The room, which currently housed the common room, was practically stormed every morning; not a day went by without every table and mattress being occupied. And if it weren't for the fact that misbehavior was punishable by withholding afternoon tea and withdrawing the daily cigarette ration, there would certainly have been blows. The weather also contributed significantly to the relaxed atmosphere—the sleepy, short days were a perfect remedy for overexcitability. Every now and then, rays of the December sun would filter through the barred window, casting a bright streak across the pristine white wall. Light is the perfect antidote to sadness.
On the other side of the common room, where shadow fell and light penetrated only a few people, a few hid near the door, while two others sat nearby, under a table, scribbling on the floor with their fingers. A small group of passionate debaters had clinged to a mattress in the corner of the room, refusing to give up this precious space for anything in the world.
The mattress was the most prized possession in the entire common room, mainly because it could comfortably accommodate almost the entire day. A little lower on the list of desirable furnishings was the table. Four of the tables in the room were occupied by passionate board game enthusiasts. Worst of all, their presence was made unbearable by the constant arguing and the dice, which periodically clattered to the floor, making a terrible racket and provoking uncontrollable outbursts of anger and indignation among them. Two quite decent people stood with their backs to the wall, someone was looking out the window, and another was scratching the wall with a fingernail and rubbing the falling white powder with a slipper.
Soft, monotonous music came from a speaker mounted near the ceiling, but no one paid any attention; instead, everyone seemed absorbed in what they were doing, as if the world around them didn't exist.
A man sat leaning against a wooden panel just outside the entrance. He wrapped his arms around his long legs, drawn almost up to his neck, and swayed slightly from side to side. He had been in this position for at least an hour, staring blankly at the floor as if it were mapped out for the next decade. Suddenly, a red cube rolled toward him and blocked the path of his cold, blank gaze. Without taking his eyes off it, the man leaned against the wall and, sliding back and forth, slowly rose. Once on his feet, he began to look around, feeling a twinge of confusion. He didn't know what to do with his hands, and he seemed to decide the best course of action was to put them in his pocket, because he did so immediately. The cube was just beneath his feet. To his horror, he saw that it was almost touching his shoe. He pulled away with extraordinary force, only to freeze motionless a moment later, like a marble statue concealed beneath human skin to conceal its presence. It looked quite ridiculous, as if he'd stumbled upon a large, invisible pane of glass. He tried to break the awkward stillness, steeling himself, putting one foot forward, only to withdraw it a moment later, feigning embarrassment again, which was perhaps the best excuse he could muster. Unable to control his body, he sank into a forced reverie and stared out the window. After a short moment, as if roused from lethargy, he took a decisive step forward and approached the table in the center of the room, where a man with a day's stubble, dressed in a white uniform, sat. His hair was combed back, revealing a slight receding hairline and giving him a sort of seriousness, but it wasn't seriousness in the literal sense, but rather a certain experience that was easily deciphered from his unusual physiognomy. He had the eyes of a madman, a deep and somewhat arrogant gaze, like a neighborhood gangster.
"Is it possible?
" "Is it possible, I am." "The madman replied in a pleasant, decisive voice. "
I've been here a week and I don't know anyone yet. You're the first one out of this whole bunch of slobs I've ever spoken to.
" "That's good, because you're also the first one I've had the pleasure of meeting—they brought me here today and I haven't exchanged a single word with anyone yet, but I don't intend to stay here another day, I'm leaving tonight. I'm not going to sit among these lunatics and watch them beat some stupid Chinese. By the way, I'm Hazard." He extended his hand. "
Stefan Czadzki," the man introduced himself.
"And how long do you plan to stay here? Because if I'm leaving today, come with me." Hazard continued smugly. "Nothing good awaits you here. But, but, I didn't ask you the most important thing—how did you end up here? Were you lying in the streets, running naked through the city, peeing on cars, or maybe hitting on some chicks? What?"
