:Spiral

A red-and-gold fighter races forward at maximum thrust, traversing the starry void of space. Laser cannons relentlessly spew blue beams at the approaching combat units of the enemy fleet. Spectacular explosions illuminate the screen, and I punch through further clouds of smoke. Another wave of superior enemy forces is already approaching. I can't cope with them, fleeing left, to the very bottom of the screen. Then a suicide fighter emerges from the side and, without hesitation, rams me with its nose, killing us both. I

start the game over again.

The red fighter, adorned with golden stripes on its wings, flies forward, up the screen, beneath it swarming with distant stars. Blue beasts, bringing destruction, dig their claws into the hull of my enemy's ships, tearing them to shreds. I leave behind picturesque explosions, smoke balls, and more wreckage. I see an even more powerful counterattack looming ahead of me, from beyond the edge of the screen. Enemy pilots are furiously bombarding my shields; I can't resist this overwhelming advantage. I have to flee. To the lower left corner of the screen, where it seems safe. And suddenly, a kamikaze fighter crashes into me; it must have been lurking there for some time, there in the lower left corner of the screen. We perish.

I stand up from the computer with a slight headache. It's as sure as two plus two is four, four plus four is eight. I feel a chill run through my brain, as if someone had placed a melting ice cube on it.

I put the phone to my ear; I have a very important call to make.

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP – a sharp, irritating sound plagues my ears with every press of the digital button. And then I hear a monotonous reply:

"Iiii Iiii Iiii Iiii Iiii Iiii" – like a slippery block sawn off with a dull blade. Busy. I'll have to try again in a moment.

Now I have to get dressed. It's cold outside, so I put on my long johns, but unfortunately I can't find my socks. I look in the drawer, in the laundry basket, and behind the bed, but they're nowhere to be found, not even a stinking pair with a hole in the heel that I might eventually wear. I look in the washing machine, throw everything out, and dig through everything thoroughly. No results. Dejected, I return to my room, where a pair of clean black socks lie balled up on the floor. They must have fallen off when I grabbed the long johns. I pull them on and transform them into tights, then my favorite pants, speckled with numerous patches. A white shirt with the first and last buttons undone lands on a black blouse with yellowish stripes, beneath which three T-shirts are already warming me.

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP – I dial again with the phone to my ear, and each beep is like a rape.

Iiii Iiii Iiii Iiii Iiii Iiii – the howl of a lone mutt informs me that I'm still busy.

I sit on the hallway floor to tie my shoes. I didn't tug hard, but I still have the torn shoelace in my hand. I don't have any others, so I tie the two ends together in a clumsy knot. I put my jacket on my back, my hat on my head, my scarf around my neck, and my gloves on my hands. I leave the house and, keys jangling, lock the doors.

It's humid outside, and the numerous puddles remind me of the recent rain. I need to get to the city center, and since I don't live far away, I'm walking. A narrow curb winds along a wide street, a speeding car plunges into a deep puddle, leaving me covered in mud.

I return home, a little irritated to change clothes. I don't have much time left, so I grab the first thing I can find.

With all the chaos, I'm short on time, so reluctantly I jump on the bus. Of the few available seats, I chose the one at the very back. I didn't expect it to be comfortable, and it wasn't. There's not enough legroom; the contoured seat pinches its passenger's butt after only a few seconds.

At the next stop, two elderly women board. One sits right in front of me, the other stands next to me. I try not to notice them, staring out the window as if I were seeing something incredibly fascinating. I'm perfectly aware that this old hag wants to sit in my seat.

"These young people today," the awful old woman standing next to me opens her mouth. "For a shred of good manners... They sit, and the elderly have to stand. Really...

" "Yeah, yeah," squealed the woman in front of me. "Parents used to teach us respect for adults, but now... Now we're just getting in their way, waiting for us to die and disappear from their sight," she cackled like a mother hen.

"They're all brats," she said, rolling out the heavy artillery, preparing for the final assault. "They just wander around town drunk." And how they look, dirty, unwashed...

"You should grab them by their tailcoats and lock up the outcasts..."

They were arguing subconsciously, letting me know they were talking about me. And with every passing moment, I was swelling, ready to explode with a loud bang. I was bursting with internal screaming. My head was filled with overlapping screams. You old toads were calling one thing, and you talking about good manners were adding another, there are other places on this damn bus, shouting a third. On top of that, a fourth voice was shrieking inhumanly for them to shut their old mouths, and a fifth, somewhere beneath, was whispering to throw it all in their faces. The words began to rush to my lips, and I had no intention of saying them, and I had no intention of holding back. I wanted this.

"Wh..." I choked out, but more sounds wouldn't leave my lips. I tried again, unsuccessfully. The old ladies had already noticed my pointless attempts and made a comment.

"And what about this one?" one sniffed at me. "Do you have something to say, boy?"

I felt like a fish washed ashore.

"Would you give up your seat to the older ones?" the other crowed. "Come on, come on," she prodded me with her waxy finger.

