19/09/2011
This morning, a strange, very disturbing thing happened to me. As I wrote the day before, my vacation started today. Oh, two whole weeks just for me, Ewunia, Basia, and Czaruś. Finally, the time dedicated to being with my family and devoting myself completely to it begins. Well, work is work, and unfortunately, it mercilessly takes our families away from us, or rather, takes us away from them, but it still comes to the same thing. That's why I was so happy and elated. Unfortunately, the trip didn't work out, and we wanted to go somewhere in the mountains, even for a week, but it's already September, so Basia and Czaruś have started school, and we won't leave them alone. Even if they were more independent, so I could stay home alone for a week, I'm not on vacation to escape from my beloved children. Oh no, what's that? I have children to love and spend time with, and they have me for the same reason. Despite the unfortunate coincidence of my vacation dates with the start of the school year, I decided to avoid a tragedy and make the most of all the delights that Międzyzdroje has to offer its residents. Completely at a loss for how to do it (vacation and vacations have never been my forte – I'm more of a traditional, hardworking person), I decided to wake up every morning at 5 a.m. (earlier than I would normally go to work, which would make a vacationer laugh), jump into my tracksuit, and, along with Reks, run out to greet the sun. Great idea, I thought to myself, and my happiness increased once again.
Today is the first day of my dream vacation. Today is the first day of my morning run through the streets of a town deserted by morning sleep. Today is the first day of two weeks of happiness. Oh, how beautiful life is, truly. I can't get over it. Whenever something good happens to me, the generosity of life and its magnanimity overwhelms me, and when something unpleasant happens to me, I never feel that life is unfair; what's more, the thought never even crosses my mind. And today, too: I didn't feel sad that it happened to me, only joy that it ended so well.
At five in the morning, my alarm woke me up, and my first instinct was to get out of bed, automatically wanting to go to work, as usual. Only after glancing at the alarm clock, whose hands showed five, not six, did something begin to dawn on me, until I finally understood: I'm on vacation, I'm not going to work. I immediately felt better and full of positive vibes. I got out of bed, placing a kiss on the warm forehead of my still-sleeping wife. Quietly, tiptoeing quickly into my sweats, I kissed Rex, and we set off for our first day of vacation.
Only after leaving the house did I realize that September was no joke, and I shivered with cold. But there was no turning back now – I didn't want to wake up my beloved sleepyheads. I whistled for Rex and started running, because that was the only thing that could warm me up at the time. I must admit, I felt a little uneasy in such a deserted city. No, it didn't look like it was in a deep sleep at all, but as if it were completely deserted. Yes, people lived here, in each of these houses, but they had long since moved on, who knows where or why. I immediately recalled the dream moments of my charming childhood, when we imagined empty cities where we could wander freely, peer into every nook and cranny, explore abandoned apartments, see how people lived there, and so on and so forth; such childish dreams. But now I wasn't thinking about such childish things; I was more frightened than fascinated, and so I headed for the beach. And Reks, my faithful friend, ran there with me.
My mood immediately brightened, because, despite the piercingly cold wind, the sea is always alive. The complete absence of people didn't bother me this time either (though I passed one very pleasant older gentleman doing this on the way), because the sea, with its waves imitating its breathing, supported the wounded (meaning early riser, ha ha, but I told you so) bird in its solitude. Fortunately, only a few clouds floated in the sky, so observing the sunrise wasn't hindered. So I looked in that direction, and the first rays were already appearing, dazzling my eyes. After a moment, its monumental shield began to emerge and grow above the water; and there we stood: me, the sea, and even Rex, completely stiff with a stick in his mouth, all gazing at Beauty. Until finally, the Sun emerged whole and, already rising above the water, looked like a Host raised to an altar (God, I hope you're not offended by such comparisons). And then, squinting and shading my eyes, my hand to my forehead, I noticed something deeper on the beach. Without a second thought, I turned my attention away from the sun and invited Rex to investigate with me (oh, I treat my Rex like family too, and I think I love him just as much as my wife and kids). Even as I approached it, I could already tell it was a notebook. I could clearly see the wind effortlessly turning its pages. Finally, we reached it; of course, Rex was first, so I had to admonish him not to try to eat it. I raised the notebook to my eyes and could definitely tell it was someone's journal. Unfortunately, though I now think it might be for the best, most of the pages were either torn or the saltwater had definitely smudged the ink. Only the first entry, the first day of the journal, survived, and that was in very good condition. Of course, my first instinct was to read everything I could, but I gave up on that urge when I felt Reks tugging at my sweatshirt with his teeth, and I realized who was smarter: after all, just because I found it, I didn't earn myself the right to read it. I can't just barge into someone else's life like that. Oh, thank you for that, smart dog. Although, I must admit, I was tempted... That's why I decided to talk about it with dear Ewunia; she always has a solution for everything.
