Ha, what am I even saying? I'm definitely mad. I've been locked up here for I don't know how long. Or for what. I don't remember the last time I spoke to anyone. Even the interrogations I once hated so much and now long for—even they have vanished into the ocean of oblivion. Or maybe they never happened. Maybe I imagined them.

So I immerse myself in memories, for they are all I have left. A dark room, a chair in the center, and me on the chair. I'm dripping with blood. The single lamp is positioned so that its light blinds me. Shadows passing by. Batons, brass knuckles, electricity. And a voice, emerging from nowhere. It drills into my brain. It asks questions. What were you planning to do tomorrow? Why did you come here? What do you want from us? Why will you kill this and that, then and then? And so on. I tried to answer as best I could, as accurately as I could. But the pain returned. Every time. One day, or maybe one night, it all ended and I found myself here. Where is this? I don't know, and I don't care. I only want one thing now: Death. Quick and gentle. Let it come to me like a lover in a dream and place a kiss on my heart. Sing me a lullaby as old as the world. And then I will see the sun.

I wait for it with all the more anxiety because I know it's coming soon. Where? Someone told me. I think. Time flies, and the end is drawing near. I'm almost happy.

Finally, they arrived. I hear their footsteps, approaching. The scrape of a key in the lock and the creak of a door that had been closed for so long. They carried a light, but a soft one. They probably didn't want to irritate my eyes, accustomed to the dark. How kind they were. They led me down a long corridor, or rather, carried me, for my legs are no longer fit for anything. They were completely shattered during the interrogation. How gentle they are, we don't go too fast, so I don't suffer. They're carrying me to my mother. It's over. No more fear. I think I love them. The corridor climbs higher and higher. I feel a breath of fresh air. What a wonderful scent. A door opens. Stars. Thousands, millions, billions of them. We continue walking until we reach a cliff. One of them says, "You are forgiven. You are free," and then they throw me down the slope. How grateful I am. I couldn't have made it on my own. I'm falling. Death is coming. I close my eyes and feel what's left of my body hit the ground. I manage to glance up at the stars. Mom, I'm coming to you.

Sky, starry sky, and I'm falling. My body is horribly mutilated. What's happening to me? Where am I? Who am I, the executioner or the victim? Stumps instead of arms, stumps instead of legs. I'm falling down. Death. A dream. Another dream. I remember more and more. I'm starting to remember. Mutilated bodies. Corpses and wounded, a whole lot of them. Children. Every night, every evening, I fight for my soul. It's overwhelming. Too much to remember everything. Enough to drive me crazy. A mosaic of images, screams, and tears. Love, hate, sadness, despair. Why me? Where did these dreams come from? Because they're dreams. Right? Oh God, if only they were just dreams. I can't even move and call for help. Or just scream. Scream so loud I can't hear anything else. And never dream again, never, never…

Poor boy. He already knows. He remembers. Maybe not everything, but enough to be afraid. Now the day will no longer bring solace. Yes, boy, it's terrible. I know it well. I've been through this too. But that's the price of power. I know you don't want it, that you'll hate the one who gives you such a gift. But the decision isn't yours, it's mine. And I've already decided. I chose you, and only in you do I place all my hopes. Our hopes. But don't worry, the worst is yet to come.

…never, never again. Another dream, even more vivid than the last. More gaps in my memory are being filled. The doctors are worried about me. They run tests on me every day. I don't understand their language, but I feel the unease with which they speak. Something in the way they phrase their sentences, or perhaps in their intonation, makes me expect the worst. A masseuse, or perhaps a therapist, visited me today. First, the nurse undressed me and washed me thoroughly. A pleasant feeling. Then she dressed me and left. And finally, the most pleasant aspect of my bleak existence: the massage. What an incredible experience. Her hands are so gentle, yet firm and confident in what they do. She didn't miss a single muscle. Thanks to this, when I leave here, it will be easier to get back into shape. If I leave here. They seem to believe it's possible. I've almost completely lost hope. Only sometimes do I imagine walking the streets and simply living. This body, once my pride, has become my prison. I can't use it, I can't leave it. This isn't even the cell of my dreams. At least she had those two-by-two. Jesus, what am I talking about? I think I prefer being in my own skin. Yesterday I had a visitor. It was a woman. She read Herbert's poems to me. I think I know her, or at least I should. She had such a sweet voice, imbued with love and sadness. Maybe it was my mother, or my wife. Holy shit. I don't even know if I have a wife. How old am I and how the fuck did I end up lying here?

