Düsseldorf is quite a large city. Beautiful, colorful buildings, a population of several thousand. The weather is excellent year-round. Tourists come here to see Germany's beautiful, rich monuments. They're all so damn perfect that the people living in Düsseldorf slowly fall into a routine and start to simply regurgitate them.
Just like Sven. They'd rather tell off those pushy tourists; let them get lost anywhere, as long as they're away from him. They just litter and make a mess. Although Sven doesn't care about that at all.
But at least in Düsseldorf, no one talks down to people like they do in small towns. The old ladies whose only occupation all year round is gossiping recently got new municipal apartments somewhere on the outskirts. They've moved out of this neighborhood. And there are no more silly gossip and comments. Everything is fine.
"Very good," Sven thinks to himself.
He sits at the table in his small kitchen, observing life outside the window. The kitchen is small, but well-lit. Now, at noon, the sun reflects off a pile of unwashed dishes that have been sitting in the sink for days. The hands of the clock hanging above the old, brown gas stove are ticking lazily toward two o'clock. The walls were once white, but layers of dust collected over the years have turned them a dirty gray. There are rags, or maybe clothes, scattered across the floor; it's hard to tell them apart.
Sven taps his fingers on the tabletop. As always at this time, he's hit with that strange feeling. He looks at the painting outside the window and frowns every now and then.
He lives on the first floor and has a view of the entire backyard. He's never really called it a backyard. It's just a makeshift place. A bare patch of ground, scattered with grass here and there. And a sandbox of some sort. For as long as he can remember, dogs have peed there, sometimes even cats.
Now a few pigeons are trotting around the yard. They're pecking at something on the ground, but Sven has no idea what it is, because no one throws any crumbs or old rolls there. "It's probably just some junk," he thinks to himself.
But that's just a facade. Sven knows what the pigeons are really up to. They're circling the yard, pecking, but they're not really focused on their pecking. They have these strange eyes. You can't tell which way they're looking. Sven knows.
They're watching him.
He discovered this a few weeks ago. He'd just gotten home from work and walked quickly into the apartment, quickly as always, because someone could be following him. He slammed the door behind him hastily. Then he went into the kitchen, and they were there. There, outside the window. It suddenly struck him that wherever he went, they were there. Everywhere. When he went to the bathroom, they suddenly disappeared from the yard, something he'd checked many times. And when he came back, they reappeared. And then they followed him everywhere, watching his every move. Everyone.
[This is surveillance!]
But Sven's used to it by now. Now he's sitting at the table, glaring at the pigeons. He's never met more rebellious creatures. Except for a few people.
Sven looks at the portrait of a girl on one of the dressers. The photo is black and white, framed in an ugly turquoise frame. There are a few stains on it, perhaps from coffee. The girl has long, auburn hair that flows down past her shoulders, and she's wearing a tight black top. She's staring strangely ahead. Sven thought it was an odd look; she always looked like that. As if resentfully. Or maybe with fear.
It's Ana, Sven's ex-girlfriend. He doesn't like looking at her; he doesn't really know why he put the photo there. They lived together for a few months, and then Ana suddenly decided Sven was crazy and left, somewhere in Denmark, or maybe even further. What difference does it make? And who cares where she is anyway?
"A crazy schizophrenic," Sven thinks to himself, heading to the sink for a glass of water. He turns on the tap.
A few people have already tried to convince him he's crazy. Idiots, they wanted to refer him to treatment. Psychiatrist, that's good. White straitjackets. He'll never wear white straitjackets! He's not crazy, Ana is crazy, a damn crazy woman.
Sven sits down at the table with a glass of water. He's thirsty; he always drinks a lot in the summer. He's terribly hot. He turns around and sees pigeons perched on the outside windowsill. Their little black eyes bore into his.
[watching you]
"Fuck off!" He stands up and pounds the dirty glass. Then he sits back down and clutches his head. He's had enough of this constant surveillance. The secret surveillance. The bird surveillance.
He sighs deeply and rests his head on the table. He hates sitting at home, rotting. He feels like a complete mess then. And that strange feeling oppresses him. Sven wants to go out into the street and smash anyone he doesn't like.
He gets up again, puts the glass back in the sink, and heads for his "living room." He sits down on the old, ugly, dark green striped sofa and looks around. There are lots of windows here too, like the rest of the house. So many, in fact, that Sven sometimes feels like bricking them all up. But he won't buy any disgusting curtains.