My head feels like a vice, the grandmothers tighten the screw, and all I can hear is my skull cracking.

Finally, I reach my stop. I walk to the exit, and behind me I hear those intrusive sounds. I want to offer them some filthy bouquet as a farewell gift. I take a deep breath and... choke on my words. I get out, coughing.

I stare at the pavement sliding beneath my feet, at my feet sliding over the pavement. When the sidewalk stopped, and my feet stopped too, I looked up and saw the entrance to the Apollo Department Store. I entered reluctantly, as it was a purely business visit. The company I was working for was on the first floor. If I was lucky, I wouldn't run into my boss today.

The boss was sitting at his desk, reviewing projects, contracts, faxes, and more. He barely glanced at me, and I knew he had something to tell me.

At the desk next to him sat an accountant and secretary. She smiled at me more out of obligation than sympathy. Otherwise, she paid me no attention. They were both busy, so I asked if I could use the phone. They didn't mind, but I wasn't sure they even heard my question.

"Beep-Beep-Beep-Beep-Beep-Beep-Beep"—I'm jabbing poisonous snakes into my ear with the same disgust as this morning, but in a different tone.

Iiii Iiii Iiii Iiii Iiii Iiii – after a moment, I hear that awful sound of Styrofoam scraping against itself.

Finally, the boss abandons his current task, fixes me with his gaze, and begins a litany. He says, among other things, that I'm not trying hard enough, that people are complaining about me, and that I'm not doing my job.

"You have to inform people about these things." "

I told them.

" "They say they didn't know."

"How could they not know if I told them.

" "You should have told them twice."

I feel powerless against such arguments.

"Don't you have any free time today?" he asks after a moment.

"I do.

" "So what are you doing here today?" "

I just wanted to bring something.

" "Did you want it or did you bring it?" I don't know if he's mocking me or just trying to steer the conversation towards a more friendly tone.

"I wanted to bring it, and I did."

I pull a few documents out of my bag and place them on the edge of his desk. I want to throw them in his face and tell him to stuff his face with them and then quit this damn job, but I don't feel like it. My boss began to look through them intently, a clear signal that I have no use for him here anymore.

"Goodbye," I said. No reaction. "Goodbye," I repeat, turning to leave.

"Wait, Krzysiu," the accountant and secretary calls. "I have another case."

I glance at the phone screen, specifically at my watch. It's eleven-thirty. I have to be at McDonald's in fifteen minutes.

The phone rings, the accountant and secretary answers, and gestures for me to sit down. I don't.

Finally, she ends the call, and I surreptitiously glance at the time. It's twenty-six to twelve. She begins to tell me about changes in sales, payment methods, and discount options. She's told me some of these things before, and she could tell me others tomorrow. I'll be here tomorrow too. I want to tell her I'm in a hurry, that I have to leave, but I don't say a word. It's nine minutes to midnight when she finishes explaining business matters to me and starts telling me about her daughter. At twelve, she's giving me a rundown of the morning's visit from a persistent client, and I just count the minutes I'm late and nod obediently.

They let me out at twelve-thirteen, and I'm rushing to McDonald's. No one's waiting for me there, so now I'm the one waiting.

Twenty-seven past.

Twenty-nine past.

I keep glancing at the time, and with each passing minute, the seconds seem to last longer.

Thirty-eight past.

Forty-two past.

I stand and wait. I look in all directions and pace around. I don't see anyone, so I stand and wait.

Forty-seven past.

Forty-eight past.

My girlfriend is coming. She's not alone; her friend is with her. When we greet each other, I don't even remember how long I had to wait. I'm too tired to complain now. I want to relax a bit with my girlfriend, but her friend's presence is distracting me too much. I can't concentrate; my mind has gone blank, and I can't find the words to join in their conversation. With nothing to say, I walk alongside them in silence, only smiling when asked about anything.

We find a place to sit and order a beer. We take seats at a large wooden table. They sit on one side, and I sit across from them, feeling like a morsel of food on a fork. I still don't say a word, just listening to what they have to say. They're talking about something I have no clue about, about some friend of mine, about some friend of mine. They're talking about people I don't know and situations I've never encountered. They're discussing cosmetics and a trip from two years ago. Their conversations didn't concern me. I was out of context.

"Why isn't your boyfriend saying anything?" my friend finally asked my girlfriend. Why had she asked her and not me? It was one of those questions directed at everyone.

And what was I supposed to tell her? That my mind was blank? That I didn't know what you were talking about? A stupid question.

"Say something," she nagged. "What am I supposed to say? What am I supposed to say?" My temple began to throb with nervousness, and I tried to look relaxed. I'm not very good at this. I suspect I must be looking like an idiot right now. I look down at the table and stare at it like it's a holy relic.

"He's more talkative when you get to know him better," my girlfriend explains, but I wish she wouldn't. I don't like it when someone speaks for me.