So I hurried back home, only to find everyone already at breakfast, the kitchen filled with the aroma of coffee. Oh, and there was a portion for me too. My beloved children had finally left for their schools, and I could tell Ewa about my find. She first kissed me in a gesture of love, and then said in a burst of common sense (I always lacked it): "Janek, darling. You see for yourself what this diary looks like. It must have been lying here for a long time. Of course, there are no moral obstacles to reading it." And of course, she was right, because the first and second entries (the only ones preserved) date back to 2001. What we read there, however, is so shocking and terrifying at the same time that I decided to paste the entire fragment into my diary:
September 19, 2001.
Saturday.
Shit. Shit. A shitty day like any other. Even shittier. Why does she have to be the first in this shitty journal? Why the hell am I even starting one? What's the point? All this for what? How many more times am I going to ask these shitty questions?
It all sucks. Jesus, it's all so pointless. Why am I writing this? What am I doing here? How much longer? And why are all these other people, who are the fuck, pretending to be happy to be alive? And bullshit – no one is happy; it's impossible. Although Iwaszkiewicz wrote: "Even someone whose own tooth hurts won't believe in someone else's toothache." Well, maybe it works the other way around, and maybe my lack of belief in any kind of happiness isn't proof of its absence. But then again, I've never been given proof of its existence either. And if people talk, I don't give a damn. It's gone, end of story.
Bullshit.
But so what? Of course: bullshit.
What are my shitty speculations worth in this world devoid of values? Yes, he has values, but they are other people's values, not mine. I hate them. Just like Patti Smith starts her album "Horses": "Jesus died for somebody's sins, but not mine." Of course, they called her a scandalist and people started to get upset. Broken dicks. Let them die, let them all fucking die!
DIE, YOU BROKEN DICKS!
This is my manifesto, which I'm bringing to you, listen to it.
Is hatred a sufficient justification for murder? Besides, no, no one has the right to punish me for anything, because who the fuck would do that? No one is blameless, everyone deserves death. Fuck, not death, because that's something desired, but lifelong dragging of sackcloth is definitely it?
And women?
Fuck women. Hmm, I expressed myself more accurately than I intended. Yes, yes, that's very good: fuck women. Of course, fuck them. Ha, even shit on their faces. And sure, they can, whatever, they can attack me.
Okay. It was just a way to start this diary of mine. And now let's face it: what's the situation? Well, it sucks. I'm sitting here all alone, wallowing in my hatred, and frankly, I'm getting nothing out of it. Because what good is satisfaction when it's only mine? And I even have to go to the rally tomorrow. But it's all because I can't talk to all of them; no one really understands me. Absolutely no one. NO ONE! And because of that, in every dialogue, I have to agree to their terms and talk about topics or things that interest me at most 55%. And even if I do find someone who cares about the same things, we share them in completely different ways, and once again, everything ends in distance, and only emptiness remains. Where are its fucking boundaries? You have to completely isolate yourself from people and only make yourself known when business matters require sacrifice, but under no circumstances get involved in this shit for personal reasons. WHY? Well, what the fuck?
It doesn't make sense. Nothing makes sense. That's it.
Okay...
I've relieved myself a bit.