These windows are like telescreens, like damned cameras. Maybe it's because of them that strange feeling. Maybe he should brick them up after all.
Sven lies down and closes his eyes. That feeling still haunts him. It gives him no peace. Sven thinks he won't move now. Because there, outside the windows, there are pigeons everywhere.
It's obvious what they're doing.
They're watching him.
Sven walks slowly down one of Düsseldorf's long streets. It's still warm, but the sun is slowly sinking into the west. Long shadows cast across the sidewalks. Summer is in the air.
People are starting to come out, meet up with friends. They're having fun.
Sven has no friends. Ever since Ana left him (actually, he left her) and his parents died, he's had absolutely no friends at all. His "colleagues" at work think he's crazy. He thinks they're idiots. So I guess it's clear.
Friends are worthless, Sven thinks, turning onto one of the side streets leading towards the old town. He used to have a friend, a dog, actually. His name was Angus. He had this soft, brown fur. And he always jumped happily at Sven when he came home from school. He had a lot of toys. Then one day, on his daily walk, he got hit hard by a German shepherd who decided to fight him. And he died.
After that, Sven had no friends left.
People around him are laughing. Something's terribly funny, even eerie. Sven looks at their open mouths. It's disgusting.
A couple walks past him, giggling. It's a skinny, tall guy with a crew cut and a short girl with long, auburn hair. But what are they laughing at? What could be so funny? "It's probably me," Sven thinks, remembering the pigeons. They're probably not the only ones staring at him. People are into it too. Everyone. Everyone's staring at him!
[Oh yes, they're staring at you!]
"What are you staring at?!" Sven suddenly exclaims. The couple passing by stops laughing and looks at him strangely. With contempt! With fear! Disdain! Sven knows that look. And the short girl reminds him a bit of Ana. She smiles in that same way, a terrible way.
"Damn crazy!" Sven shouts, waving his arms, then passes the couple and continues on, toward St. Lambert's Church. He feels the curious gazes of the crowd on him. Everyone is staring at him. As if he were some kind of lunatic.
He's not a lunatic! He's not a damned, crazy lunatic! No one's going to lock him up in a madhouse! He's not a lunatic! He's not a damned, crazy lunatic!
The people around him are making a mess, their numerous whispers turning into formless gibberish, the words indistinguishable.
But Sven hears.
"Lunatic," they say.
"Lunatic," they whisper.
"Psycho," they laugh. "
I'm not a lunatic," Sven insists. He quickens his pace, wanting to shield himself from everyone's prying eyes. Suddenly, he feels incredibly hot, even though the sun is practically on the horizon. He disappears.
"I should disappear too," Sven thinks to himself, standing in front of a large, yellow Gothic church. He looks around, and besides the people staring at him, he also sees pigeons walking around the square, pecking at debris from the sidewalk. They seem to be walking around the square at random.
Bullshit.
Sven knows this is a special formation. A pigeon surveillance formation, a path they follow to track him. Someone has mapped out the mountains for them. And they have a secret code for tapping the pavement. Sven hasn't figured out how it works yet, but he intends to do so in the near future.
He turns and, completely ignoring the prying eyes of people, heads toward his house.
Sven is sitting by the window again in his small kitchen. A table is littered with papers, a few pencils, pens, and a mug of coffee filled with hot water from the tap. The only sound in the entire room is the steady ticking of the clock. And a quiet tapping. Sven stares at the white paper lying crookedly in front of him.
He wants to write a poem.
He doesn't know what it's about yet, but an idea is forming in his head. He looks at the pigeons, strolling peacefully through the yard. He remembers Ana. And all the injustices he's experienced in his life.
For a moment, he sits upright, inhaling the steam of the hot coffee. Then he bends down and scribbles a short word at the top of the page with a pen:
PACT.
He folds his hands and looks at the wall beside him. He's not a great poet, but sometimes he writes something good. Something truly good. Yes, every once in a while.
[because the best poetry is created under the influence of drugs or some illness]
"I'm not sick!" Sven shouts, pounding his fist on the table. Some coffee flies out of the low mug, staining the pristine white page. What's that voice? Once again, Sven hears that voice, but he can't pinpoint its source.
