Red

The last image this man saw was red. In that same moment, like one great, ultra-fast series of slides, he saw his entire life. Time truly was relative, and he was living proof of that. He saw himself at a child's party. Every seat at the table was occupied. The adults were imbibing alcohol, the children carbonated caffeine. In the place of honor, on a white tablecloth, was a cake with a chocolate inscription on the white surface of the cream: Piotrek, and around the inscription, as if in some mystical circle, were five candles. They were probably waiting for the birthday boy's blow, much more nervous than the guests, because it was they who were burning, not the men and women who had risen to their feet waiting for that single moment. They waited with rapt attention for a well-directed gust of air to extinguish the suffering, howling birthday candles. He froze too, not because he was concerned about the pieces of plastic embedded in the cake, but because he realized that this little boy was none other than himself from his childhood. Immensely shaken by this new discovery, he struggled and twisted with all his might, just to escape the clutches that had brought him here and get as far away from here as possible. All because he knew exactly who was missing at the table and... he didn't want to relive the same movie. Not wanting to watch what was about to happen, he turned his head and already thought he had conquered his past, because he hadn't heard anything until now. Not even the slightest shuffle, the scratching of a mouse in the wall... He was deaf, but instead of despair, he rejoiced.

But something, or someone, he called the past wouldn't give up so easily, and it seemed as if someone had suddenly turned on the sound. A searing pain lodged itself somewhere in his eardrums, as all the sounds and voices were unnaturally loud. For a moment, he thought he was inside the television, someone fiddling with the remote. Dazed by the strange pain, he stopped thinking about what was about to happen... For that single moment, he wanted only one thing: for it all to disappear, even at the cost of his death. He felt terrible, as if some small creature, using an invasive method, was trying to get into his head, choosing the way in through his ears. Only when he heard curses echoing in the air, uttered by a voice he couldn't help but recognize. In that single moment, he understood that the past was returning so he could sort out the issues he had left unresolved. All so that it could connect with the future, so he could leave this world. He had no doubt that if he returned, a cruel death awaited him. Whether it was his subconscious or something else—it didn't matter. The important thing is that he knew. He heard the crash of smashing plates, the dull thud of a chair, animalistic screams. He realized it was too late, that he had failed his mother again, and he felt terrible about it. He heard his own scream, still unmodulated, and with it a piercing cry. Now he knew he had been right. All the memories came flooding back in terrifying detail, anticipating the time he was in now. There was no point hiding in the shadows when he was already seeing everything in his mind's eye. Although one could argue with that statement, because, for imagination, it was all too realistic. Besides, he couldn't allow himself to be left hanging somewhere in the past forever, forever and ever. This was his only chance, and he was fully aware of it, so this time he decided to fight for the truth like never before in his life. No one else was sitting at the table. An unbearable silence filled the air, and hundreds of small and large shards of glass littered the floor. The overturned chairs, the ruined cake, and the food on the floor only completed the picture of devastation. And towering above it all was he, his father. A figure from his life who no longer existed, shot by some bum with whom his father had spent all his money. But these were no hallucinations or delusions; he was here, standing still, probably wondering how to get rid of it all. Lying on the floor, covered in red, was the main victim of this gruesome murder. It was his mother, whose blonde hair was now unevenly dyed red. The dye obscured her beautiful face, which, after all she had just experienced, looked like a horribly disfigured mask.

He knew all these guys would never dare betray his father for one reason: they were too weak. Finally, he saw himself kneeling on the glass, embracing his mother's corpse. If I remember correctly, I'd always done that, and now I wanted the same, for her to protect me. My father grabbed my little hands and, with a brutal yank, pulled me to my feet. He told me to get out of here, and I did. I left, leaving behind me the gradually fading sound of a child's cry, who, though he didn't understand, knew he'd lost the most precious person in his life. This old, gray-haired, wrinkled man with a forbidden face lifted my mother's body and slung it over his back, as if carrying a rag doll, not a fat woman.

Now a secret burial was about to take place in the backyard. Such a cliché, and yet it still worked... No! I accelerated with all my might, intending to throw myself at my father... when I saw the color red. The screech of tires, and then nothing. All that was left was a terrible emptiness and the knowledge that I had lost again.

Was it fate? Everyone asked each other, but no one could answer the question definitively. Yet they knew exactly what they had seen. The car was already stopping, about to swerve, when this young man jumped right in front of it...

Was it fate? I don't know either, I only know what I wrote, and the worst part is, I don't know why I wrote it...

It was supposed to be a fairy tale, so there must be a moral, but here I am also helpless. Maybe someday it will all come back, and I will be able to draw sensible conclusions from it.