"No, I came here from the hospital with symptoms of obsessive-compulsive disorder. I'll only stay for a few days for observation – supposedly – but I don't see the conditions here for me… on the other hand, if it's going to help me…" Czadzki added, "then I'm willing to stay here for a whole year.
" "I don't see the conditions here for anything at all. Man, I know what I'm saying, we have to get the hell out of here, I'm leaving today. Come with me, you won't regret it, my friends will come for me – people I trust. We'll leave here in style, man, through the basement…
" "But I'll be out of here in the next few days… that's what they told me." "
In the next few days? See those guys by the wall, they were supposed to stay for a few days too? And now? Look who they are now, they've clung to the wall like fucking beetles, man – look at the fucking beetles. First a few days, then a few weeks, then a few years, until you die here like some kind of worm."
"What, they said that if I wanted to leave, all I had to do was ask a family member," Czadzki pointed out. "
Dude, they tell everyone that, and then they leave you, for five, ten, twenty years, sometimes forever, until they finally forget you're even here. They'll feed you, clothe you, even bathe you, as they see fit. But don't forget the main rule – the shorter they keep you here, the better for them. Most of those people here are freaks, useless trash. People who disturb the house because they drool while eating or pee at night and need diaper changes. They're just here to die. And how do you know… maybe you're one of them too.
" "That's impossible, anytime… one phone call and I'll be back home," Czadzki protested. "
Dude, listen, it's like I said. I can prove it to you easily. For example, see that grandpa sitting against the wall? Apparently he's been here for fifteen years, completely healthy. Why are they keeping him? His daughter or son probably decided he wasn't suitable for the house because he was disrupting the harmony. No one's been to see him since then, they brought him in and completely forgot about him. They're just throwing money at his upkeep and probably don't know if they're paying for electricity, gas, or Grandpa's.
"Is he completely healthy?
" "Completely healthy, man," Hazard added seriously. "Fucking chair! I hate these chairs, they're all broken, rocking from side to side, you can't lean back, straighten up, or...
" "Mine's good," Czadzki snapped. "
Wait a few days, and you'll understand it's not good."
"Not good?" he asked ironically. "How can you know my chair is not good?"
"Look at these people, do you see anything unnatural?"
"Unnatural, I see—people in their forties, enjoying themselves like children over a board game." – Czadzki replied, disgusted.
- Do you see any of the people sitting in the chair leaning against it?
The man looked around the room carefully, his eyes scanning every chair, and surprisingly, no one was leaning on the backrest.
"Well... no, something's definitely wrong. But why isn't anyone resisting?"
"Because after a while it causes immense pain, you wake up at night, and your whole body is shot through with an electric current. During the day, you balance unconsciously to stay afloat on this damned thing, and at night, you're paralyzed by such a piercing cramp that you can't even scream.
" "If you've only been here a few hours, how do you know so much about this place?" Czadzki asked, surprised.
"Because I'm a smart old man; it takes me a few hours to figure out what others struggle with for weeks. And that's why I know we have to get out of here today." "
A few hours," Czadzki mused. "So you've been here since morning?"
"Yes, since morning."
"And you're probably here by accident?"
"Well, not exactly old man." "Hazard replied seriously. "I was surprised myself to find myself in a place like this. I thought they'd take me to the dumps and let me out sometime in the morning, or at most, I'd end up in a sobering-up ward. But here I am, sitting in a psychiatric hospital in some white coat, looking at me like I'm truly crazy. Look at me, do I look like the rest of this riffraff? No—I think it's obvious at first glance, and certainly at second glance. Well, look at that," Hazard said, getting flustered. "I haven't
been here very long, but… I don't think so."
"So you see, they're keeping me here for no reason, and I have no intention of vegetating like a plant," Hazard added a little more quietly. "But the funniest thing, man, is how I got here."