[I'm you]
"Who?" he asks, frowning. Children are playing in the yard, their laughter distracting him. Pigeons coo softly.
[And who are you?]
"I'm not crazy," Sven assures, kneading his hands.
[No?]
He grimaces in disgust. What's this guy up to? Where did he come from, and why did he pick on him? He definitely doesn't like it.
"Don't give a damn," he says, and tries to return to writing his poem. The voice remains silent. It suddenly becomes eerily quiet. Only the clock can be heard.
Sven lifts his head, and an idea suddenly appears in his mind. He bends down and writes:
I have made a pact,
red and black, similar to a pact
. He looks at the paper and reads the lines he has written a few times. "Pretty good," he thinks, taking a few sips from his mug. The massive dose of caffeine stimulates him a little. He bends down again:
He is silent and undefined.
I feed on his posterity.
It fills my insides completely
. He thinks for a moment. After a moment of reflection, he crosses out the last line and writes instead:
I define myself with his breath.
He is water.
I need him
to die.
He straightens up and leans back in his chair. He taps his fingers on the tabletop. He thinks. Coming up with a good poem isn't easy. Sven wants it to express his feelings.
He shifts his gaze to the window, where pigeons stare stubbornly at him. He frowns and writes:
Oh, blind injustice!
Absorb my tired senses
My friend
called isolation
. He stops. He raises a hand to his hair and begins to stroke it mechanically. He looks in the mirror, hanging carelessly in the kitchen. It's broken in a few places, marks from his tantrums. There are a few scratches at the corners.
Sven stares at his emaciated reflection. He's pale. He's always been pale, for as long as he can remember. His complexion is like a vampire's. His hair is long, maybe a little too long, but he doesn't feel like going to the barber; it's a few streets away. And that's too far. Sven also has thick eyebrows. He looks a bit like an untanned, bearded Latino. He never liked himself.
He scratches his head and bends down to the paper again:
And my carelessness
Which I committed tomorrow evening.
He sighs deeply and throws his pen on the table. Suddenly, his inspiration has completely deserted him. It's hard to write anything good, really hard. And now he's lacking any stimulus. He knows the pigeons are watching him right now, but they do it all the time. Over time, the bird surveillance has become downright boring. What is he supposed to write about now? About hatred for the world?
Sven sits in silence for a moment.
He suddenly frowns and strains his ears.
...
Ghr!
...
Ghhr!
...
...
Ghr Ghr!
Sven's eye moves cautiously in its socket. He now looks directly at the window, overlooking the yard. At the sandbox. At the pigeons. They are staring at Sven.
...
Ghr!
...
He tries not to move any part of his body. He knows he's about to discover something extraordinary. A small bead of sweat appears on his forehead.
...
...
Ghr Ghr!
...
He swallows and slowly licks his chapped lips. Just a moment...
...
Ghr Ghr Ghr!
...
Ghr Ghr Ghr Ghr!
The pigeons suddenly leap up and all at once fly away from the sandbox, somewhere far away. Completely unexpected.
Aha!
Now Sven knows how these nasty creatures communicate! It's incredible, but he's finally solved this strange riddle. Now he knows! Now he understands what they're cooing all the time. And he thinks he'll write it down and remember it. But first he'll finish the poem.
He bends down to the paper.
Fear is a killer of thoughts.
I won't let my thoughts be killed.
I'll never kill my thoughts.
Pigeons.
Don't kill my thoughts.
Don't let me kill my thoughts.
And don't let me break my pact
. The cooing of the doves is no longer audible. Sven calms down considerably. He breathes deeply and evenly now. He nods, staring at the dirty window of his apartment. He thinks of pinning this poem to the refrigerator. "
I never lie
." He smiles. "
I'm not crazy .
" ***
Sven sits at his computer, staring blankly at the screen. It makes absolutely no sense; he's never liked this infernal device. And yet he has to deal with it every day at work. Complete nonsense. What's it all about? A square box and a lot of keys, no one knows which one does what.
The weather has taken a turn for the worse over the past few days. Now Sven looks out the window and sees black clouds gathering over the city since morning. A storm hangs in the air. A chilly wind whips at people who dare to leave the house on such a day. It's cold. It's the end of summer.
Sven is browsing a website devoted to weapons. It's actually a military accessories store. He's particularly interested in the "MP5 A5." It's very appealing. Sven stares at the photo, where the rifle gleams in the light of the camera lamps. It's so... beautiful...
