Princess

He stood at the window. After a moment, he glanced over his shoulder. His eyes, already accustomed to the darkness of his room, allowed him to discern the faint outline of the bed. He glanced back out the window with distaste. It was raining, raindrops slid across the glass, and the sight of the autumn night did not inspire optimism. Finally, he felt an unpleasant chill on his naked body. His conscience tormented him, what a simple yet complex invention of evolution, or as some preferred, God. He turned back, stepped across the fluffy carpet, and slipped into bed. He covered himself and snuggled up to his beloved. The softness of her skin, in itself, prevented brutality in every sense of the word. With all his simple strength, he strove for her happiness, to satisfy her desires. To be her support, her advice, her joy, her recourse in case of trouble.

How often had he felt unworthy in her presence, insignificant, tiny, incapable of measuring up to her, of equaling her in any way. Every word could become a command. Every gesture a blessing. He existed only because she was. Admiration, the idealization of feelings and desires. The taste of defeat or victory; it didn't matter.

He had already experienced much suffering, many struggles and battles he had fought with himself. Victories, so faint and rare, however, did not allow him to surrender, to a fate so much worse than defeat. He ran his fingers over her face, stroking as gently as he could her hair, forehead, cheeks. He was confident, joyful in a happiness he would never experience again. All dark thoughts vanished as soon as he found himself with her. There was no value anymore; her perfection of creation was unparalleled. How tiny he felt, a worm. He had already decided: he would defend her, idolize her, love her, whatever that word meant. Only in this way could he fulfill himself.

He fell asleep peacefully, unaware of the moment it happened. He dreamed well.

Morning greeted him, as always, in a good mood. He rose gently, as quietly as he could so as not to wake his princess. He took his clothes from the chair and calmly walked into the bathroom to wash and dress. Breakfast, as always, was light and pleasant: milk and cereal. Time for work, seven thirty, a confident step to the door, shoes on, exit; the barely audible click of the door lock.

This moment was awaited; the woman rose slowly and slowly walked to the table in the hall. She checked that the door was locked. She picked up the telephone, dialed a number...

"Mom? He... raped me again..." She glanced at the large mirror hanging in the hallway. Her hair was disheveled, bruises all over her body, an old scar on the crook of her elbow from an ice cream pick. When that romantic dinner became another hysterical fight for survival, after her hand, shaking with fear, accidentally spilled a glass of wine on his pants. He dragged her into the bedroom, the room soundproofed by tight walls so the neighbors never heard anything, and never would. There was a bruise under her left eye from last week; she knew it was unacceptable not to have beer in the house, but she'd forgotten there was a Champions League match that day. And beer and the match were one.

A tear slowly rolled down her cheek, unhappily falling onto her split lip, another pang of pain. The voice on the phone jolted her awake.

"...you've always been a disgrace to the family, what are you thinking? What kind of man did you choose?" You clearly deserved it. Wiktor is a golden boy, I won't say a bad word about him. You could have just told him you didn't want to. You were always weak, now you're not young and weak anymore; I can't help you anymore. I'm getting on in years, and I don't want to hear about problems. You'd better tell me when I have grandchildren...

Children. Wiktor claims he loves children. He once threw a boy under a forklift just for playing too loudly with an airplane in a supermarket; luckily, the driver was alert. The poor child got a sharp reprimand from his mother for something that wasn't her fault. Why didn't I defend him? I didn't want to make the mistake of questioning my husband's decision again. I don't want to rely on luck anymore when he almost strangled me in the elevator; if it weren't for that security guard. Was I lucky... was I lucky?

I love babies, but I'm afraid of having children of my own. I'm afraid of how I'll survive the pregnancy. I'm afraid that he'll finally want a child, and I'll give him a daughter. I'm scared.

"I need help..." It's neither a thought nor a decision. I've never been decisive, self-assured; someone always did it for me. I'm afraid of my husband, of my decisions. I know one thing for sure, though: I don't want to live like that; Wiktor seemed like a golden man. After a month, I knew I wanted to marry him. The perfect woman, he had everything: a career, looks, a home, money. He was romantic, always remembered me, so caring. It was as if he knew in advance what someone like me needed. He read my mind; I immediately agreed when he asked me to marry him. It was only the second month we'd known each other. I loved him; that evening was one of my most beautiful. We made love all night, it was wonderful.

How long has it been, a month since the wedding? We were married three days after the proposal. Three months, those three months had turned my life into a nightmare. No, I don't want to live like this. I'd rather die. I'll run away, take the money we're saving for a new car. I'll go, far away... abroad. He won't find me there, I won't go to my mother's, he won't understand me. At least this once, I'll make a decision on my own. I want to be confident, safe.