Hazard eyed each patient as if to make sure no one was listening. He wore a truly serious expression, like an interrogator at an interrogation, but none of them seemed interested in Hazard; in fact, everyone seemed to shun him. Oddly enough, they seemed excessively absorbed in what they were doing. The board game players were constantly arguing passionately, snatching the dice from each other's hands and taking turns rolling them, constantly knocking down pieces, and each time they had to start the same game over again, naively thinking they'd survive to the end in harmony—which, of course, bordered on the miraculous. It seemed the only pleasure they derived from this was the constant bickering. They could linger for hours, completely forgetting that such activities as eating or relieving themselves existed. On the other side, opposite the windows, a silent battle for leadership raged. Three mattresses had been besieged since early morning by quick and cunning patients. Those who entered the room first were expected to make a point of honor of securing the best seats, then keeping them for themselves and refusing to give them up for anything in the world, treating their possession as if it were a matter of life and death. Right next to them, two men clung to the wall. They remained motionless for several minutes when suddenly two others appeared and began poking their calves. The others, terrified, detached themselves from the wooden upholstery and huddled in a corner of the room. The three rebels knocked insistently on the door and took turns shouting "with the president," having a good laugh.
When Hazard was sure no one was listening, he looked serious again, then smiled ironically and continued.
"Sometimes I went to a not-so-famous dive. I visited it two, sometimes three times a week." Yesterday, however, I had no desire to leave my warm apartment, much less venture into this hellhole where the walls smelled of cigarette smoke.
I looked out the window. The thermometer read one degree, quite bearable for December. What's more, the air streaming in through the window was somehow fresh and inviting. Contrary to my first impressions, I decided that a twenty-minute walk would prove to be a good prospect. I grabbed my jacket and scarf, and in a moment I was downstairs.
And as I walked along the alley, staring into the streetlight, I thought I might as well pop into a bar after all, since I had nothing better to do anyway. I was sure to find a friend to share a drink with. I left the house at seven, and no one I knew arrived at the pub before nine, so I had plenty of time to admire the December air. I was glad to finally smell that longed-for scent and be free from the dry stench that permeated the entire apartment. I worked mostly from home, but lately I'd had a strange reluctance to go outside; I was getting tired of having to sit there, and on the other hand, I couldn't bring myself to even go to the store for some bread rolls. As a result, I ate dry bread for almost four days. It ended with my tooth cracking, so badly that it wouldn't come off and was stuck, probably out of spite, by the gum itself. I was furious; the mere thought of going to the dentist made me cringe. I hate going to the dentist. I don't brush my teeth with an expensive toothbrush and toothpaste with trace elements to spend hours at the dentist's, and here comes this lout, snapping in half as if nothing had happened. Fortunately, after some effort, I managed to get him extracted; my baby teeth were coming out much better.
I'm naturally scatterbrained, and work that could have been done in four hours took me a whole eight lousy hours. I hated it when I wasted time due to constant distractions and pointless wandering. It was the same with making appointments, though not entirely, because even though I left the apartment either early or late, I was always on time everywhere. However, I also sometimes confused appointment times out of absentmindedness, and while I was tolerant of myself back then, it was incredibly irritating when someone was even a minute late. I hate it almost as much as… this place.
As I walked slowly toward the pub, I felt an irresistible urge to sit on a bench and have a beer—it tastes completely different outdoors, infinitely better than in a smoky, dark room. I went to a nearby grocery store and bought one. I decided I didn't feel like finding a bench, so I sat down on the curb and opened the bottle with my key. It tasted incomparably better.