It was my sister. She was the one who read me poetry. The days pass, and the nights too. It's getting worse. I don't even want to think about what I experience at night. It sounds cliché, but it's impossible to even describe. These dreams, although I'm no longer so sure they're dreams, no one will understand. No one who hasn't dreamed them. It's not even about the plot, if you can even talk about plot, but about the message. Once, a woman appeared. I felt she was dear to my heart. That was all, or rather, so much. The entire emotional charge was so terrible that... what?... I kept dreaming, because I couldn't do anything else anyway. Another time, it was a child bathing in a sea of ​​blood. And that's not some fucking literary metaphor. It was a real, utterly real sea. Red and thick. So damn thick. Fish skeletons were floating in it. And on the beach, corpses, dozens of corpses on blankets and deckchairs. They were sunbathing, running, or walking. A scene straight out of "Night of the Living Dead." I was there too, with them. A child emerged from the water. It was a girl. She was only five years old, and she was alive. She was bursting with energy, youth, and happiness. She didn't realize what was about to happen. Neither did I. She stepped between us. At a certain point, the conversations stopped, and people, people who were no longer people, stood up and approached her. I saw the hunger in their eyes. Mine was the same, I could feel it. We were getting closer. Then… I can't, I just can't anymore. I wanted to cry so much. To be wrapped in someone's arms. That's probably the worst part. The knowledge that I was alone. That no one knew my pain… then we ate her. We tore her apart and ate her alive, like animals.

      

It's June 5th. About six months earlier. In the car, son and father are having a charming discussion. Or rather, the father is delivering a wonderful and fatherly monologue, while the son is trying very hard to look as if he's listening.

"Well, you got away with it this time, you brat. But remember, one day I won't be around, and what will you do then? What? Answer me, you brat. Damn, if I punch you in the head of your drugged-up head right now, maybe you'll feel better. Do you know what you've done? That boy's in a coma! Do you realize you almost killed him? And there's no telling if he'll get out of this. And have you even thought about us? What are you thinking? Your mother and I have better things to do than bail you out of every new mess. You should be ashamed! You're listening to me." I can't stand you...ble ble gagugigege plum.

A huge pig sits next to me, smoking a cigar. He keeps moving his lips and gesturing wildly with his arms, legs, even his snout and ears. As he talks, speech bubbles appear above his head. Heh, heh, funny, just like in a comic book. Every movement he makes leaves a permanent mark, a streak, salmon-colored, this one, that one, or maybe sardine-colored. A moment later, the pig disappeared. Some strange goo engulfed his entire body. Maybe it was a cocoon. A moment later, the whole thing transformed into a sexy blonde with breasts the size of a tank. She looked at me, and in her eyes I saw the ocean, and in it a whale swimming. The whale turned its "head" toward me and looked back at me. In his eyes was my father. He was toying with the blonde and didn't even notice me. He must have realized I was spying on him and ended his frolic. His voice boomed again like a storm above my head. "What do you think you're doing? You almost killed that boy." "He kept talking, and the whale inflated like a balloon. Finally, it couldn't get any bigger and decided to explode. I was in the car again, just with my father. "Hmm," I mused, "That's funny. Why didn't I notice that before? My father resembles a pig. Or maybe he is a pig. He has this funny big nose. He probably borrowed it from Pinocchio." We arrived. My mother was waiting for us in the living room. She was the complete opposite of my father. Terribly thin and tall. I think I'm the arithmetic average of those two. "Hi, Mommy," I said, "What's up?" She stood up and walked over to me. "Son," she squealed, "how could you?" Then she hugged me and sobbed like a little child.

A little later, in my room, I was recovering. "Fucking awesome. I went a little overboard this time. Forty hours of hard driving. That was something. The best part was the look on that damn loser's face. Well, he could have just kept quiet. But, by the way, I overdid it a bit. Daddy's right. He won't cover for me forever. This time, I almost got there. I wonder what it would be like to end up in jail. Phew. Probably not very pleasant.

A few days later, early in the evening, in a certain apartment, or rather a cottage, a fire jumped merrily in the fireplace. The flames giggled, kissed, and chased each other. The wood crackled majestically and steadily, as if showing contempt and disdain for these innocent games of the flames. And the poker watched it all, shyly and with a distance. An old man sat in an armchair, sipping a martini. "It's evening," he whispered, then continued, already thinking. "There's nothing like sitting back and enjoying a wonderful martini. The fire casts an incredible light on them." However, the old man's blissful peace and serene thoughts were obscured by a cloud of anxiety. His face, as if lit from within, slowly turned gray, and his lips ceased to curve into a gentle smile. The reason for this change in mood was the conversation the judge, since we were currently at the judge's house, had to have today.

"Something important is going to happen tonight," he mused. "I wonder what this Nowak wants from me. There's no doubt that it's about his son, but what exactly is this about? Never mind." The judge smiled slyly. "If I play this right, at least I'll pay off some of my debts. Maybe I'll even break even, and then it'll be over. I already feel like a scumbag. Oh, it's time, he'll be here soon." The small, wizened man closed his eyes and sank into his armchair.

Outside, amid the forest silence, a new sound arose. At first, it was faint, so quiet it could only have been an illusion. But it gradually grew louder, and soon the sound of an engine could be recognized. The entire forest suddenly fell silent, as if awaiting what was about to happen.

"Well, here it is. My chance. I won't let such a big fish go. It's true that I have to sell myself. We both know that, but at least I won't sell myself cheaply."

The judge rose, slowly and reluctantly, as if some force was trying to keep him in his chair. Perhaps it was his guardian angel desperately fighting for his soul. If so, he had lost the battle, for the judge moved toward the door, shifting much of his weight onto the cane in his left hand.