Sven imagines himself holding it in his hands. Cleaning and polishing it. Inserting cartridges. Strapping it onto his back. And then...
"Staude!"
Sven turns around and suddenly the powerful figure of his boss, Ian Leyffer, looms before him.
"Staude, damn it, are you slacking off again?"
He looks at the mustachioed man in his forties and grimaces in disgust. How he hates him. Good God, how he hates him. Those strange expressions of his. The mockery. His power. Sometimes he wants to blow his head off with a rifle or some other gadget.
He'll definitely do it someday.
The boss folds his arms in that dismissive way of his.
"What are you staring at? What am I paying you for?" he asks. He walks around the computer. "Have you gone deaf?"
Sven grits his teeth and stares at "Not really, "
he mutters under his breath.
"What are you whispering?" Ian frowns, leaning towards Sven.
He draws back slightly.
"Nothing, sir," he replies curtly.
"What do you mean, nothing?" Leyffer folds his arms. Suddenly, completely unexpectedly, he begins to cough. His pig-like eyes roll in their sockets in all directions, as they always do when he can't breathe. He seems to have some kind of lung problem.
"Nothing, sir," Sven repeats.
"Work, damn it!" Leyffer chokes, leaning even further forward. Sven smells his foul breath. "No work, no gain, Staude, and no work without a little brain. Do you have any brains left there?" He points to Sven's head and laughs for a long time, until his plump face turns red.
[You want this idiot to suddenly disappear?]
Sven turns around. He hears that voice again. Where is it coming from? What exactly is it saying to him? What does it mean?
[I mean, for this idiot to disappear]
Leyffer?
[You want this, right?]
Sven thinks for a moment. Yes, he wants this. That would be beautiful. Without all this chatter, with complete freedom.
[You can do this]
Do this?
[Yes, do this]
What? Sven wonders.
[You know what]
Leyffer keeps laughing, until he turns from red to purple. He laughs, laughs, his little eyes widening. And then the laughter turns into another coughing fit. Dry, hard, like a consumptive. Sven watches with satisfaction as his boss clutches his neck, then raises his hands again and waves them in a wild, panicked dance. He watches the veins on his forehead pop out. He smiles.
"Sta..aaa," Leyffer begins, trembling as if in a frenzy. The colors on his face change like a kaleidoscope. "Ouch..dee... stau...dee!"
Sven watches him for a moment with eerie calm. "How pathetic," he thinks to himself, shaking his head. Then he rises and stands face to face with him. For a moment he stares into his brown irises. Sven's eyes are gray, always gray, completely expressionless.
Ian stretches his hands out in front of him in blind panic.
"Fuck," Sven says, swings his fist, and punches his boss with all his might.
[Great!]
He smiles.
[Go on!]
He hits again. And again. And again. Leyyfer doubles over in pain, still coughing. His face is now incredibly red. He's suffering.
[Let him suffer.]
He lets out a hoarse, drawn-out sound and falls to the ground.
Sven hesitates. What will he do now? Kill him? Or maybe leave him here, at his desk? Suddenly he feels strangely sorry. Why did he do it? Why did he beat him up? Is he really that bad? He's not crazy!
[Don't let him think you're crazy]
"So what should I do now?" he asks, sitting down at his desk. He doesn't know anything anymore. He's not... he's not a lunatic!
[Think about it]
Suddenly Sven is incredibly nervous.
"Damn! That's easy to say now!" he yells, pounding his fist on the desk. "Damn," he repeats, knocking the things off it with a single movement.
His boss is still writhing in pain before him. Sven's desk is completely empty, isolated from the other workstations. Somewhere, at the gray end of the building. No one has probably heard Leyffer's moans yet.
Sven sits at his desk for a moment, his hands folded behind his head. He stares blankly at the pale blue wood. His mind goes blank. He has no idea what to do now.
"Damn it!" he shouts, then immediately falls silent, remembering that someone might burst in at any moment. Completely unexpectedly.
[What now?]
"I have no idea.
[what are you going to do?]
"I have no damn idea what to do! "
[do you have to?]
Sven stands up suddenly.
No. He doesn't have to. He could just leave it here. Cover it with something, or hide it. And sneak out of the office. Completely unnoticed. And then he'll never come back.
