boy

"

1

He lies face down in the darkness, on his right cheek to be precise. His arms and legs were loose. It was as if a lifeless body were falling into the depths of black-and-blue nothingness, dragged by the weight of its own soul. He lay there for who knows how long. He didn't react to anything, because there was nothing to react to. He floated, that's how you could describe the shape of his body as it draped itself over the cold, damp surface. Complete lethargy. Complete rest and unconscious peace. I wonder what he was dreaming of now, what he was dreaming of? Perhaps of Heaven? Of hell? Of everyday life? Of being one of six billion people inhabiting this planet? That, ultimately, no one, maybe a hundred people at most, cared about his problems. Family, plus friends, plus acquaintances, plus strangers who always pretend to feel bad when someone they didn't even know dies. No. He certainly didn't dream of that. But if not about that, then maybe about other people? About their sorrows, worries, and so on? Probably not about that either. It's not even known if he was dreaming, so what's the point of all this? Why torture himself with such trivialities? He's just lying there. And perhaps that's precisely what made him such a mystery to the average person. His brain, his thoughts. What drives his body, what makes us all so different, even though we're all the same. Yes! If he were dreaming, he would be dreaming about exactly that.

In this kind of unconsciousness, his brain suddenly awoke. What caused this to happen? Nobody knows. "The crazy people" have been pondering this for years. What's inside a person, in their brain? The fact that "thought" is an electrical impulse isn't exactly a groundbreaking discovery. In reality, they want to know this precisely so they can construct a machine that can read them. Power, yes, that's what they wanted. Control. But they can't do it themselves, because they want more than they can handle.

The finger on his right hand moved. His subconscious had irritated his conscious. This was how he "woke up." His brain began to pick up signals from his surroundings. First, the cold and dampness. Then a stench, a sort of "rottenness." It wasn't quite as bothersome or disturbing, but it was enough for the first inhalation.

Air was absorbed through his nostrils. Traveling through his throat, larynx, and trachea, it entered his lungs. From there, it entered small bronchi, then bronchioles, and was further distributed. Simultaneously with this process, the air was being examined by the brain. While it was in the nose, certain tissues responsible for it sent a small blue "light." The impulse traveled through the synapses of these tissues to other tissues. And so, "up the stairs," to the brain. There, the impulse reached the appropriate department for analysis. It was examined and informed the body about the appropriate reaction. Meanwhile, the air was divided, sorted, and categorized. The rest was to be expelled upon exhalation. This occurred with the contraction of his stomach muscles and the embroidery directly in front of his face. He regurgitated what he thought he had eaten.

The awakening was immediate. He raised his head slightly to protect his wet, slightly vomit-soaked hair from the approaching second wave. Half-ground food, along with stomach acids, was just taking its natural course. A thick, white-orange substance with some solids in it, surged through his throat again. It hit the already-lying food in a thick stream, scattering it slightly. His vomit was everywhere in his hazy vision. The remnants still nestled in his mouth. He began to spit it out, rising more and more. He spat out not only vomit but also blood. He could barely see it. His eyes weren't fully functioning yet. He was dazed.

Slowly, he began to sit up. His legs wiggled slightly as they rotated. He propped himself up with his right hand, while his left wiped the corners of his mouth. He looked at his hand, slightly damp with regurgitated food and blood. At first, he was startled. He spat to the side. In the darkness, he could barely make out the bloody saliva. He sat up, drawing his legs up slightly. His right hand supported his "heavy" head. He continued to look at his left eye. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if telling his eyes to open. He opened them again. The image was becoming clearer.

He touched his cheek with his left hand and pressed down. He clasped his hand over his mouth as if forbidding himself from speaking. It hurt here, the source. He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain, and the pain began to subside. He put his fingers to his mouth and began searching.

"Fuck!" he growled through his teeth the moment he touched the "center."

The feeling returned for a moment, redoubled. The same pattern again. Reflexively gripping his jaw and squeezing his eyes shut. Exhaling through his nose. Resting. As if that would help.

He already knew, his lower left six was moving. That was the cause of the pain and bleeding in his jaw. He spat again, trying to get rid of the excess fluid.

Only now did he begin to fully realize that he might start to be aware of where he was and what was happening. He was weak. He turned slightly to the left and fell. His head bounced slightly off the ground.

His left arm was under his stomach, his right resting unconsciously on his chest, his palm touching the ground. His right leg, slightly bent, rested on top of his straight left leg. He closed his eyes. Just like someone who needs a moment to recover after waking up. He didn't even have the strength to shift to a more comfortable position. He lay there unconsciously, in exactly the same way he had been before he woke up.

He took a few deep breaths. For now, he didn't care where he was. He was thinking, who knew what, but probably nothing. He began moving his limbs to check if everything was in its place. Everything was in perfect order, if order could even be called order in such a situation. He spat in his face again, and some of the saliva and blood landed on his bare right shoulder. His black, slightly curly hair tickled the cold stone floor.

He lay there for maybe two minutes, if time could be called time, before finally getting the courage to move his body and turn it so he wasn't lying on his aching side.

"Come on, buddy, one...two," he tensed his muscles and, with a mighty effort, threw himself over his shoulder. His right arm unconsciously dropped next to the vomit. His left didn't move. The twist of his hips caused his right leg to turn over. Slightly bent. He lay there. Resting.

