Single Shard

She was returning home one December evening. The wind shook the branches, simultaneously trying, it seemed to her, to deceive her tears. She had a habit of crying when she felt there was no reason to. She shed tears so often, laughing and drowning in sadness alternately. It was as if she had two faces, though in reality the world she used to surround herself with possessed two masks. And it's worth mentioning here that the world had never surrounded her.

"Look at these pensive people; they are so simple and passionless. Look at these people and form a substandard alloy with them. No ingot is free from impurities. But you will be free of the threats of your own thoughts. Aren't they playing invisible tricks on you, shaking your heart on autumn evenings? Take a step forward, drop your coat. You won't catch a cold. I assure you," her conscience whispered softly, causing a rhythmic echo that shattered the colorful ellipses in her mind. It was as if a stranger had thrown a few brown pebbles into her calm reflection.

Instantly, she felt her hands go cold.

"I think this is beyond my capabilities.

" "But of course you can.

" "I care about what I already possess.

" "Abandon these plans."

She hated arguing with her own sense of self. In an instant, she knew it was high time to end this dialogue, this persistent monologue.

Until now, she had adored December. It gleamed in the back of her eyes with the lightbulbs flickering in the shop windows, enchanted her with the aromatic scent of carnations and Christmas cake. Once, as a child, she had been more easily influenced by sentiment. Now she punished herself for her increasing blindness of spirit, and at the same time, she planned to implement the vain idea of ​​eliminating the sensitivity that came from a kind of "overproduction" of feelings. At least enough to keep her from screaming in pain while squeezing pimples. She was undoubtedly ambitious.

The road to her own warm home wound through the streets of a quiet, small town. Once again seduced by the sight of branches bending under the weight of snow, she sighed quietly, but without relief. There was more bitterness than peace within her. Although she had never suffered any significant harm in her life, she used to tell herself that fate had dealt her a hard time, that she had already been through a lot. Young and foolish, she spoke and thought nonsense that she would probably be ashamed of in a few years. She was too good at seeing her own mistakes to dwell on those of others. She considered this a flaw.

"Hello!" she heard at the exact moment she brushed against the sleeve of a tall brunette with intensely brown eyes. She immediately recognized the familiar gaze.

"Hi..." she replied, a little disappointed that her friend was still prettier than her. It turned out to be a friend from the dark, distant days of elementary school. She was surprised that Agata hadn't passed her by without a word, as she had a habit of erasing outdated contacts and selectively selecting friends and acquaintances.

"I haven't seen you in so long... you've changed. You don't wear glasses anymore; I remember they had funny frames. That's how I remember you."

She felt insulted. She took her former friend's words as a subtle, carefully chosen insult. From her school days, she only remembered the crude insults of her classmates, who, even in high school, had asked her permission for romantic trysts. Why hadn't Agata mentioned anything about her high school days? Why had she delved into the dark period of those first years, enduring the fire of teachers' reprimands?

She understood that losing certain items could also have its positive side. A phone book left at the bus stop years ago could have given her the route to an unkind friend. Despicable people should be avoided.

"Let's not get into that. I wanted to ask you about your studies. I heard you chose the University of Warsaw. What's life like for a bohemian student? Do you drink a lot?" she asked sarcastically, attacking with imagined malice. For years, she had harbored a kind of jealousy that burned deep, black holes in her perception. While she didn't consider herself a hypocrite, she watched her words and measured their value. She used every sentence with care, though she usually spoke loudly and fluently, not avoiding frequent changes in tone and gestures. Her friends often criticized her for this. "

I'd love to talk to you, my dear, but understand, I'm in a hurry to catch the bus. My Superman is fixing his car; I'm content with the public transportation system. I think we should arrange a longer meeting. Gossip is a great addition to coffee." I'll call," Agata said through her teeth, placing a reserved, friendly kiss on her cheek.

"Great idea, I'll wait," she replied quietly, rubbing her eyelid. "Well, the snake is trying to invade her next free weekend." Resigned to the thought, she smiled at her interlocutor, turning on her heel.

"See you!

" "Bye."

How she hated unfreezing something that had been broken just before the cold wave. She subconsciously knew she was defeating the purpose, placing herself in the spotlight of persistent questions and watchful eyes. She hated having to introduce herself twice, as if the listener hadn't understood the first part. It was undoubtedly an embarrassing experience, one she deliberately avoided even in everyday life. When making a new acquaintance, she would symbolically emphasize each syllable, begging for unconditional attention devoted solely to her. It's worth mentioning here that she treasured moments when she was at the center of current events. Sometimes, even sitting on the balcony with her legs high on the railing, she dreamed of a media career. When she gazed at the stars, she searched for herself among their shimmering array. She was a curious blend of would-be actress, disappointed fiancée, and childminder. In her demeanor, she embodied a long, impressive braid of opposites and rich colors, blending into a single whole, a single person.