Yes! That's what he'll do!
[do it!]
He smiles, looking at Leyffer.
***
Sven sits in his small kitchen again. He's quietly observing his yard. The weather has improved a bit, but the wind is still blowing terribly. There simply aren't so many black clouds anymore. Nothing special is happening in the yard. A child is playing in the sandbox, under the care of his mother. There aren't even any pigeons. It's terribly strange, because they're always there, constantly watching Sven. He wonders what could have stopped them.
He looks around suspiciously. Where are they? Could it be that they didn't manage to get into the yard in time for him to enter the kitchen? And now they won't show up, pretending they're not watching him. They don't want to reveal themselves!
HA! But Sven knows what's going on. He already knows the pigeon code. Now he knows!
Suddenly he hears the doorbell ring, a few meters away, in the other room. He sits motionless for a moment, waiting for another sign. The bell rings again. Sven gets up and walks slowly to the hallway. Another bell rings.
"I'm coming, I'm coming!" he shouts. He quickens his pace a bit. Finally, he reaches the door and looks through the peephole. "Who's there?"
There's absolutely no one on the other side. Although Sven could have sworn that just a moment ago someone was standing at the door, persistently ringing the bell. Now nothing. Absolute emptiness.
"Who's there?" Sven repeats louder, but he knows it will have no effect. Suddenly, a thought flashes through his mind. It's a very disturbing thought. Sven frowns and heads towards the kitchen.
When he gets there, the pigeons, as he suspected, are already taking their positions. Positions assigned to them by someone above. Positions from which they observe him.
"Damn birds," Sven whispers in disbelief.
What can they possibly do? That bell is clearly their fault. They lured him into the hallway so they could hop in, somewhere they forgot to appear earlier. Yes, completely inconspicuously. And now they're pecking at something there. But Sven hears. He knows their code. He wrote it down on a piece of paper and hung it on the refrigerator, next to the poem.
Ghr! - information about my behavior
Ghr Ghr! - response from higher authorities
Ghr Ghr Ghr! - "watching us"
Ghr Ghr Ghr Ghr! - "watch out! let's run!"
Sven sits for a moment, listening to the isolated cooing of pigeons. He looks at the clock hanging by the window.
It's a quarter to three.
His mouth goes dry and he gets up to pour himself a glass of cold water from the tap. Standing at the sink, he hears the doorbell ring again.
"What the hell?" he asks, glancing toward the hallway. For a moment, he wonders if it's the pigeons again, but really, that would be pointless. Why would they drag him away from the kitchen again? Were they planning something? He turns and looks out into the yard, where those damned birds are digging something out from between the paving stones. The bell still chirps with its irritating screech.
"I'm coming!" Sven shouts, and when a sudden thought strikes him, he jumps up and runs to the door. "Who's there?" he asks, peering through the peephole.
"Post office!"
Sven grins and unlatches the lock.
***
Sven sits at the table, holding a freshly received package. It's neatly wrapped, tightly sealed with thick white tape. Just as they said. On time and on schedule. Everything's perfect.
Sven can't wait to open the package. He goes to the sink and grabs one of the kitchen knives. In an instant, he tears open the white tape, then the postage. A product he's dreamed of for months, a product he recently ordered online, appears before his eyes. He hurries to rip open the packaging.
He can't believe he's holding it in his hand. It's beautiful. New, gleaming even in this dim sunlight – an MP5 A5 Rifle.
"Wonderful..." whispers Sven, closing one eye and examining the room through the weapon's sights. It's so perfect... It attracts, even hypnotizes, the person holding it. Sven feels as if he's in a trance. Suddenly, he thinks he has to try it.
[here?]
"Where exactly?"
[people will hear this, do you want to risk it?]
"I don't know what risk is," Sven says, then moves toward the window and opens it. That voice has been really irritating him lately. He's talking nonsense. That people will hear the shot? So what? What will they do to him? Will the police be here? "Everything will be solved by tomorrow," Sven thinks to himself, smiling.
Then he raises his gun. He closes one eye and...
Hit, drowned! The dull shot of the rifle echoes through the yard. One of the pigeons slowly falls to the ground. A moment later, a small pool of blood appears by its head. "
You've earned it, you stupid bird!" Sven shouts, waving his arms. "You've decided to do some pigeon surveillance!"