Every

breath was difficult. Broken ribs. And his head, from the impact. And that tooth! Fuck! That fucking tooth! He felt like shit. The taste of barely regurgitated food in his mouth, traces of it and blood on his chin, and the stench in the air. The stench so repulsive and real that he felt he could grab it and squeeze it with all his might. But it would probably flow out between his fingers like juicy phlegm.

He wanted to get up, shake it off, and leave. Go home, sit in a comfortable, warm armchair, drink some warm tea, talk to his mother. Find out what was going on at work, listen to her complain, smile and tell her that things would definitely get better soon. He wanted to go to a bar. Meet up with friends, chat, laugh. He wanted to come home a little tipsy and explain that he hadn't "consumed" anything at all. He dreamed of meeting his girlfriend. Yes... girlfriend. When he thought of her, he automatically smiled. His "little flame," as he usually called her, kissing and hugging her. She was beautiful. A perfect body. Lightly muscled legs. Very defined outlines. Covered entirely in delicate silky skin. Muscled buttocks, soft and tender, yet firm when she flexed them. He felt it most when they made love from behind, nestled together, when she gritted her teeth in spasms of pleasure, when she squeezed his hands in hers, when he held them on her round breasts... when she was all his. She loved how he gripped her entire body, running his hands over it. Especially her hips, which squirmed like crazy, with gentle but firm movements. She loved how he squeezed her with his strong arms, as if to say, "I'll never let you go." Her face was perfect, perfectly symmetrical, with beautiful, deeply articulated lips. He loved kissing them, caressing them, touching them, stroking them with his fingers, he loved how they laughed. But not like in the movies. He loved when they laughed with their fullest life. He loved her so much. Her eyes were blue, deep. He could look into them for hours and still think about how he was drowning in his own senses. Beautiful curly blonde hair with a touch of black hid part of her face as she sat on him, as if she'd hunted prey...and she stared at him, looked through her hair, and laughed. It was happiness in its purest form. She was a wonderful woman. She was more perfect than any magazine cover model...more perfect because she was real.

Suddenly, he vomited. A third wave spread right next to the second. It forced his head back to the right. His torso arched like a bridge. Food, along with the rest of his stomach, was everywhere. He puked on his chin, cheek, arm, and some of the vomit was also on his chest. As he vomited, his head rose above the surface of the filthy ground. He was finished, and it dropped like a stone. Enough. That was the last. There was no more. He had no strength left. He lay there. He was completely devastated.

How much time had passed? Time is relative. They say that where you stand depends on where you sit. That would have been fitting, but he wasn't sitting, he was lying. And around him was his own vomit. Its bitter stench slowly began to mix with the natural, rotten one. If smells had colors, he would now see them in the colors of decomposing flesh.

But all of this slowly began to subside. His brain was sending itself signals that what had initially mobilized his defensive reaction was now irrelevant.

A new environment. New factors shaping it. They needed to be explored, and quickly. So he let go. He no longer controlled reflexively. As if to tell his consciousness: "Now it's your turn, act."

This was the very moment he began to recover, the moment he stopped caring that he was covered in vomit and blood, that his head was pounding as if he'd drunk at least a liter of spirits, that a needle of pain was stabbed into his "six," that his ribs were broken, that he constantly wanted to vomit, that he felt like he'd just emerged from a sea of ​​human excrement.

None of that mattered to him. Now he was conscious. Completely. And he began to wonder where he was, when he was, if he was even there...but no! He was already checking. Everything was fine. Or maybe something had changed since then, maybe he wasn't at his full senses then? Lying there, he analyzed.

3

A dark silhouette in a dark, cell-like place...if you could even call it a place. He was lying on his back. His head was close to the colorful mess he had created. "You make your bed, you sleep on it"...so he wouldn't sleep well, if he could sleep at all. His whole body unconscious. Muscles relaxed. But his brain was racing. Where was he? Who had done this to him? Why had his previous, standard, yet beautiful life been taken away from him? Standard because it was normal. Beautiful because he had her.

"I hope they didn't do anything to her, because if they did, I'll get everyone"—his aching jaw tightened—"one fucking bastard"—he felt nothing—his son—"whoever's involved in this, he'll beat him! I promise!"

He felt a surge of energy within him; for her, he was willing to do anything. Even kill. " Such a surge of adrenaline caused him to conjure images of himself beating up imaginary people.

"Fuck!" he exclaimed as he waved his hand and felt a stab in his side. "...rib," he added.

He started to stand up. Actually, he started to crawl, because getting up had little to do with it. At first, he curled up slightly to his right side. He rested his full weight on that side—his left wouldn't hold. Every movement cost him a lot of energy, and he got pain for free. His eyes were now focused on the vomit. He just smiled, somehow pointlessly. He pushed his body with his right hand.

"As far away from this shit as possible," he thought

. He didn't have much strength. After a few moves, he collapsed. Another frontal position. Again from the beginning.

He managed. He stood up. Continuing to crawl, he searched the pitch-black darkness for a wall to lean against. He couldn't see much. He could barely see the vomit, which was about a meter away from him, if distance was even an option.

"Whoever fucked me into this dark, stinking hole will pay a high price for it!" he said through his teeth, needing it to suppress his humiliation, and most of all, to disregard his physicality. "Oh, fuck..." He interrupted with a scream, but his body strained with the final movement, ducking his head.

He wanted to lie down and catch his breath, but he knew that if he did, it would be a long time before he got up again, a long time on this cold, slimy floor...