The street where the shop was located was empty, completely covered in dirty mud, with white steam rising from the canal – the only dynamic phenomenon within a hundred meters. A cold wind had started blowing, it had instantly cooled down, and the curb was also giving me a good kick, but I continued to sit there, slowly sipping my beer. But finally, something moved me, and I don't remember exactly why, so I went to that stinking pub. It's hard to explain why I went there – there were so many others. Before, I'd often been in that dump every day. Maybe I went there because I longed for some kind of relapse, something I'd never experienced in some significant way, and which I'd always missed? I was drawn to people who did what they wanted, when they wanted. And that was where you'd mostly meet those kinds of people. You couldn't just walk in here; in a sense, it was an elite group, but that didn't mean it was hard to meet exemplary fathers and husbands who wanted to relieve the day's stress by sipping a cold beer and admiring the alluring strippers. I walked in, and the smell of tobacco smoke was everywhere. As soon as I crossed the threshold, it immediately filled my lungs, so much so that after a moment I felt my balance failing, but I leaned against the wall and waited out the critical moment. I slowly descended the stairs and sat at the bar. A sweet, brown-eyed bartender poured me a mug of cold, golden beer, mixed with water. Pleasant music drifted from the speakers, perhaps a bit sad, but truly to the point. I propped myself up on my hands and stared dispassionately at the naked bodies writhing around the steel pipes. Their dance captivated me, but not because the women's exposed buttocks and breasts aroused me—I'd grown accustomed to the sight. Something else was captivating—the constantly repetitive movements created a state comparable to hypnosis. I watched them like a tamed male, slowly falling into a strange state of indifference, growing drowsy, with each passing second my eyelids tightening over my eyes, and I felt myself drifting away. I completely forgot I was sitting in a bar; it was pleasant and strangely sweet.
Suddenly, someone or something knocked me off my chair, and I found myself half-conscious on the floor, completely unsure if I was dreaming or the very real thing. I tried to get up, but it probably wasn't the best idea, because as soon as I moved, I got hit in the face with a shoe. Worse, I hit my head on the ground as I fell. But I felt no pain, and I didn't even bleed.
I only knew one thing: someone had decided to hit me hard, so I had to defend myself. But above all, I had to get up somehow, because I didn't stand a chance lying down. I braced myself with my hands and was almost on all fours when I was hit over the head with a bottle, shards of green glass scattering across the floor. I fell again, though I was already halfway there, and in just a moment I could have been on my feet. The bottle was probably a bit of an exaggeration, though, and hitting someone while they were down was a bit rude. I decided to remain still for a moment to take in the situation that had hit me like a bolt from the blue. I looked up and saw some smart-ass guy holding his hands up in victory and laughing loudly. I could hear voices saying: "You're a good boy," "You took out the pawn," "Shot him in the face, let him remember who gave it to him." Higher up the stairs, I saw a group of men shouting excitedly. The torturer glanced at me, but didn't notice I was conscious. He must have thought he'd already done me in, because he confidently turned toward the stupid oafs upstairs, who were still boasting to him.
I don't know why, but no one around me moved to help me, but it was proof that I had no one to rely on except myself, and at least I didn't have to give anyone beggarly glances, because it would have been useless anyway.
As the man looked in their direction, I jumped up with all my strength and charged at him with all the fury I'd managed to muster during the brief moment he'd tormented me. We tumbled to the ground, and then I heard the crack of bone breaking. Worse still, my vision was completely dark. I could hear what was happening, but I couldn't see anything. I was afraid I'd be left like this forever. Fortunately, after a moment, the daze began to give way to blurred outlines, finally giving everything its original shape and form.
Then I stood up and raised both hands to check if one of my bones had made a dull crunching sound, like a dry branch snapping, but no—everything was relatively in order. The man tried to stand up. The men above watched us, curious to see what would happen next, their treacherous gazes straining in concentration.
Soft, still not very cheerful, melancholic music drifted from the speakers. And I'm sure if the whole place were on fire, I would have heard it anyway; I always hear music.
He tried to stand up, but he couldn't manage – his left arm was unnaturally bent down below the elbow. I didn't want to fight; he had no chance, after all. I wanted to leave, and the moment I decided to end this whole spectacle, he kicked me viciously in the stomach. The blow was so powerful that I fell to the ground. It was too much humiliation for one evening – I lost all sense of mercy and lunged at him, punching him in the face, and I was getting more and more satisfaction from it. I split his lip, and blood gushed from above his eye. He tried to push me away, but his left arm limply tilted as he tried to lift it, and his right was completely helpless. Those upstairs watched, curious to see what would happen next, and they were having a good laugh. Still, not a single person in the room tried to separate us. I punched him with all my strength, but I was already at the end of my tether. Another moment and I wouldn't have been able to get up at all. I thought he'd lost consciousness, but suddenly his body arched in a final act of desperation, he threw me off him, and I fell onto the shattered glass.