He closes the window and places the rifle on the table. Then he sits down in a chair and grins, watching it. It's so wonderful... It's what he's always dreamed of. Since childhood. Ever since childhood.
Ghr!
...
Ghr Ghr Ghr!
The pigeons gather over the bloody body of their comrade. They're very upset. Sven sees it, feels it. But he doesn't really care. He's stronger than them now. He knows they won't attack for a while. But he...
He smiles.
"Everything will be resolved by tomorrow..."
***
Sven sits hunched on a small chair in the kitchen, tying his boots. They're army boots—black, hard, ankle-high. He'd prepared them some time ago. If they were made of a different material, they'd surely gleam beautifully now, even in this weak sunlight. But they're army boots—for special occasions.
Sven knows this is the opportunity he's been given. A chance to do something he's always wanted to do. A chance to express his feelings. A chance to take revenge on people. Or maybe... to teach them something? To teach them all. "
Everyone," Sven repeats aloud, fastening the buttons on his shirt. Then he ties his hair into a ponytail with two rubber bands and walks toward the closet. He checks his watch. 11:45. He still has some time. He breathes anxiously. He hopes he'll make it.
As he puts on his jacket, he remembers the past few weeks. The pigeons, the walk around town, writing a poem, and that fateful day, his last day at work. Suddenly he feels terribly tired. Tired of the bird's surveillance, of time, of the passing of time, of inaction. Of this whole damn world! He's so tired that he loses all interest in anything. "
Why am I alive?" he asks himself in a pitiful voice and sits down on the small sofa in the hallway.
[because you're human]
"Why should I live if there's no meaning in it?" Sven has grown accustomed to that voice; now he just sits and sniffs every now and then. He's so tired that he suddenly feels sad.
[Is there no meaning in it?]
"There's nothing! There's nothing anymore! I don't exist! I don't exist, do you understand?" he begins to sob quietly under his breath. "My life no longer exists. It fell to pieces years ago, and now someone wants to finally clean up those pieces. Throw them away. I want to throw them away. I can't stand it anymore."
Sven hears the cooing of pigeons, but he's completely unconcerned. Now the fact that the pigeons are watching him doesn't matter as much anymore. Nothing matters as much as it used to.
[or maybe...]
"I can't live like this! I can't, you know? I'm tired. So tired... tired... tired," Sven repeats these words for a moment, as if hypnotized. He feels terribly empty. As if deprived of his soul. Devoid of any meaning to exist.
[maybe you should try it anyway]
"I've had enough!" Sven stands up and turns towards the pigeons. "I've had enough of you! I've had enough of surveillance! I've had enough of work! I've had enough of this filthy apartment! I've had enough of all these stupid people! Damn you all!
" Suddenly, he becomes terribly angry. Incredible anger, even wild fury, takes over him. He wants to kill everyone around him. "It's time," he thinks to himself. He opens the wardrobe and takes out a large, black object. He holds it up.
"It's time.
"
Sven calmly walks down the steps of the building where he lived. He lived because he probably won't be returning. The weather is quite nice today. There are a few clouds in the sky, but the sun peeks through them every now and then. A light breeze ruffles Sven's fringe.
He himself is dressed quite heavily today. But that's what the situation calls for. He's wearing a long green coat, trimmed with fur at the top. Underneath, a shirt and a black sweatshirt. On his feet, combat boots and combat boots.
In his hand, he holds his treasure: an MP5 A5 rifle, beautiful, new, and shiny. Fully loaded. Extra bullets in his pockets.
Sven walks along the street, looking around. He's searching for potential targets. They're exactly what he's been looking for all his life. Ana was his target too. He never truly loved her; she was a stupid lunatic! She only slandered him. She was always his target! How he wished she'd come around the next corner right now! He would have blown her head off without hesitation.
Instead, a young man in a baggy sweatshirt and low-crotch pants peeks around the corner. He's wearing headphones. A green baseball cap with a strange, round logo rests on his bald head.
Sven touches the barrel of his rifle. It's still warm, having not had time to cool down after the round of shots Staude fired through the window at the pigeons. The wind begins to blow a little harder.
Sven hates hip-hop. He thinks there's nothing worse, and never has been. He doesn't understand how people can listen to such crap.
He closes one eye and aims at the boy with the headphones. He shifts the gun on his shoulder for a moment to make himself comfortable. Then he squeezes the trigger, and the sound of dozens of rounds suddenly pierces the air.