And yet, exhaustion won. He fell. His head bounced off the floor like a ball. It hurt. He just helplessly exhaled, causing his chest to tighten and his damaged bones to shift.

He turned his head to the left. He wanted to see something, but couldn't—it was too dark.

"Fuck, I'm not going," he said quietly, exhaling.

Smiling, he tilted his head as if to look at the stars. But there were no stars. It was pitch black. When he closed his eyes, the same effect was achieved. But you can't fool your psyche, you can't beat your brain! The bastard can sometimes create quite a mess while you're asleep. He knows all your fears, all your anxieties. He knows your secrets. Oh yes... he knows what you're ashamed of. He knows your insecurities. He knows where to strike. And scare you so much that you'll wonder at yourself and never, ever be able to stop it.

"Fuck, I'm not going"—those words were his salvation. They didn't go far. They stopped. They seemed to bounce off the wall. Yes, against the wall. For relief. For an end to the torment. It seemed like a stupid wall, yet it gave him so much joy, so much hope. In such conditions, you forget all about soft armchairs, a warm coffee with milk "to start the day," a cool magazine, a warm and cozy toilet, or even control over the TV. Now, the priority is a simple wall. An ordinary fucking wall. An ordinary, structural, mostly vertical, partition.

With difficulty, but with satisfaction, he touched the fingertips of his right hand to the sooty, slimy... wall. Stimulus, impulse, path, goal, analysis, decision, reaction—a smile. His hand fell, behind his head, lying there, and he laughed. How much joy it gave him. And to think that in everyday life we ​​pass walls, live in them, touch them, and yet fail to notice their beauty. And now? He considered the wall in other dimensions, planes. He laughed, even though it was a laugh stifled by his ribs.

He

already knew it was there and wouldn't escape, though who knew? He was tired of it all. But he smiled, his fingers brushing the wall. A stone wall, exactly like the floor. Slippery, cold, heavy, dark. Despite this, she was his friend now, if he could have called her that, but it hadn't occurred to him.

May 27th of this year. The Deftons' "Gift" is now buzzing in his mind. Beautiful, sunny weather. He'd skipped class that day, and so had she. A picnic. The occasional light cumulus clouds in the sky weren't a nuisance; on the contrary, they were soothing. They walked for about thirty minutes before finding the right spot. A clearing, leading out of the forest. A spot, at the beginning, an oak tree. A huge, old, branchy oak tree, providing plenty of shade.

"It's perfect there," she said, and ran.

"It's perfect there," she said, taking two running steps forward and turning to him: "It's perfect there." Her golden, wavy hair lingered on her face for those split-second moments. Joy symbolized by a smile. But it wasn't just her hair that stopped; time stopped for him.

"It's perfect there," he whispered to himself.

That image was firmly etched in his mind. It was so clear and pristine, yet so distant and unreal. That seemed to be the only thing keeping him going. Now. He closed his eyes and once again succumbed to fantasy. In vain. The music in his head faded.

He moved his body and with effort began to stand. Using his right hand, he crawled. His left hand on his stomach. Movement after movement, he sank down. Breathing, effort... pain. But he managed. He sat down, leaning against the wall, his legs slightly drawn up.

About two meters away, if it were possible to mention such a distance, he noticed his own vomit. He spat, again, blood into the colorful puddle.

"Ugh, fuck... I added the cherry on top of the cake."

He sneered, and his head tilted back against the wall, relaxing every muscle. If it weren't for her, he would have fallen again. He moved away from her a little. His black, sweaty hair slid. He wanted to smoke. But he couldn't. He had nothing. He didn't smell a pack of Chesterfields in his pants. Even though?

He knew he wouldn't find anything in them; whoever had put him in here had certainly made sure he was helpless and powerless.

"I'll do this son of a bitch, oh, the fucker will remember me!"

His right hand was already digging in his pocket. He had to straighten his leg. Nothing.

"Fuck!" His ribs, they hurt, he clenched his jaw, his tooth, they hurt. He let go. One unpleasant feeling followed another, as if they were lining up. Did he want to... cry? He gave up.

The other pocket didn't hurt either. And he was still hoping. Why? That what? He'd find cigarettes and a lighter in there and sneak out like that weirdo McGuyver or whatever his name was? He sat, staring into the distance, asking himself only one question. "

I sat down, now what?"

The

wall didn't surprise him. Well, maybe at first, but that was exactly what he'd expected. The floor was growing, only vertically. The same. Exactly the same. Huge stones cemented together. No one cared. Everything was uneven, wet, slimy, stinking, cold... but smooth, the years had taken their toll.

He felt the cold more and more intensely. His feet, which were grimy with the dirt, his hands the same, his pants too, his back, his neck, his hair—everything he touched the floor with was caked in that filth and felt cold. His chest, that was only slightly covered in vomit. He started laughing, his chest starting to belch, but only slightly. He nodded as if he couldn't believe what was happening. Stupid, he probably thought, if he hadn't been thinking about it constantly since he arrived.

He leaned against the wall. As for unpleasant feelings, it didn't matter whether he was lying down or sitting. But leaning against the wall gave his ribs at least some relief. His tooth didn't hurt as much as it didn't irritate him. What bothered him most was his head. Now he could think about it, so he did.

"This head is fucking killing me!" he whispered.

"Please, let go... I beg you

." No.