The crackle and buzzing of the phone woke her from these thoughts. It was time to decide, there was no turning back, either I run away and try to settle down again, or I stay and... No, that decision was out of the question. She looked at the wedding photo, took it in her hand. She studied her fiancé. She swung, dismissing her dark past. The photo flew across the hall, the frame shattered against the kitchen wall with a resounding sound, glass covering the entire floor.

Her thoughts were quick, her movements decisive. She packed chaotically, just to get out of this accursed place as quickly as possible. Two bags were already waiting; she glanced at her watch: five to eight. He'd be back at four, start looking for her the moment he realized she was gone. He'd probably go to Mom's. He wouldn't find me there. By then, I'd be on a train to Berlin.

Footsteps under the door, the click of a lock turning. The door swung open. And there he stood. A tall man, about twenty-one years old. Close-cropped, blond, with a goatee. Dressed, as always, in black. The look behind his glasses didn't bode well. "

We have to buy that new car finally, Magdalena. I've filled the candles, I'll be late for work, and it's going to rain again. I'll wait a while at home before I approach that old thing again. Hello... Magda, are you here?" He took a few steps. He placed his briefcase on the shoe cabinet. He glanced at the two bags lying in the hallway. "Magdalena, did someone drop in on us? Are you here or not?" His voice became rougher. The loud footsteps of his heavy boots echoed throughout the apartment. He walked toward the bedroom. He noticed the photo was missing from the table in the guest room, where the phone was. He decided to ask later where the photo had gone.

"Yes, there you are. I was worried about you. Why haven't you spoken? My princess." He entered the bedroom and lay down on the bed. "Honey... and anyway. Go back to sleep. You can tell me later where our photo went and how those bags in the hallway came to be. I'm going to make myself some coffee; I'll bring you some too."

A sudden movement from under the duvet was immediately muffled by the man's strong hand. He could feel the quickening of the breath of the person beneath the folds of feathers.

"Easy, honey, lie down. I'll finally get around to bringing you coffee in bed. I know it's not the weekend, but at least I'll be useful for once." A smile appeared on her face, patting the part of the bed whose shape gave the greatest illusion of a head underneath. "I'll be right back, wait for me here." More heavy footsteps, the door closing behind her.

She had very little time. She jumped out of bed fully dressed. Hot and sweaty. Adrenaline was pumping. The window, the only escape route, that small view of the world, was her only hope. The child would climb through it, whether she made it. She had nothing to lose. The distance from the window to the ground was about five feet. Falling onto the concrete slabs wouldn't be the most pleasant experience, but compared to her nervous husband, the fall would be comparable to the graceful cat-like fall on all fours. You tugged on the window handle. No effect. The window was designed only for tilting, not opening.

A strong pull, the plastic bends but refuses to yield. She tried to cling with her whole body. She succeeded; the hinges snapped; and at that moment, Wiktor stepped through the bedroom door. He held the baton in one hand, the gun in the other.

Fear paralyzed her for only a moment; she was ready to jump. But that moment was enough. A shot rang out. It meant the end, no retreat, no hope, no rescue. With a shot in her leg, she couldn't move. The dart that had embedded itself in her thigh prevented her from moving her left leg. The paralysis of her limbs progressed more and more, until she froze. All that remained was a helpless fall to the floor and a scream. He quickly reached her, throwing the baton and gun onto the bed. He pressed her body to the floor with his whole body, ripping the curtain off. He tied her hands. He slapped her repeatedly. In shock, she couldn't do anything. Only tears, only the vastness of her eyes, spoke volumes that even a wise man couldn't decipher from this scene.

He pressed his knee against her chest. He was cold, calculating. Self-assured, as if he already knew what to do in such situations. He looked out the window; two cars were parked in the parking lot; the lot was designed for fifty spaces. It was starting to rain. Any sounds would be even more muffled. He smiled and looked at his young wife.

"Don't go anywhere, my love." He stood up, pulled back the bedcovers, and looked around. She looked so majestic, like a sleeping beauty in a fairy tale; as if she were asleep, except her eyes were open. He smiled. He walked over to her and tied her legs together at the ankles and thighs. He took her in his arms and laid her on the bed. He smoothed her bangs, carefully wiping the tears from her cheek.

"Don't cry. Please don't cry, it's okay. You're safe now. I love you so much; believe me, I'm hurting more than you... I'm sorry." - A blow to the head with a hard fist caused you to faint. - Lie still.

He left. He entered the kitchen, peered into the top cabinet above the stove, sorted through all the medications, cursed under his breath, and pulled out a bottle of pills, a syringe, and a bottle. He glanced at the bags lying in the hallway. "

I arrived just in time. You can't escape now, princess." He looked behind him, a slightly damaged photograph lay under the sink. He picked it up. He looked at it sadly, then placed the photograph on the kitchen table. He calmly walked toward the bedroom.