Yeah, that's all for my manifestos. It's not here to reflect my inner state or any of that crap, but because I thought every journal should start with some kind of confession. So it's just like that, for form's sake.
Now, more specifically: I'm going on a rally tomorrow. I'm going alone, of course, because how else? I've planned a route: Goleniów - Załom. And I have to get up incredibly early.
September 20, 2001,
Sunday.
Six-thirty in the morning, when I hear the disgusting beeping of my disgusting alarm clock. I'm willing to risk the statement that this sound, echoing at such primitive hours as six (seven) in the morning, is the most hateful thing in humanity. Considering the fact that there are an infinite number of such things (practically all of them are suitable for being objects of hatred), the above statement is indeed risky.
And what the fuck is the point, since I set this alarm myself and of my own free will wanted to go on this gay rally alone. Speaking of gay rallys: I recently had to go out with that stupid mutt, and I avoid it like the plague; it's utter nonsense: wandering aimlessly with some idiot on a string who just wants to take a shit. I meet Kula, we stand and chat for a while – what a tiring moment – he finally asks if I'm going home, so we could go back together. To avoid this turn of events, I blatantly lie and say I have to do another lap with him (pointing at the dog). Kula replies, "What are you, a fag?" And only then do I realize what I look like walking around with this animal. What a shit.
A pack of fags.
Besides, I'd rather be gay and ride my own bike than some overly talkative dude. And besides, I don't give a damn.
I finally got out of this idiotic bed, and as usual, the same two sensations occur when I'm roused from sleep: a piercing cold (even in warm weather) and a stomach ache. Some kind of ulcer, or erosion... my only companions in this miserable vale of tears.
I skip breakfast, so I don't feel like shitting myself, otherwise I'd be late. I'm off to church at seven; Mass is best, because it's the shortest. With each subsequent visit to church, I realize more and more that I have almost nothing left to connect me with this institution and its greedy hypocrisy—in short, with an institution that, for its own damned purposes, wipes its face with Christ. But for now, something still compels me to go there. So, I'm in bed, right?! I sat there for 45 minutes again, my eyes closing, surrounded by a gang of old men who have absolutely no idea what's what and what they're eating, and their church hypocrisy spills out onto the church steps, and people untainted by it (where are they? – I ask!) slip on it as they leave after mass, barely saving their own lives.
Let them die! It's their own fault!
And the compassion is disgusting. I'm especially surprised by the compassion for fatal victims of accidents or such, since death is salvation. I completely fail to understand these idiots who fear death – what hypocrisy squared, to be happy and want to live forever. Bullshit, I don't believe a single damn word they say.
I'm against it! Against it! Against everything!
A quick return home and to the station: the Świnoujście train at 8:40 from platform 3.
Goleniów. I get off. And so it begins: the search for the trail. Yes, that's right, the first two signs are painted, but the rest is a complete mess. Those PTTK bastards don't give a damn. And so I wander around Goleniów with a map, stomach aching, searching for the right exit. It's always early in the morning, everyone in their festive attire walks past me, we pass each other, but I don't ask them questions, I don't ask for help, for directions, because asking would leave too much room for a conversation that could give rise to a conversation that gives me goosebumps. I'm sick of their help. Let them wank it at their house. Sebastian, the last time I visited, was constantly eating sandwiches, so I started mocking him about his future obesity, and he said: "If you had to deny yourself everything you crave for nine months, you'd eat that much in Szczecin too." Fuck, I've been denying myself my whole life what I really want to do: kill people, bring them pain and despair so great that they can no longer find the strength to live in their imagined happiness.
Finally, I gave up. When I finally lost hope of finding them, I decided to go back to the station and maybe start over. Except I didn't know how to get back there, so I had to ask, but it was a simple question, one that thankfully required a simple, quick, and specific answer. So I approached some fucking married couple and asked them point-blank how to get to the station. Phew, luckily they just threw this and that, and we were free from each other. Hopefully, forever. But no, I had to endure with them, or rather against them, for about three more minutes, because at that point I found the trail: it led in a completely different direction, of course. I can't go there when the people I was asking are nearby. He asked about the station, but he went somewhere completely different. So I stood there and, waiting for them to disappear around some fucking bend (and they were in short supply), I tied one shoe, then another, lit a cigarette (and my stomach wasn't asking for it at all), and finally, I got it: I could follow that damn trail.
