Aga II

She first emerged from the attic when she was two years old. Her tiny legs took awkward, unsteady steps. Tiny, yet so vast, so far away. The world seemed vast. Without limits. And it was beautiful. To feel freedom. Without limits. From then on, her favorite pastime was wandering around the large tenement house. She enjoyed watching her mother hug one of her six children, or the old man look through photos. She meticulously explored the basements, hallways, abandoned rooms with broken windows; what she saw became her own little private world—with broken windows. Her mother ignored her. She left food on the table, small portions, because food was expensive, after all... Not for everyone. Not everyone can count. Not everyone can live. Not our business... Not our decision... Not our problem.

When Aga turned five, she learned to walk out into the street in front of the house without fear. The tenement house where she lived with her mother was located on the outskirts of the city – this area attracted all the dregs and shady characters – and it was in this environment that Aga grew up. Her own backyard quickly became unsatisfactory. Even before she was seven, she had explored every nook and cranny of her "ugly" neighborhood. Ugly. People who considered themselves "well-to-do" didn't come here. Because here was the truth. The whole truth about society, about other people. Because only here could one catch a glance containing a silent plea, and such glances were not pleasant. They didn't belong. An ugly neighborhood revealing the whole truth. Let's live a lie. It's beautiful.

She knew every corner, every stone, every drunk, every drug addict who appeared in this neighborhood. They weren't surprised to see a little girl walking alone through such alleys. In this world, you can't be surprised by anything. These are the conditions. And we have to obey them. A silent law. Whoever breaks the rules is out. Out of the game called "life." A small loss. For us. And for him? Never mind. It was gone. Now she didn't care about others. They often spoke to her. She wouldn't let anyone call her anything but Aga; it was her name, the only thing she owned. And it sounded tough and strong. Exactly how she wanted to be. Soon, everyone understood that the little brown-eyed, black-haired girl wasn't someone worth starting with. At first, they were amused that such a young child would try to assert authority, but they soon accepted it. In this neighborhood, nothing was to be surprised. Anything could happen here. So, at first, as a joke, and then out of habit, they took Aga seriously. If she got angry with someone, the girl would bite, kick, and scream at the top of her lungs. She learned that to survive, you had to be able to defend yourself; the weakest were always eliminated. She remembered this, so she always tried to be as strong as possible, often choking on tears of pain, biting her lip until it bled. Just to persevere. Just so no one would see your tears. Because tears are a sign of weakness. They have no place in today's world. At the age of just seven, she had established herself as a figure of authority among everyone who mattered in that turbulent neighborhood. She was happy, unsupervised, running from dawn to dusk, simply free—still so. Freedom without supervision, the most unpleasant freedom, because it involved a lack of attention, a lack of love. You can get used to that too. You can get used to anything. No matter how much it hurts...

The end of Aga's freedom came the moment she had to go to school. From the very first day, she felt a dislike for the building, which had become a thief of her freedom. She disliked having to sit at a desk, not being listened to, and the children laughing at her clothes and appearance. She didn't have new designer clothes, but she dressed uniquely. She always wanted to stand out and stand out, and she emphasized this with her clothes. She reached for her mother's old clothes, for what she found in the attic's chests, and sometimes borrowed something from the mother of six children downstairs. Because she couldn't stand the ridicule, she became aggressive, trying to establish authority at school, the same as she had in her neighborhood, by beating, kicking, and scratching. She wanted someone to smile at her. To look at her without irony. To stop mocking her. To offer her a hand. None of these things. Children from good homes are better. Better than anyone without money. And they kill. They kill every day with mockery, ridicule, and ridicule. But they are innocent. Because they matter.

Her mother was never home, she showed no interest in her daughter's fate, calls to school went unanswered, and Aga always managed to come up with a convincing story about her mother being sick or busy. She quickly learned how useful a lie can be – one told with innocence in her eyes. A lie that allows for moments of happiness, a false happiness. Such lying is just a matter of practice. Anyone can do it. It helps. It helps like hell in getting caught in your own traps, set by your own lies.