6

"Somewhere" some vomit. Spitted with blood. The brightest shape in all of this. Nearby, a silhouette. A boy. Tall, about six feet three inches, if you can even call him that. Well-built, slim, but he looked okay. A thin, elegant face, masculine features. Age, if you're going to call him that, 23...also just an estimate. After all, you can't take anything for granted in a situation like this. Jet-black, slightly curly, wavy hair. Quite long. Not to his ears, but covering his forehead. Overall, handsome; girls turned their heads. It didn't bother him, but he was far from liking it. After all, he had her; he wanted to be her, just for her. Besides all that, his mother always told him that for her he was and always would be "the most handsome man in the world." What more could he want? A smile. He loved his mother very much. No matter what, always.

He was worried. Why? And who wouldn't be? Sitting in this mess and being happy? Hardly possible. Not for ambitious people like him, those who had been through a lot and had had enough. They wanted to live their dreams.

"Do you want something from life?" he said to himself, just as he was getting ready to stand.

He tucked his legs under him. Slowly but surely, he positioned himself to get up. Now. One, two, three. He began to stand, sliding his back against the slippery wall.

"Then take THIS!" he added with a clear effort in his voice when he was halfway there.

He held onto the wall with his right hand. His left hand rested on his stomach. He was breathing a little faster. He was tired of it all. He lifted his head and looked around. He couldn't see much. Darkness. Only vomit was in sight.

He hadn't been standing there long. He knew what he had to do. Now, trapped like this, he had to find a way out. He began to walk slowly, holding on to the wall. He leaned his right hand against it. It was also on his right. He began to slip. He walked 3 meters like that, a distance - one has to speak of it relatively.

Corner.

He stumbled upon a corner. It was a major success. He smiled. A ninety-degree change of direction to the left. His right hand remained on the wall. Small steps. One by one, slowly. He didn't grit his teeth, knowing the danger. Cold feet, meter by meter, traversed the unfamiliar room. Cold, fear. He wondered what else he would find. He took another step and suddenly.

His right foot caught on something. It hit something. He almost tripped over it. Something large. Flat and vertical. Pipes. But not the wall; it continued. There was something here, placed. He began to lower his hand. Like a blind man, but his eyes were open. Perhaps he had a blind soul? If he couldn't perceive it with his senses, could he rely on irrational methods? No. Climbing his fingers down the wall, he felt further. A pipe. A metal pipe. Maybe aluminum. He began to feel from the side of the wall. It curved. "A bed," he thought immediately. But that would probably be too simple. Though? Maybe "whoever" put him here had given him a chance after all, given him a taste of humanity?

He began to run his fingers along the tubes. But they formed something resembling a bed, a metal cot. A smile. Rest? He began to laugh foolishly. The taste of victory. Now he touched some kind of angle iron. He began to walk, his new discovery as a guide. He touched it and walked. Wide enough for a bed.

"Bed," he said more briskly.

He began to walk around. He was still clinging to the edges. He wanted to throw himself onto it. Stop. What if it's old? What if it's not a bed? Hunched over, he reached out to check if it was really a bed.

Empty. Nothing. Just some metal skeleton. Hope vanished.

But he didn't give up. He was searching for something, some meaning in all of this. He was still searching for "respite." So he felt everything, finally deciding that it was a "bed," or rather, it had once been one. There were no bars inside this skeleton to lie on. He was devastated. He'd devoted so much energy to this. To find out.

"Hope," he whispered. That's why they put it here. To torture—with hope. Because it always allows us to endure even more. Even more after what we've been through. Because maybe we're about to cross the line we've strived for? And that's why they put them there. To give hope and then take it away! To finish us off. To prolong the ongoing horror.

He sat for a moment... on this skeleton. Metal screws precariously connected the individual elements. It was all corroded with rust; his ears experienced the crystalline creaking of an old, dilapidated single-person bunk, a standard prison model. And that was it.

"So this is another corner." The speculations began.

"If so, they've imprisoned me in some medieval six-by-six cell." They gave him a bunk as hope, drugged him with some nasty stuff, beat him up, robbed him and threw him here.

"But why?" His eyebrows furrowed in question. "I don't have any enemies." Well, maybe not entirely.

"But not the kind that would be willing to do something like that to me." Or maybe he had unconsciously gotten under someone's skin?

"Maybe this is about her?" But what could she have had to do with it?

"Not much." He ruled that out.

"Mom? Debts?" No. She doesn't get involved in such things.

"She wouldn't borrow money from people like that." Besides, where would she have had access?

"It's easy to get access, sometimes they come themselves." But everything was fine at home. "They wouldn't make such a mess about an unpaid apartment." So what?

"What kind of bad people?"

At that moment, he quickly rose from the bunk and stood up. Immediately, his side made itself felt. A slight dizziness, too sudden. He almost slipped. He wasn't even upright for a second before he immediately cringed. The pain reminded him. He moved a little by feel. He'd thought the cell was square; he probably wasn't wrong. The wall was waiting for him where he'd thought it would be. He placed his hand on it tenderly, as if he wanted to unite himself with it in an act of love.

He walked. Just as he had before he'd sat down on the bunk. He didn't really know why he was walking. Perhaps to convince himself he was right about where he was imprisoned. He wanted to discover something. Something that would allow him to escape.

"A door!" he thought immediately. "They have to be here somewhere! How else would they have put me here?"

Hope again. But this time not like before. This time he knew he was right, that he would find the door. Then he would try to get out. "There are tubes." He would think of something. "Two walls examined." He would soon stumble upon them.