One of the pieces scattered on the floor had embedded itself in my hand. I couldn't find it, and while I didn't feel the pain when I received repeated blows to the face, this one pierced me to the bone. I was always afraid of what I couldn't see. I began rubbing my hand against the dark plastered column, hoping the shard of glass would fall out on its own, but the pain persisted. I looked at my tormentor; he lay on the ground, gasping for breath. The men upstairs were calling somewhere on the phone and staring at me with terror in their eyes. But I didn't care; I felt a pang of panic that I would never get the glass out of my body again and that it would remain there forever, until I died. I ran to the bar and shouted for the knife, but the bartender stood before me, paralyzed, about to flee to the back. Instinctively, I grabbed a bottle of vodka from the counter and smashed it against the cash register. Then I shoved a tulip under his throat and screamed even louder that he wanted the damn knife. He handed it to me with shaking hands. I grabbed the handle. I wanted to pull the glass out, but I couldn't find the source of the pain. I thought about pouring some alcohol on my hand, hoping it would sting where the shard had embedded itself. I yelled at the bartender to bring the bottle and pour it over my skin from my elbow down. Before I knew it, he was tipping some whiskey over my hand. The alcohol flowed down my skin, leaving a cold sensation. I felt an intense burn halfway between my wrist and thumb. But I still couldn't see the glass. I grabbed the knife and cut into the stinging spot. Blood gushed. This didn't deter me at all. I stubbornly tried to reach the shard, but all my attempts were futile. The blood flowed in an ever-increasing stream, the wound was probably a third of my thumb's width, and I couldn't find the tiny, shiny fragment, hundreds of which glistened on the floor.
Suddenly, a terrible thought occurred to me. I'd completely forgotten that the knife could have hundreds of bacteria, viruses, and other such things on it. Panic gripped me; I could have been inflicting some cruel disease, maybe even an infection. I had absolutely no idea what had happened to that damn knife before, but at the end of the tunnel, a light flashed—sanitize, disinfect everything as quickly as possible! I shouted at the bartender to pour another glass over my hand. If only I'd known it would cause me such immense pain this time, a thousand, what am I saying—I would have reconsidered this painful request a million times. The bartender lifted the bottle with trembling fingers and poured a generous amount. My entire arm, all the way up to my neck, was paralyzed with excruciating pain. I felt as if I were on fire, as if it wasn't alcohol but hot tar seeping into my veins and flowing all the way to my heart. I screamed loudly and cursed the bartender, who, after a few more screams, fled to the back.
My arm around the wound turned blue and red, and the terrible burning still refused to subside. I put my hand between my legs and squeezed my thighs tightly, hoping for at least some relief. I screamed and, unable to stand, collapsed to the ground. No one came to help me; everyone watched me thrash around the floor like someone possessed. I searched the place with pleading eyes for someone to take pity on me. I quickly surveyed almost every customer, but no one could approach me; I encountered only timid and uncertain glances. The men upstairs kept calling and talking tensely, but I didn't care. I closed my eyes; the pain slowly subsided, but I was afraid to lift my eyelids. I lay there motionless, defenseless as a child. I couldn't do anything; I was too weak; any movement felt supernatural, unattainable. I felt only fear, pain, and dread.
Suddenly, I heard someone open the door so quickly that it banged against the wall. Several men in red jumpsuits entered the premises, ran up to me, and began dressing my arm. I only remember one of them talking to those upstairs and a brief moment as they loaded me onto a stretcher into a hospital van.
I woke up in the morning on a creaking bed, it was still completely dark.