A moment later, the two men were already seated in the living room. An expectant silence fell, and the opponents eyed each other. Both waited for the other to make a move, so as not to reveal their cards immediately. Needless to say, they didn't particularly like each other, but what could they do? At this point, they were stuck with each other. Nowak spoke first.

"You can probably guess why I'm here. My son made a fool of himself. It can happen to anyone. Don't you think so?" He paused, as if waiting for confirmation. He continued, however, without hearing it. "It's my duty as a father to help him as much as possible."

"What do you expect from me, Mr. Nowak?" "

As I understand it, you'll be presiding over this trial. I want an acquittal."

"You must be crazy," the judge exclaimed. This was too much even for him. "No, that's impossible. The evidence of his guilt is undeniable. Do you know who the crown witness is? A policeman."

At that moment, somewhere in the judge's soul, on the lowest and dustiest shelf, something stirred. This conscience awakens from its long slumber. It returns to take possession of what is rightfully itss.

"Besides," the judge continued, "besides, your son was on drugs and this isn't the first time he's been in trouble with the law. Do you know what he did to that other guy? Well, do you? Well, if by some miracle you haven't, I'll tell you. He banged his son's head against the wall until his face turned to bloody goo. And that was only the beginning, because he only stopped beating him when the police intervened and separated them. In my opinion, he deserved a long prison sentence."

Nowak just smiled. It was a truly nasty smile, but somehow it strangely suited the man. You could say he had a whole bunch of them in his stash and was incredibly fond of using them. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope. He smoothed it out and placed it on the table. He did it slowly and with exaggerated care. He was planning a strategy. It looked like a fight, and that was what he liked best. The whole situation was all the more pleasant because he didn't expect any resistance from the old man. And suddenly it turns out this snail still has a backbone. How nice.

"I visited a friend of mine recently," he began his attack. "We were talking about you. He was very dissatisfied with you." Nowak felt like a fish out of water now. He was bringing out his heavy artillery and simply couldn't wait to use it. He continued, adopting a dismissive, even mocking tone. "You owe him a lot of money. A really, really lot of money." He even considered coming to you in person. You know, to find out why you're delaying repayment. This conversation wouldn't be the most pleasant. But don't worry about him anymore. I've generously decided to spare you this. Here," he said, handing the judge an envelope, "this is for you." He asked politely, "So, Mr. Judge, how do you feel about my son's case now?"

His conscience straightened its old bones. "Let's look around," he thought. "I think I overslept a bit." "It slowly rose to the surface, and if it could scream, it probably would have. Pure despair and misery. What it saw in the judge's soul could have caused even the healthiest conscience to have a heart attack. And so it did. The conscience clutched at its missing heart. The struggle lasted only a moment, because in truth, it no longer wanted to live. It fell dead in the darkest, deepest place the judge could find to bury it.

" "I agree," came the judge's weak and broken voice. "You're right. It wasn't your son's fault. He's innocent."

"Well, then, I understand. A wonderful attitude. I'm truly touched. Here are the bills of exchange. Every last one. I'm sure I can trust you. Doing business with you is a pleasure, but unfortunately, I must say goodbye now. Duty calls."

       

There were three of them, and each of them was a total iconoclast

Nothing was sacred to them,

neither faith, nor honor, nor reverence for the fallen.

And the First One came

, and he mocked the gods cruelly, the gods feared him.

They fled.

And the Second One came, Terrible and Great.

He plunged the love and joy of this world into the depths

of hell. In the depths of hypocrisy,

Love feared him, for she did not know what to do with him.

She left. And joy fell into terror,

unable to do anything anymore. She fled in panic. And the Third One came, the greatest of all, the Lord of Lords, with a heart as black as night, cold as a glacier , and destroyed his rivals. And it was a terrible battle, but predetermined. The last one remained , the Lord of Lords, the Ruler of Lords. And because everything had already been destroyed and nothing remained, he departed into the nothingness of oblivion. Into the deepest regions of his cursed soul. And the world was changed and born anew. The gods returned , Love too , and with it, joy. And everything was where it should be… at least for a while . I put down my pen. What a blast. A ride like no other. The acidity was simply sensational, and I was already afraid I'd been ripped off. I picked it up and read it. Once, twice, three times. Powerful. I always write down my rides. Someday I'll take it to a publisher and publish a book. I'll just have to come up with a catchy title. But that's small talk. Either way, I'll be famous. Not like that redneck upstairs. My old man's a jerk, and everyone knows it. But no one will even touch him. Why? It's clear as day. They're scared as hell. And that's fine, that's how it should be. A person should respect you or fear you. Or preferably both. But aside from the fact that my old man is an asshole, it's good to have him. At least sometimes, especially when things get rough. Like last time. Fortunately, the trouble's over. The old man got his contacts working and the case was closed due to insufficient evidence. If it weren't for him, things would have been bad. – I lit a joint. – And all because those stupid bastards interfered. Don't they understand that a man has to have fun every now and then. Sons of bitches. If it were up to me, I'd shoot them all. – He paused for a moment and took a drag. – Oh, here we go again. I'm falling down, all the way to hell, and from there to... paradise.