He walked. A smile on his face. Soon he would reach the door and..." "I'll show those bastards." A little further. To his left, he passed the vomit. Now he knew he'd expelled them roughly to the center, assuming the cell was square.

Everything by feel. Soon there should be a corner. A step. Hand still in front. There it was. A corner. Cold, dirty feet turning slowly to avoid slipping. A change of direction ninety degrees to the left. "It's on that wall." Definitely on that one. If not, then there was still half the one he'd started with. What if it wasn't there either? The odds were dwindling.

Bare feet slid across the bottom of the container he'd been trapped in. They scraped across the disgusting floor that resembled a grimy aquarium. Step by step. With each step, the chance of finding the door diminished.

"Hope, are they feeding me hope again? Are they playing games again?" But no. That would be too stupid. They had to push it in... somehow.

More steps passed. Small, cautious.

"I'll find them soon." They'll be there soon. Then he'd think about how to get out of here. It wouldn't be easy. In this state. They're probably still watching him?

"No." They're not.

"They probably think I'm perfectly barricaded and can't escape." Even with this metal frame, he wouldn't succeed. But he'd find a way.

"And you'll be surprised."

He approached the end of the wall, if the cell was square. He grew increasingly nervous. "They're probably somewhere in the corner." Yes, they were definitely somewhere in the corner. I'll reach the corner and everything will be clear.

Another step. Worse and worse.

"What if they're not in the corner?" Then they must be on the wall he started with. There was no other way.

"Damn it, they put me here somehow!" How else could he have ended up here?

Another step. He knew the cell was square. He knew the corner would soon be there. What would he find there? The door? The long-awaited door? But once he stumbled upon it, all he could do was hope. And that's exactly what they wanted.

"They threw me in, those bastards, and they're watching my behavior. How long? They're feeding me hope!"

"I'LL FUCK YOU!" he shouted the moment he touched the corner. Unfortunately, it was the last one. Only half of the last wall remained. He walked quickly, his hand on the damp stone wall. He walked as if trying to prove to himself that there were no doors!

"I'll f**k you, I'll f**k you, I'll f**k you

!" "I-I-I'll f**k you!" "I'll f**k you!" he groaned, breaking into helpless sobs. His face forced itself to cry. He did, but the tears wouldn't fall, not yet. His supporting hand dropped. His left hand remained on his stomach. The first "liquid anger" was seeping from his eye. It had been collecting there since the moan.

He continued walking. Quickly. He passed vomit on his left. He saw he was already halfway there; the place he'd started had just passed. Right? He wasn't sure; he could barely see anything.

The corner.

"No, it's impossible!...But how?" he whispered, his sobs growing stronger. "How?" How? How?

Repeating those last words, he slid down the corner to the ground. The damp, cold, slippery floor. Pain was irrelevant at that moment. He felt a stabbing pain in his chest, a headache, a toothache. Everything hurt.

He

leaned his bare back against the corner. His damp feet curled up to retain as much warmth as possible, the heat evaporating from him like boiling water. The worst part was that his body wasn't even warming the room. It seemed to be dying, needing life to survive.

"My life," he thought. It was as if it were sucking it away. It waited until he grew weaker and weaker, until he finally gave in.

He lay there and cried. He didn't know why.

"But I don't cry...when? Me? Never!"

Yet it happened to him once. It was four years ago. An autumn afternoon. Rain outside. Thin sheets of rain blurred across the windowpane. He didn't think about whether the rain was beautiful or not. Back then, he'd considered it neutral. "Neutral"—that's what he always said when he didn't feel like explaining his complex views on certain issues to people. That day, he wasn't in the mood, so everything hung over him, everything was neutral.

He stood there, staring straight ahead, into the void. This void consumed everything. Rain dripped onto the grass and trees planted in front of the building, a makeshift lawn created for the amusement of the masses living there. He disconnected from the world a bit. He tried not to focus his thoughts on that bad event, though it was impossible. Whenever he managed to forget that his father was in the hospital, fighting for his life after a car accident, the rain reminded him. He'd thought it was a kind of symbiosis then, as if he'd become one with nature for a few moments.

Suddenly, the phone rang. His mother was waiting for this call, or maybe another? She was sitting at the round table in the living room. She was also staring into the rain, but with greater anxiety. She lifted her forearm from the gray-green napkin and answered it. She did it quickly, very quickly. He waited. He stared into the distance. He listened. He listened intently... That afternoon, silence was the only thing he heard.

A trickle ran down his cheek. He didn't say anything, not wanting to disturb the silence.

When it touched his lips, he mentally awoke. The same cold room again. Another tear, now he was crying because he remembered how he'd lost his father, not because he was in this disgusting mess, the worst he could have imagined.

"Crying won't help," he thought, "Speaking of father," he thought. The pain was terrible. But not the physical kind. Not anymore. Now he thought about how "something" was peering into the very center of his soul, and doing so very painfully.

"Maybe it's this room?" Or maybe it was himself?

He remembered words he'd once read in the Bible. He remembered them. They fit this situation: "[...]fear not those who can

torment your body, but him who can throw you into hell[...]." He couldn't remember which part he'd read, but he remembered. They fit because, because he felt so alone now, he was reminded of what mattered most to him. Now it was gone, he was alone, and it caused him immense pain.

"They give me hope, they wear me down, they take away what I care about, they want me to think I'm sacrificing myself for my loved ones, they make me suffer." "

They're throwing me into hell," he whispered. Another tear touched his lips.

"And what now?" There's no door. There really wasn't one.