He sat on the edge of the bed. He lifted his bound hands, placed them on his lap, unscrewed the cap from the bottle, filled the syringe, and administered the medication intravenously. The pain of the needle's prick woke her. She looked at the man fearfully, and he pulled out a bottle of pills and three. He placed them in his palm, and with his other hand, reached for the bottle of water that always sat on the nightstand.

"Will you swallow them yourself, or do I have to help you?"

She nodded.

"Good girl. And now, here's to Mommy, Daddy, and me. Very nice. You'll fall asleep now, see you soon, sweetheart."

The injection began to work. Wiktor's vision became blurry, the room began to spin, and she felt very light and sleepy. She left.

Awareness of herself and her location were lost in her mind. She felt very bad. Painful and terribly tired. She wanted to get up and embrace her aching head. It was impossible. Her ankles, wrists, and neck were strapped to the bed. She tugged, but to no avail. The lack of freedom and the ability to control herself was driving her mad. All she could do was wait.

"What will this psychopath want from me? Will he beat and rape me again? Why is he torturing me like this, what have I done to him? Why is he tormenting me... why doesn't anyone want to help me?" Each of these questions brought even greater depression, breakdown, and disgust for life. The meaninglessness of her situation was unbearable; she wrestled with her thoughts for a long time. The white walls and ceiling reminded her of a hospital. Just as she was about to drift back into the world of sleep, she heard the lock click, and by his heavy footsteps, she knew he was approaching. He stood over the bed; she saw him, dressed as he had been that morning, only a white smock had been thrown over the black. His face and eyes seemed tired. He released her right wrist from the restraints. He took her hand in his. He placed it against his cheek. Seeing a chance for even a small measure of revenge for all the humiliation and pain, she closed her fingers and, trying to scratch his face with her nails, pulled hard with her whole hand. He hissed in pain, leaving four red lines on his cheek, two of which were bleeding slightly. Immediately, the restraints were placed on her wrists again. He looked at her. There was not a trace of hostility in his gaze, only regret.

"Get away from me, I hate you. You're a monster." She practically screamed, struggling against the restraints. She wanted to jump on him and claw out his eyes. Hurt him at all costs. He stood up, wordlessly, and turned toward the exit. He opened the door and left without a backward glance. And she continued screaming.

"What happened to you, doctor?" The nurse, concerned about the scars on her cheek, approached the man. "

Nothing special, nurse, give her something strong to calm her down. I'm going home, I've had enough for the day." "

You can see it in you, stay calm. We'll take care of her." The nurse turned, heading toward the cabinet where the preventative measures were kept.

Wiktor walked resignedly toward the exit. He passed more rooms, or rather cells. In each of them sat a person. A person with problems, someone who didn't fit in with the social environment. A recluse, his job is to try and convert these people from their path of madness. Behind every door in this room stood a mystery, a riddle, a knot that needed to be solved and straightened. His role is to help them return to a normal world, which is very difficult. And often treacherous. Just like in the case of Magdalena, or rather Elżbieta. At the age of four, the woman was sexually abused by her mother's second husband. The pain and memories of this tragedy remain in her mind to this day, wreaking havoc on her brain. Schizophrenia is a terrible disease. "

Mr. Wiktor Malczewski," the voice behind him belonged to the hospital's head doctor. "Please wait, we need to talk."

"Excuse me, but could we postpone this until tomorrow?" Resignation, indifference, and fatigue were evident at first glance.

"No, here and now. Please explain what happened." The patient from room 16 had been "free" for only four days, and you pumped her full of hallucinogenic drugs and brought her here. We barely saved her, what was going through your head?" The senior doctor's voice was hard.

"I had no other medication at home. And she started going crazy. She might have wanted to commit suicide, cut herself with glass, or jump out of my small bedroom window. I intervened immediately; it's a good thing I had that stun gun. It would have been a disaster. I also listened to the tape recording of our last phone call. She called what I think was a completely random number, because the call went unanswered; but she was talking to her mother, who's been dead for three years. You were right when you said I started her reintegration process too early. Even that night, I was still struggling with the feeling that I'd neglected something, omitted something. Her mind isn't stable. I personally recommend wearing a seatbelt because she'll be bumping into walls and hurting herself again. I also think she's still experiencing time lapses; who knows how long four days is for her. And now, if you'll excuse me, it's already half past five, I've had enough, and I'm going home. I'll write you a full report tomorrow. Goodbye."

"Hang in there, and do something about those scratches, you look terrible." The doctor patted his friend on the shoulder.

Wiktor calmly walked towards the exit. He finally disappeared behind the last hospital door. All that awaited him was the way home. On the way, he had to stop by a friend's who would replace his window. Until then, he'd be forced to cover it with a wooden panel. But before he could do all that, he'd have to relieve himself.