When she had recovered from the chance encounter and polite conversation, her gaze was drawn to an old woman carrying a large quantity of apples in a plastic, non-organic bag. She immediately realized that her soul was like a bag of apples—it could burst at any moment, its weight jarring her delicate, work-worn, elderly hands. Moreover, one could probably see through it to her entire being.

She bent down to tie her shoelace, even though it had been thumping merrily against her calf for half an hour of walking. She usually paid no attention to details, to the insignificant details that distracted her needlessly and forced her to lean forward or button up. She then felt as if she were devoting herself solely to the important and paramount—things that, in life and its demanding moments, were essential and, as such, alone worthy of closer attention. In this simple way, she wanted to cover up her own flaws, to correct her long-unruly self, which, in her view, had suffered irreversible wounds even in the first phase of life. Therefore, she ordered a general treatment, consisting of constant work, a massive attack, and painstaking, precise analysis. She wholeheartedly desired change, a metamorphosis; she wanted to spin a silk cocoon within which another miracle of rebirth would unfold. She firmly believed that this was possible, if only she could find the means, apply the methods, and plan a strategy. She believed she was capable of much, capable of shaking foundations, demolishing foundations, and destroying the war machine. That with divine help, she would rise from her cocoon, that she would spread her wings under the cover of night, that, untouched by greedy, envious gazes, she would one day look into the water and see a new person, a new human being. She maintained before everyone that differences were in fact synonyms, that one could unite by dividing, that the world was full of nonsense. And physics, in her view, was an unraveling web of absurdity, an object that ruthlessly enclosed the world of material ecstasy. She never saw the difference between the tangible and the spiritual, teetering on the edge of two dimensions of understanding. Such was her nature as a writer, an artist, a moody child, a volatile teenager, a capricious student. Eschewing a straightforward existence, she thought with disgust of formulas and ready-made templates, constantly creating, bringing to life in graphite designs. Earthly, humble vegetation never mattered to her; even subconsciously, she avoided routine and the vision of a one-dimensional existence. She searched, strived, opened the eyes of strangers, closed the eyes of the dead. Although she sought order in things, she lived in chronic disorder and chaos. Therefore, she believed her role was limited to assembling puzzles into a single picture of her personal ideals and dreams. She feared only one thing: whether all the pieces were in the box.

The snow crunched beneath her carelessly polished leather boots, unifying the landscape, a boring synthesis of white and gray. She longed to capture a few delicate flakes floating in the air, to watch them vanish in her palm, transforming, defiantly, into a few cool drops descending from the sky. And then she drank them greedily, believing that she was keeping them within herself in this way, naively drawing satisfaction.

As she walked eagerly forward, she glanced around once more, taking in the effeminate faces of the boys and the defiant countenances of the girls. She once again noticed the overly blond hair of the woman selling newspapers at a nearby kiosk, and once again mentally mocked the young wolves who kept bursting into boorish laughter in the cramped cabin of her impressive red Fiat 126p. Life was one of those values ​​she found not only surprising but above all amusing in its simplicity. She wanted to clutch it in her fists, feed on it, swallow it, and chew it, hoping it wouldn't end in a hard, medicine-smelling bed.

An asphalt street, thickly coated with ice, intersected the road. Two darker stripes along its length spoke volumes about the routes of the cars passing through. The cold, smooth surface reflected Christmas decorations, the colorful flames of electric lights, Christmas tree garlands, and overly decorated trees from shop windows, terrifying passersby with their almost baroque splendor. The world of advertisements, glittering New Year's Eve dresses, and colorful magazines seemed to whisper quietly to the need to spend money, to empty leaky pockets. The passive consumer had no value. The true value belonged to the savings of unemployed families who awaited the shopping season with incomprehensible joy.

As she nostalgically reflected, she noticed that the second of her shoelaces had come undone. Leaning forward irritably, she tucked it into the inside of her shoe to resume her walk. Just a few steps separated her from home, which she considered her true testing ground—a space for research, testing, and creative endeavors. With a longing sigh, she returned to an upright position, which made her resemble, she supposed, a humanoid creature. She crossed the sidewalk, setting foot on uncertain, slippery ground. Despite the clearly animated movement, following her own principles, she decided to quicken her pace just before the finish line, to outrun her competitors, time, and destiny. She hadn't considered the possibility that the latter might be rushing toward her from the opposite direction.

A blow.

A scream. Pain.

A scream.

A warm stream of purple, carving a valley through the ice. Gazing with a distant gaze at the approaching figures clad in angelic white, she remembered the snowflakes drifting with the force of the wind. She felt her essence melt, transforming into a shapeless liquid.

Like a single shard of heaven on a warm hand, her conscience suggested.