And hiking alone (what the fuck are you, a faggot?) isn't the most interesting thing, because he's constantly rushing: there's no natural way to slow down in the form of conversations, even the mildly pleasant ones, because you don't go on hikes with just anyone (that's why I go alone), and when you're constantly rushing, you quickly lose your energy. So (whoever the fuck decided not to start a sentence with "so"? – may he rot in hell with the rest of us) I felt this ache in my muscles when I realized I'd lost the trail, because that damned map hadn't marked that he'd also left the road for a moment earlier, walking through a fenced-in area of freshly planted trees, and that was it. I'd done about five pointless kilometers, which only served to increase my fatigue. Eventually, I got back onto the road, though that sounds a bit too proud, and I knew I was about five kilometers from Kliniska. I just wasn't sure I was going in the right direction, because my mind was already going haywire. There were two women with bikes standing there, so I asked. They said yes, but it was still about ten kilometers. The stupid idiots, of course, thought I was on the road, as if there were no trails. So I thought of them appropriately and continued on, finding the lost trail, of course, and cursing the whole fucking PTTK thing under my breath, ugh! There was finally a sign saying Kliniska, and I knew I'd end up there for the day, because I damn well didn't want to go any further. And that was my downfall, and then suddenly I turned back into the forest (some shortcut to the station) and passed some estate with some shitty little shits running around in front of them with dogs, and what were they doing? "You Romanian, you filthy bastard, take him, Burek!" And so, they're fucking yelling at me and unleashing that lousy mongrel on me, and I have absolutely no idea what's going on, so I don't react (though I do react with all my might) and move on, pondering the fucking inhumanity of some people and devising the most economical ways to exterminate this entire shitty population. Yes, it's true, there will be exceptions, but I'm afraid that for the good of the cause, they'll have to make a sacrifice.
And fuck them on their graves!, as a certain singer once sang.
There's Kliniska. There's a station. I'm lucky because the train is 30 minutes away, and if I hadn't made it, I'd have had to wait three hours. Of course, it's a station, being a station: no fucking bench. I sit down on the steps, light a cigarette, and read Scott's "Beautiful Girl from Perth." And that lasted about ten minutes. Then it was too late. Three local jerks sat down on the steps next to me. Every other word was "fuck," they were munching on ice cream and recounting last night's party: it was a total mess, we didn't feel like kicking him anymore, sorry, do you have a cigarette (that's for me), the guys arrived, but I didn't fuck her, I was so fucked I didn't feel like it anymore, etc. And their stupidity was palpable; they didn't have to say a word to make it clear what they were going to talk about. And I sat there, listening, offering them cigarettes (that's because I can't say no, damn it), and swelling with hatred just waiting for me to unleash it. And truth be told, I thought I'd make it to the train, I'd manage, but if it was late, I'd kill them. Simply put: I'd get up and kill them, because I couldn't stand this shit hanging around here. And I still couldn't continue reading because of this garbage.
The train arrived on time, of course. But someday I wouldn't be able to stand it anymore. I guess it was high time to start spewing this garbage.
I got on that train (an electric multiple unit), furious, and immediately scrambled to find a free seat, or rather, four free ones, because I didn't want to share my journey with some idiot. Of course, it wasn't possible that way, and I didn't want to check the rest of the compartments because I was tired of being watched, I carried too much hatred from Kliniska to be able to bear all those eyeballs staring at passersby.
So I sat down in the last seat, opposite some guy: blond, short, skinny, smoking Golden Reeds, and he was quite hunched over in the corner, so I thought maybe he also didn't like people. I sat down. A moment passed, and I pulled out a book. I started reading. At the same time, I was constantly focused on his behavior, just so he wouldn't surprise me. If he attacked, I was ready. Twice he got up, went out into the corridor, and came back; I don't know why. After the second time, he lit a cigarette, and I heard the question: "Are you from Szczecin?"