"Still water, huh?" How many times have I been compared to still water? Are these people so clichéd that they can't think of anything else? All I hear from them are these clichés. "Don't be ashamed," my girlfriend's friend clearly thought I was mentally challenged; that's how she spoke to me. "

I'll tell her to shut up now. No, I won't say anything to her; she's my girlfriend's friend. If I do anything, they'll both be offended. All I can do is smile.

It takes so much effort to just smile. My lips twitch reluctantly, twisting into that unwanted grimace. My girlfriend can see from my face, from this forced politeness, that I've had enough of this whole meeting. She quickly changes the subject to distract me, leaving me with a pounding headache.

After an hour that felt infinitely longer to me, we finally said goodbye to her obnoxious friend. We were left alone. Talking to her made me feel more and more relaxed, and the yellow autumn trees in the park, where we'd been strolling for a while, also had a soothing effect on me.

"Maybe we should go to Geant for a while?" she suggested when we'd circled the park for the third time, and the prospect of seeing the same places for the fourth time wasn't appealing.

I didn't want to go there. To that behemoth full of people. I work in a similar place, I have them every day, and today I'd rather avoid it. I wanted to be as far away from the crowds, the air-conditioned air, and the lights that sting my eyes.

"I don't want to go there because we'll run into my parents," I choked out as I remembered they were probably there shopping at this hour.

"So what if they were?" The ground beneath my feet suddenly felt unstable.

"I just don't want to run into them." I was sinking deeper and deeper, the swamp slowly sucking me into its depths. Instead of stilling and waiting for rescue, I kicked like a maniac and sank even faster.

"Are you ashamed of me?" Was that a question? No, it was an accusation. I don't even know where that idea came from.

"N..." I couldn't say anything more. I shook my head. The stinking swamp began to pour down my throat.

"You don't have to say anything more," she said calmly, but she was close to tears. And then she turned to walk away and leave me forever.

I can't leave this like this. After all, all of this can't end because of some stupid misunderstanding.

She's two meters away. I'll walk up to her, grab her arm, and won't let her go. I'll apologize until she forgives me.

She's already five meters away, I have to run after her. How could I be ashamed of you? I'll say, "I love you!

Another meter separated us. I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I really am! Don't go, please. We were made for each other!

She's leaving, she's already far away.

We were made for each other, have you forgotten?

She's leaving, she's already far away, and I'm still standing here, where she left me, without even taking a step toward her. I haven't uttered even the faintest whisper.

Depression overwhelms me. I feel guilty, but at the same time, I blame her for this hasty decision. I'm ashamed. I stand there for a moment longer, where she left me, before finally breaking the spell of immobility and heading back toward the house. I barely twitched, and I felt terribly heavy. My feet struggled to leave the ground, my hands hung limply, my head hung on my neck.

I closed my eyes for a moment. Images of the entire day flashed through my eyelids at a rapid pace. One after another, in random order, one moment everything was happening backward, the next they were all overlapping.

A red bus hurtles through the darkness of space, grumpy old women approaching from the opposite direction. I shoot them with stinking socks I can't find, and I fall in my white shirt into a deep puddle.

I open my eyes, breathing a sigh of relief. The headache is becoming persistent, about to become unbearable.

Barely a blink, and another crazy image flashes before my eyes. My boss is sitting on my head, I'm smiling foolishly at my girlfriend's friend, who's alternating between her and her accountant, begging me to say something, and my boss assures me I don't have to be ashamed. Then my girlfriend says she's ashamed of me, and I walk away. No, she walks away, and I scream after her that I hate her.

I hear it crack.

It crumbles.

A soft crack, like an ice floe breaking on the other side of the world. But the crack is much closer, coming from inside my head.

The thin shell of my skull falls away, exposing my swollen brain, exposing it to direct attack from the outside. More shells land on the ground, leaving me defenseless against the chick.

I have to get home quickly. I turn left, a throbbing pain rips through my skull from the inside, left again, and the bomb keeps ticking. Then left, left, and left again.

I get home and don't even think about what I'm doing. I automatically grab the phone and...

BEEK-BEEK-BEEK-BEEK-BEEK-BEEK-BEEK – I drive blunt nails into my exhausted brain. I hit it with a hammer, crushing it, grinding it into a shapeless paste.

Iiiii Iiii Iiii Iiii Iiii Iiii – a screech and a hum, like the din of a jammed street, the whine of impatient horns, all of it roaring and echoing in my head. It's the sobbing of a child at four in the morning, the endless wail of an out-of-tune trumpet, and the scraping of fingernails on a chalkboard.

I need rest.

I turn on my computer and launch the game.

A red fighter jet adorned with gold motifs flies through a galaxy adorned with millions of stars. Blue laser beams pierce enemy units, turning them into balls of fire and dust. No sooner have I dealt with the first wave than the second arrives. Their resistance is too strong; I can't resist them, and I have to retreat to a safe position. I flee to the lower left corner of the screen, where a suicide ship appears out of nowhere. It crashes into me, and we both die in a picturesque explosion.

The red fighter...