"They don't exist, and I imagined it all," he smiled. He already had a runny nose. "He was sniffling." The tears wouldn't stop flowing, creating a trail across his face that gleamed in the darkness. Just as water flowing from mountain peaks once formed riverbeds, so now the tears were carving his insides. Did he feel resignation? He didn't know what he should feel. Embarrassment, that was for sure. Helplessness, too. Sadness, nervousness, irritation, all the worst. Now it was inside him. His psyche was just waiting for the moment when it all reached its zenith and he could expel the negative emotions, cleanse himself.

He

tilted his head, and it touched the junction of the walls. Dark hair scrubbed the dirty surfaces. Palpable decay, a sensual stench, palpable pain, impalpable pain. Trampled to the limits, perhaps. He was experiencing something terrible. He didn't know what was happening, where he was, why he was there. He doesn't know who did this to him. He doesn't know what happened to his loved ones. Who? A random guy, just another ordinary man.

He led a simple but happy life. Even though he lost his father four years ago in a car accident, and his mother became an alcoholic, he was content with his life. She survived thanks to him and now has a well-paying job. His girlfriend was an angel; he poured every ounce of positive emotion he had left after the ordeal life had thrown at him. He didn't have much money. He fought for more, wanted to achieve something, to take back the piece he deserved. He studied and worked simultaneously, devoting himself entirely to his family—his mother and his beloved. His life had meaning because he fought for it. Day and night. He succeeded brilliantly, and that's why he was happy.

And now? Now he was locked in some kind of container, rotting, sapping his energy. He felt weak, everything hurt, especially inside.

"Maybe this slimy residue was others like me?" he thought. Maybe he'll die here too, turning into this mush that others will vomit on?

His senses were heightened. Perhaps because he lived in hope of feeling something, seeing something? Unfortunately, in this desolate space, apart from himself, he didn't notice anything that could help him. Or maybe he did?

"Fuck! I don't believe it! This! That this is even happening," he said, disbelief clearly evident in his voice.

Suddenly. Footsteps. So distant.

"What?" he said in a low voice.

From very far away. An echo. As if hollow. Filled with emptiness. "

Human footsteps? Here?

They were slowly approaching. He could feel it. Anxiety was growing.

"Am I imagining this? What should I do? How should I behave? Should I be quiet? Hide? No! It's pointless, they know I'm here!" "They know

everything about me.

" "So what should I do?" The footsteps were getting closer, almost touching them.

"Wait, I have to wait, let them begin."

The pattering was coming closer. But he didn't know from which direction. It was getting louder, less and less muffled and echoless. Suddenly, when it reached its peak, it stopped. He could hear the shifting of small pebbles beneath the surface of shoes. Another sound. He was afraid. Two metals rubbed against each other. He could hear the grinding of unoiled hinges.

"They're looking at me." He remained focused. If anyone was watching him, they could now see a dark figure curled into a ball, hiding in the corner of the disgusting cell, suffering physical and mental pain, nervously moving its eyes.

He searched for the gap, the one through which they were now looking at him. Light must have been coming in somewhere. But there was no light, only a voice momentarily filled the cell's void.

"Hmm..." he heard a smacking sound. "Okay... everything seems to be here," he whispered, as if to himself.

A moment of reflection. Chewing gum. Suddenly, that sound of unoiled hinges came again. This time faster. As if hands were holding something, then letting go, and it scraped. Then, as if metal plates had struck another plate. A twist. Again, the sound of soles turning on the floor was audible. The clear sound of footsteps became increasingly blurred by echoes and distance.

"Hello!" he shouted timidly. "Are you still here?" he added. "Hello! Are you still here?"

He slowly began to stand, holding his rib with his left hand. The echo was fading.

"Hello!?"

He crouched down. His cries were absorbed by the cells.

"Hey! No kidding, man!" he said gently, so as not to upset himself.

In this phase of rising, he used his legs to straighten himself completely, sliding his back against the dirty corner, his shoulder blades resting against the walls. The moment he straightened, he gasped. In his mind, he heard the sound of water dripping, mingling with the faint sound of waves; he didn't know why.

"HELLO!" he roared hopefully. "I KNOW YOU'RE HERE..." He broke off as he felt a stab in his head and hissed in pain. "

I KNOW YOU'RE HERE!" he shouted quickly, still curled up, as if to make it clear that the pain wasn't important to him right now, that he was hard. "SPEAK UP! I know everything," he ground out without a cry. "I KNOW EVERYTHING!" he yelled.

Silence...

He sagged slightly, not wanting to feel his ribs. "

HEY! Listen to me! I know you're here, I'm not mad at you at all! Just let me out!...I won't hurt you!...Oh fuck!

...Silence.

"FUCK!...No! Sorry! I got carried away... Fuck, I just mean... I have a lot of things to take care of, and I don't want to sit in some...FUCKING AQUARIUM!" he said to the ceiling.

Silence...

-This isn't funny anymore! FUCK! THIS IS NOT FUNNY! DO YOU HEAR THAT?! I'M NOT FUNNY ANYMORE!

Silence... Still nothing but silence...

"OK! I see you're having a great time... Okay, okay, okay, so be it! ARE YOU HAVING FUN?!... You motherfuckers," he added as if he didn't want them to hear it.