I was prepared for that, so it was easier to pretend to be someone nice. I just hoped he really had a business and wasn't just looking to chat. The rest of the conversation went something like this:
-Yes. (What the fuck is he talking about?)
-Do you know where yugfhcus is?
-Excuse me, but where is what?
-jhfisdo.
-Forgive me, but I didn't understand again. (The train was making a real noise)
-Where is "makro"?
"Aaaah. Yeah, right." (A moment of consternation: how the fuck do I get there? All the ways to get there went to hell, I'd forgotten all the bus numbers, and I was devastated that I couldn't give him a specific answer and cut the dialogue short. Eventually, however, all the facts fell into place.) "You'll get on bus 61 and go to Cukrowa Street."
It took a while to explain how to get there, but I knew I'd soon be able to return to my corner and shut up. And so it happened. Unfortunately, I was already finishing a chapter, and it was too close to Szczecin to start the next one. So, very slowly, I closed the book and put it in my backpack, not once looking at him. And I sat there. Like a weed. And suddenly, fucking hell, it happened: this fucked-up prick, this fucking dickhead, this shitty rat, said: "
Interesting book?"
I must admit I'd more or less prepared myself for the exchange, but this question really surprised me (I always covered my books with newspaper so no one would notice what I was reading, and therefore wouldn't think anything of me). I finally started mumbling something about old England, or rather, Scotland, and I started babbling in general, to which he replied,
"Maybe Scott?"
Fuck. In the space of just thirty seconds, he surprised me for the second time. And in a good way. He started saying he'd read some Scott and generally liked history books, and that, surprisingly, he hadn't brought anything with him because he was in a hurry and was coming from Międzyzdroje. Well, I actually got a little excited and we started chatting about books. He said he liked Clancy, and I asked if he'd read Suvorov, and he said he hated Russians, that he was disgusted, and when he heard their long names, he had to put the book down immediately. That's when I started hating him with a vengeance, and it was over. He was talking bullshit, I watched him and nodded, but in reality, I saw his throat slit, his ruined teeth crushed by a hammer, his brain squeezed out in some powerful vise, how humiliated he begged me for mercy, to finally finish him off. Like a dog. But no, "no mercy for sons of bitches," he doesn't like Russians, he'll kick him in the face and fuck him, and then, fuck, he'll bleed out himself. I had all this in my mind's eye as he told me about his job, how he had to buy a drill and then go back to Międzyzdroje because he had to finish the job overnight.
We were already at the station, getting off, when I decided to help him out. I told him that you needed special entry cards to get into the "Makro" and recommended a "Hypernova." I explained how to get there, and seeing the growing crowd, I fled like a fool, feeling that every word I said to him brought me closer to murder. Later still, I saw him from the tram, talking to the bus driver, and he finally disappeared from my life. Or so I thought.
Until now. I'm writing this all in such detail because, even though it's deep in the night, that fucker is still on my mind, simultaneously making me aware of certain things. He's been tormenting me all night, sending me these fucking pangs of guilt. Fuck, why didn't I help him completely, why did I abandon him in such an idiotic way? WHAT THE FUCK DOES HE THINK OF ME NOW? And that realization was the worst, and it wouldn't leave me for a moment.
It's like that story where the night tram driver catches a drunken fare dodger and takes him to the sobering-up station. He's been doing this for a good ten years now, and it didn't faze him. This time, however, turned out to be an exception. The drunk stayed in his head, giving rise to more and more pangs of conscience, to the point where he couldn't lead a normal life, until he finally found him and apologized. They became friends, and both were happy. The canary because he could return to a normal life, and the drunk because he was fucking his wife.