The head doctor stood there for a moment, lost in thought. He was still hesitating over the decision and its consequences; he knew the procedure. It would be difficult to explain all this to him, also having to bribe several people and dig through the paperwork. But it should work. Besides, it always did.

"What do you think of Wiktor?" he seemed resigned. The nurse stood beside the doctor. "

I feel sorry for the guy, but the hospital can't afford to spend money on incurable cases. Let the nurse give the patient from room 16 a "golden shot."

"You'll pay as usual, of course." Their eyes grew cold.

"As always, sisters, as always. Upfront and to the point."

"If you explain this to Wiktor, he might suspect something."

"I'll explain to him that the patient had a stroke last night and a vein burst in her head. It's no surprise; she was given such a mixture of medications today that not many bodies could handle it." A mocking smile appeared on his face. "The poor thing doesn't have much luck with patients. But it's time for us, sister... do your duty, and then I invite you to collect your salary in my office." The doctor patted the woman's butt. He went on his way.

The door opened, and Magdalena tried to make out the figure that had begun to prowl around the room. She didn't know who it was, but it certainly wasn't Wiktor. It wasn't heavy footsteps in his awful boots. The only sound was the soft humming of a melody. It was definitely a woman. Finally, she spotted her. She had a pretty face. She looked at her.

"Hi, Magda. Now I'll give you an injection and you'll fall asleep. You'll sleep really well and for a long time."

The needle entered the woman's vein. The drug was injected into her bloodstream. Over the next two hours, her blood pressure would gradually rise until it finally burst the capillaries, and internal bleeding would cause death. "

Thank you, doctor, I could use a good night's sleep." Magdalena smiled and looked at the nurse.

"My pleasure, I'm here to help." She smiled back and patted her right pocket, where the corner of the envelope was sticking out. "Now, sleep well." She placed her hand on her forehead, closed her eyes, and quietly, like a caring mother, left the room.

Wiktor walked calmly through the streets of Łódź. The weather hadn't improved for a while now, and this time it looked like rain. His attire seemed to be rather intimidating to people coming the other way. His long black leather coat and heavy, typical heavy metal boots made their presence felt loudly. His arms were loose against his body. He walked with his head held high, but he didn't look at the passersby. He needed to vent after such a hard day. He needed something.

"Hey, tough guy. You want something?" A prostitute standing on the corner stepped in his way. She grabbed her buttocks and leaned towards him, exposing her breasts. "If you want, we can go to my place," she asked again, seeing the stopped man's positive reaction.

He looked around slowly, the apartment buildings and the already lit streetlights.

"Okay, lead the way." Coolly, indicating his acceptance of the offer.

"Come on, honey, I live nearby."

They walked slowly, the woman appearing young. No unnecessary makeup. She looked about twenty-two. A working mother without a husband, or a lazy student seeking excitement in casual sex with a stranger. The apartment buildings, like everywhere else, stank of stale urine and were littered with trash. Two vagrants sat at the entrance, contemplating some cheap wine. The staircases were painted with slogans that aren't even worth mentioning. And her tiny apartment. A tiny one, in fact.

"Excuse me, can I use the restroom first?"

"Sure, it's over there." The woman pointed to the door opposite the entrance. "Just don't flood my toilet," she said as if to herself, as he had already hidden behind the door.

The sound of the toilet flush signaled his readiness for the next item on the agenda. He stepped out, adjusting his hand. He didn't take off his coat, knowing he'd be leaving shortly. He glanced around; it looked like she lived alone. He smiled to himself.

"Hey, honey, I'm here, follow my voice." She could have been a good actress, or at least worked on the radio; her voice was clear, and she knew how to set the right tone.

Wiktor entered her bedroom; she was certainly naked, lying under the covers. Only her thigh was visible from beneath the covers.

"Take me," she hissed.

He walked over to her and sat halfway down the bed. He pulled out his knife, which he never went anywhere without, and struck.

The two men sitting outside the apartment building heard a muffled scream. Loud at first, but it gradually faded. The streets still looked the same, the smell of the apartment buildings was identical. Even the wine was the same. But apartment number twelve could already be rented by someone else.

"Edek, did you hear that?" he grumbled first. "

What, Zenia, what did I hear?" "

Ewa, she's got quite a client. She's going hard, you could hear her screaming here.

" "He he... give me a sip.

" Wiktor's face was calm. He'd already unloaded on her. Blood was everywhere, her body was scarred with cuts and stabs that left numerous marks. Now he was calm. He looked at you.

"Can you believe in anything? Human interest and kindness, too? Do you believe in selfless help? Would you be willing to sacrifice yourself and save that complete stranger and die yourself?"

He grabbed the knife. He went to the bathroom. He looked in the mirror.

"Screw it...

" Blood gushed from his veins.