Silence... The nightmarish music of his own mental groan... "

I'M STILL CURLING THIS!... I KNOW YOU'RE WATCHING ME! I KNOW IT! BECOUSE THERE'S TOO MANY PEOPLE! AND TOO MANY FREAKS! TOO MANY EYEBALLS STARING AT ME, YOU MOTHERFUCKS! YOU KNOW THIS?!

Silence... "

I know everything about you motherfuckers! I KNOW EVERYTHING, YOU FUCKERS!" He felt his rib. "

YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING TO FALL FOR ME?! WITH YOUR FUCKING TRICKS?!!" he screamed. "I KNOW!" I KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU!... YOU'LL SEE, AS SOON AS I LEAVE, I'LL FUCK UP YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS! - emotions took over - DO YOU HEAR!? YOU FUCKERS!... A PIECE OF SHIT!!... I'M TALKING TO YOU, YOU FUCKING BOYS! - his accumulated anger reached its zenith - I'LL FUCK UP YOUR SHIT! - he started nervously pacing the room, still hunched over - WHAT THE FUCK?!... YOU'RE PRETENDING NOT TO HEAR, WHAT?!... YOU FUCKING WHORES!... I'LL FUCK YOU, I'LL FUCK YOU... - the expression on his face was filled with indescribable anger - FOR WHAT YOU'VE DONE TO ME.... I HATE YOU FUCKERS!... I DESPISE YOU!... DO YOU HEAR THAT?! I DESPISE YOU!! DON'T YOU HAVE THE COURAGE?! DON'T YOU HAVE THE COURAGE, YOU WHORES! YOU'RE AFRAID TO FACE ME! YOU'RE AFRAID! YOU'RE AFRAID OF ME, AND MOST OF ALL, YOU WHORES! YOU'RE AFRAID OF YOURSELF!

Silence... The image of a young boy, if you can speak of years, pacing around a dark room, screaming at the top of his lungs, seeking revenge, fueled by fury. He walked hunched over, his hand clutching his stomach—his rib ached, broken. He screamed, despite the fact that his tooth ached. His feet were slowly freezing from the cold. He was covered in some kind of rot, so much of it that it seemed to be the carpet of this cage. His brain, working at full speed, analyzed all possible data, everything. He paced and screamed. He screamed so incredibly hollowly that he couldn't be heard now, gone, somewhere. The movements of his face were so slow, as if he were stuck in some time hole and everything was happening half as fast. He screamed. He screamed so loudly, so much. His eyes were closed. He was slowly falling, yet he didn't stop screaming. His knees touched the floor, and at the same moment his hair moved along with his head, and at the same moment he saw. Time stopped. He understood nothing. He slowly fell on his face, but without a roar. His head bounced off the floor, covered in manure, like a ball—just like at the beginning. His eyes were staring into the distance; he knew he was falling, but he wasn't in his body at the time. He escaped, for a single moment, but he managed to escape.

9

Everything as at the beginning. The head was next to the vomit, which is on the right. The body was strangely bent. The arms were turned outward, the feet turned inward. The face lies on the right cheek, the eyeballs are directed forward, the soul is absent.

His left eye blinked anemically, then a tear began to leak from it. She gently tickled her nose. After a while, to mention it at all, she touched her lips. His eye blinked a second time.

"Heh," with resignation, through his nose, in a high-pitched voice, "This isn't happening.

Enough.

" 10

"There has to be a fucking way out of here," he said to himself as he walked with hunched, tired steps toward the metal skeleton.

He was already limping on his left leg. His face was set in a determined expression. He'd been in this fucking hole... for who knows how long. He felt strange, as if he were dreaming at times. He'd been through a rough patch. Unable to find the door, he decided to find another entrance. He searched the entire room. He was wallowing in his own vomit. He knew every detail of the floor and walls, not the ceiling. He was devastated. What he'd experienced was brainwashing, but would he do it to himself? Covered in the filth of the room, chilled, wondering, he searched.

Two steps, three, four, stop. He slowed. A heavily hunched figure, tired, chilled, limping with his head down, his right hand instinctively waving in the air to avoid bumping into something. He knew that somewhere around here had to be that damn metal skeleton that had recently shattered his faith.

"Closer and closer to the corner," he thought. A few more steps. There it was! But not "the bed," but the corner. "What?" It should be here. "I'm sure of it, I'm ready to cut off the so--" he didn't finish because he knew how this would end.

His head ached terribly. He wanted to moan, but it wouldn't help anyway, no one would hear. He was afraid. Afraid he might go mad. After all, that metal thing had "just been here." He was losing his bearings. It was there... or it wasn't. His senses were lost in a tangle of errors. He no longer knew where anything was, even though he was only in a six-sided, architecturally simple room.

He nodded, everything was jumbled. He changed direction. Head bowed, he walked humbly toward the other corner. When he'd covered enough distance, needless to say, to slow down because he knew he might stumble upon a skeleton, he stopped.

"This all makes no sense! Everything was fucking there, I don't understand."

He glanced back, even though he knew he wouldn't see anything; he was "sick." He combed his hair back with his right hand. His face was worried, but also focused. His brain began to analyze again, so typically masculine. This was already a challenge for him. Get out of here as quickly as possible!

...because he was slowly going insane...

Well! Now I just have to tighten it up and set it up," he said through his teeth as he tore at the skeleton that was supposed to be his exit.

"There's definitely an exit upstairs, that's how they threw me in here! There's no other option!"

A grinding sound. One, then the other. He was intensely focused, clutching his stomach with one hand while pulling the "bed" with the other. He had almost reached the center of the room, at least as far as he could tell. Without a second thought, he stepped barefoot into his own vomit; he didn't care. He let go of the iron.