I was terrified – I couldn't move my arms. I thought I was paralyzed, but I could feel my hands and the blood pulsing in them, so they must have put something on me, some cloth or something, and tied it to my shirt at the back. Finally, I realized they'd put me in a straightjacket. Me – a sane man whose only crime was that someone tried to beat him up and he was simply defending himself. How could such a mistake be made? But it's not a mistake, it's definitely not a mistake. They targeted me, followed me, and waited for the opportunity to arise, and now it has, and here I am, in this hellhole.
The very smell of this place makes me nauseous, not to mention the stinking food and all the filth, from the board games to the forced sleep.
"And they took you here straight off the street?"
"Not exactly, they took me because they wanted to.
" "Nobody does that these days!"
"They do it even more than before, only nobody talks about it," Hazard confessed. "I know one thing: I won't be here tonight. If you want to spend the rest of your life here and play Chinese checkers, then stay—I'm leaving.
" "I'll go with you," Czadzki replied. "I'd rather that than—"
"Maybe you need some proof?" Hazard interrupted, slowly slipping his hand out from under his green shirt.
"No, I believe it, I'm going with you," Czadzki added firmly.
While they were talking, two doctors entered the room – one tall and slim, with pleasant features and close-cropped hair, the other older, a head shorter, somewhat stocky, but equally pleasant-looking. He had dark hair, already slightly gray, and a pair of carelessly placed, yet tastefully styled, silver-rimmed glasses hung on his nose. The arrival of the visitors aroused general curiosity; the patients stopped what they were doing and stared at the familiar duty officer and the unfamiliar face of the visiting physician. The men stood by the door and discussed for a moment, then approached the nearest patient, who was sitting on a mattress. The duty officer introduced him and then asked a question. The other, shy at first, dismissed everything with silence, but eventually broke down and, surprisingly, answered every question with an enthusiasm that bordered on excitement. Every now and then, the bespectacled doctor took quick notes. Then they approached the next patient, and the younger doctor could be heard introducing him, followed by three more. When they finished with the others, they began interviewing Czadzki.
"This is Mr. Stefan Czadzki. He was referred to us less than a week ago with symptoms of worsening anxiety disorder, but his condition is now much better, and we plan to release him home within the next two weeks. The treatment results bode well for the future, and he will likely be able to avoid heavy medication," the officer on duty informed.
"How are you feeling, Mr. Czadzki?" the bespectacled doctor asked.
"Much better now, I don't think I need to stay here any longer," Czadzki replied.
"Unfortunately, Mr. Czadzki, you have to stay; those are the rules, even if only for preventative reasons."
Czadzki wanted to add something else, but the officer on duty began talking to Hazard.
"And this is Mr. Hazard, Mr. Hazard has been with us for ten years," the duty officer lowered his voice slightly, "with symptoms of permanent schizophrenia." Now he began normally. "We secretly hope that his condition will begin to improve thanks to the new psychotherapeutic method and experimental medications, which are producing astonishing results in the West. "
He cast a gentle glance in Hazard's direction and added, "
Isn't that right, Mr. Hazard?"
"Mr. Hazard, is there anything you would like to change about the daycare center? Maybe different games or more comfortable chairs? Go ahead, Mr. Hazard," the visitor asked with genuine enthusiasm.
Hazard said nothing, giving the impression of not noticing or hearing anything around him. He folded his arms in protest, bowed his head slightly, and stared at the floor. His hands were pale, untainted by work, almost feminine, and there was not even the slightest scratch on his left hand.
The doctors interviewed the remaining patients, then left, closing the door gently. More arguments, discussions, shouting, and general uproar erupted.
Hazard grabbed his left index finger with his right hand and slowly turned his head to the right, his expression taking on a serious expression. He stared at the wall, his eyes gleaming and sad, his pupils unnaturally wide, as if the light couldn't reach them. He sat impassively and resigned, as if nothing could move him anymore, as if he'd frozen and gone silent forever. His gaze reached far, to where no one could stop him, where there were no walls or people, but where dusk fell at dawn, and the sun, unable to rise in the sky, vanished in the moonlight.
Brak komentarzy:
Prześlij komentarz