Yes, I know that won't be the case with me, of course, and my remorse will vanish as soon as I write this whole story. Besides, I'm writing it just for that reason. But for now, this dickhead is still stuck in my head, and I think I know why: he was just incredibly nice. I was kidding myself that it definitely wasn't that, because I don't believe in the existence of nice people at all, but he's clearly an exception. That's why this sudden abandonment hurts me so much. I'm sure he was surprised by my behavior, and maybe it even undermined his trust in people (why the fuck do I care so much?). What if one day I go to Międzyzdroje and he sees me? What will he say to whoever he's going with? "Oh, look, it's that idiot I told you about." Or maybe I should go there and fuck him?!
Shit.
I was shocked by an encounter with a man who held no hatred at all, and for the first time, I thought my hatred was undesirable. It's what's robbed me of the ability to talk to other people, so much so that when I meet someone I could be friends with, I run away, afraid of even trying to talk.
It's shitty.
But that only doubles the hatred. Comfort comes only when I realize the consequences of trying to prolong the conversation. I offer him help, because his purity triggers some strange reflex in me. I invite him for tea at my place, wanting to take him to the "Makro" later, because I have their ID. Yes. So, I see three fucking possibilities:
1. We're taking the tram to my house. He's constantly talking about something, and this talking is killing me and demanding some kind of activity from me. All of this pisses me off so much that I realize he's just a moron, like many others, and I have to do something about him. I make him some tea, then grab a kitchen knife and begin his slow torture, which will end in death in about three days. It's fucking amazing.
2. We're taking the tram. It's quiet. But it's a wonderful kind of silence, one that doesn't bother anyone, and in fact, it's convenient, and we understand each other very well. At home, I make him tea, change, take him to the "Makro" (a local supermarket), we buy a drill, I take him to the train, and everyone is incredibly happy. We exchange addresses and stay in touch for the rest of our lives, like no one ever has, anywhere else. Fortunately, that's IMPOSSIBLE!!!!!!!
3. Now the most likely scenario, because I've always wanted to do something like this: we take the tram to my house. He accepted my proposal with considerable reluctance. Apparently, he's watched "997" too much and now he's afraid I'm some kind of son of a bitch. I can see this fear clearly and decide to play with it. The prick didn't want to come into my house. He said he'd wait outside, but I insisted. I made him some tea and started changing, but in such a way that I appeared naked before his eyes for a brief moment. I saw it working: his hand holding the glass was shaking. But it didn't matter. I took him to the car and "we're going to the macro." I stopped in the middle of the forest, pulled out my knife, and stabbed him painfully so he couldn't resist too violently. I took off his pants and fucked him in the ass; very painfully. Over and over again, until I started enjoying it, so I did it again. Finally, I cut off his cock and shoved it down his throat, choking him and finally dying. That's what happens to those who didn't deserve to know me. Dogs!
Yes, and that's how our relationship ends. And finally, those fucking pangs of conscience disappear.
I guess I won't have to go to fucking Międzyzdroje...
Here everything ends; reading this, I was constantly shivering with fear and terror. At first, my dear Ewunia couldn't understand what had happened to me; she only said that it was just a text, and that it wasn't worth worrying about. I don't think she understood everything. I had to tell her that the man had described meeting me. That it was me, and that I even vaguely recognized his figure. Only then did Ewunia hug me tightly and tell me how much she loved me. It was so beautiful of her.
In the afternoon, the children finally arrived from school, and seeing them brought me much more joy than usual, even though I thought it was impossible. I could feel happy again. But I keep thinking about that event. I keep thinking about my encounter with that psychopath, and I remember how I actually struck up a conversation with him, completely unaware of the risks.
I had a brush with death... And it makes me uneasy. And to think that I would never have met Ewusia, my dear children. A terrifying thought. Oh, God, thank You for Your providence. I'll have to give more in the collection plate on Sunday; how else can I repay you?
And this thought of unconsciously encountering death compelled me to snuggle into the warmth of my entire family. So I arranged an evening where we all sat together and looked at old slides, sipping delicious tea. Time passed, the children went to bed, and I snuggled into Ewusia's arms and finally could cry freely, while Ewusia stroked me and told me she loved me...
Now I only hope I'll be able to live normally with this.
Goodnight, Diary. See you tomorrow.
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