A helpless figure now trying to climb onto the metal frame.

"Just so I don't screw up," he said to himself, after all, no one could hear him anyway.

He climbed very clumsily onto "that thing." One foot stepped onto a metal bracket. He held the other with his hand to prevent slipping. He found purchase for his leg, now the other. Very gently and slowly, so as not to jinx it. Every hesitant move from his opponent was analyzed; if something didn't go as planned, he reversed his moves and waited for a better moment to attack.

Two legs were already on the bed frame. His right hand held his stomach, his left his skeleton. The position was strong and stable, yet still precarious. He began to straighten, slowly, very slowly, as slowly as if it were his first step in life, as if he were just evolving.

His fingertips touched the ceiling. A smile, he found nothing, but! He began to trace the ceiling with his hand.

"About 3 meters, standard, or so I thought," he said.

Standing tall, he searched for some kind of "flap."

Suddenly, he felt dizzy, lost his "ground." He began to fall. He fell for so long that it felt like he was flying.

And yet he was flying through the air, through beautiful blue clouds. The emerald wind caressed his body. Naked, as God had created him. He passed Mount Everest. So cold, but the temperature was perfect for him. Then the sea, descending so low that he was flying a meter above them. He flew over the beach, seeing people, but they didn't see him. Eyes closed. The glades, the lush greenery, the speed of his flight made the blades of grass bend under the influx of wind waves he created. He was like a comet. He flew among bright stars, saw the sun, was within it. He saw life, much life, much joy. He saw the past, the future, the present—in human terms. Now it was all fading away. There was no "now," "always," "never," there was no him, but at the same time, there was, after all, he "existed." "

Was this heaven?"

It was only a glimmer of happiness in his horror; he would have many more chances to experience similar ones.

Is this the end?

No one answered, only an inner voice that teased his inner self. "Yes," echoed in his head, so delicate. It had her voice. "Yes," "Yes," it echoed—"I understand." Smiling, he opened his eyes.

" FUCK! " His gaze fell straight onto the edge of the metal bracket. Straight onto the edge of the metal bracket. It slammed into his skull like a soft ball. He fell. Slowly.

He grabbed the part of his body that was tearing apart, the action happened so quickly!

-aaaaaAAAAAAAA

He was thrashing on the ground now, it hurt so much. Rib, eye, tooth, pride. Tired as hell, he gasped for cold air. Steam illuminated his vision

-AAAAAAAAAA- as he thrashed from left to right.

He didn't stop, he couldn't. Tears of blood poured from his bleeding eye, which was swelling more and more. The angle iron slashed diagonally from his nose, across his right eye, and over his cheekbone, leaving a perfectly even mark.

He writhed in pain, screaming, cursing. Pain begets pain, one after another. He couldn't cope and cried. It was too much.

-WHO DID THIS TO ME?! FUCKING!!!! WHO DID THIS TO ME??

Exactly? Who?

"Naturally. It's understandable. Don't be afraid, everything will be alright," an echo

echoed, "what?... NO! How dare you? YOU WHORES!

" "He's holding up great anyway," with sadness in his voice.

The echo began to transform into a voice, getting closer and closer. Such a sweet and gentle voice, soothing. And the other one, the other one he'd heard before.

"RUN! RUN! MY LOVE! RUN THESE ARE FUCKING BAD PEOPLE! RUN!!!" he screamed, writhing in the ocean of darkness.

"I won't leave you, I'll always be with you."

"NO! YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND! THEY WANT...

" "He'll be alright," the familiar voice assured. "Be glad this didn't happen to you." "

GET THE FUCK OUT! GET THE FUCK OUT OF HER?! GET THE FUCK OUT!"

-“I love you”—the echo of her voice—“I wish I could be with him now, with him I can go through anything.”

-NO! YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND ANYTHING! YOU DON’T WANT THIS AT ALL!

-“Everything will be alright”—some other echo—“it has to be”—an echo resembling his voice...

-MOM? NO! NOOOOO!

-“Don’t worry, it will definitely be over soon!”

-GET OUT OF HERE! I’M BEGGING YOU! RUN!

-“Easy,” said the male echo—“you’re still doing pretty well, brother!”

-“Yes,” added the echo of his mother’s voice—“he’s very brave.”

-GET OUT! THEY’RE LYING TO YOU! THEY CREATED THIS HELL FOR ME! CAN'T YOU SEE THIS?! He screamed, his face splattered with blood, his eye and skull swollen, his rib broken, his body constricted by pain. He screamed with all his might, screaming with his mind enslaved. With tears in his eyes, a stabbing pain in his head, wallowing in his own vomit and sweat. With frostbitten hands and feet, his body chilled. He screamed to save what mattered to him.

"We are incredibly grateful to you for what you did for him."

"WHAT?! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?! MOM?! WHY?!" He was no longer conscious, the pain had reached its zenith, already fading away, just like it had from the moment he got here. He didn't know.

"How long can a coma last after an accident like this, doctor?" asked the echo of her mother's voice.

"In this case, we're not certain of anything." - echo - "We've already consulted with many specialists, but they can't say anything more than I can at this point. Maybe a month, maybe two, three. She could just as easily wake up tomorrow, or even right now."

- "Aha," confirmed the echo.

"We have to wait," he added, "but ladies, don't worry, she's probably flying with the angels in heaven right now."