The boy immediately falls to the ground, his body battered in places by long bullets. Blood suddenly spreads across the sidewalk. Someone screams, probably calling for help. The boy lies motionless, his eyes blank, a small trickle of blood seeping from his blue lips. Sven looks around and sees a small pile of shell casings nearby. He smiles happily. He's always wanted to see this.
He passes the stiff body of the teenager and turns right, emerging around the corner of a building. He knows he'll soon reach the city center. He lives very close by.
Walking calmly along the street, he taps out a rhythm on his rifle and hums a song to himself. He sees people around him looking at him uncertainly, some running away. "Idiots," he thinks. They're all mentally ill. Everyone!
Suddenly it gets a bit cold, and the sun disappears behind the clouds. Sven wraps his coat tighter around him.
Then he notices a short black man leaning against a nearby wall. He stares at him for a moment. The black man is calmly leafing through a newspaper. He bites his lower lip lightly. Sven grimaces. He hates black people. They're such freeloaders, they're just destroying the German economy! And they still talk about intolerance.
"Isn't that pathetic?" Sven asks loudly, but apparently no one can answer his question, so he aims at the black man and shoots several times.
There are more people here; it's not far from the city center, after all. Some start screaming for help. A child is crying. Sven doesn't care much. He continues walking toward a large glass building.
[So why are you doing this?]
That voice again. What does he want? Does it have to bother him now? At such an important moment?
[Why are you doing this?]
"Stupid question," Sven says, unbuttoning his long coat, because the warmth is actually returning. He sees people running away from him. He smiles. Now he feels true power. Not just over pigeons. He feels power over people. Now he rules over them! Now he decides life and death. Now he is powerful and unstoppable, he is God!
He hears someone screaming terribly loudly, almost terrifyingly. It annoys him. He turns and sees a busty blonde looking at him fearfully. A pink idiot. Why doesn't he run away?
Sven closes one eye and shoots. Blood suddenly appears all around again.
"I am God," he repeats with conviction, smiling to himself.
[Not God, but madman.]
"I am not madman," Sven says calmly at first.
Then he hears the people around him shouting louder and louder. He strains his ears and picks out the single word that interests him from the din.
"Madman!" "
I am not madman!" Sven shouts, and suddenly, driven by sudden hatred, he begins shooting into the crowd that has gathered at a safe distance behind him. Idiots! They understand nothing! Only now is he free! When he was young, he could do nothing, and now? Nothing stops him now! Not age, not work, not even pigeons. Now he is God.
[You're a lunatic, my dear, finally understand this]
"I-am-not-a-mad-ness," Sven recites angrily. He rushes forward to get to the very center of the city as quickly as possible. For a moment he runs rhythmically, driven by a strange need. Then he stops and finishes off a clip on a group of teenagers sitting on a bench across the street. The screams increase. The blood also increases, and at an alarming rate.
"People don't understand me," Sven thinks bitterly. They can't understand my philosophy. They are simply limited. It's simple: you can't live being followed, watched by pigeons. You can't live imprisoned, abused by your boss. You can't live with someone you don't love. You can't live enslaved. You have to be a free man, a man for whom boundaries exist.
"I am free," Sven tells himself. "But I'm not crazy."
He repeats these words in his mind for a moment, as if trying to convince himself. He loads another magazine into his rifle. Nothing will stop him now.
He's downtown now. There are a lot of people here, sweaty swarms constantly rolling through the intersection. Those who realize something is wrong flee quickly. Others are condemned to death by the all-powerful Sven. And in his opinion, that's a very good sentence. Isn't death a liberation?
Sven stops and fires a few blank shots in front of him. A few people immediately fall to the ground. And everyone screams again. The crowd seems to thin out a bit. Sven walks calmly forward and sees entrails scattered on the sidewalk. He didn't study biology well when he was young, but he recognizes a piece of intestine among them. He stomps on it with his combat boot and then crosses the crosswalk. Cars are honking. They're honking so loudly. "Terribly annoying," Sven thinks, turning suddenly and firing several shots into the windshield of the nearest car.
A prolonged horn blared. The driver had been hit in the head and was now slumped stiffly over the steering wheel.
"And honk now," Sven mutters under his breath, reaching the sidewalk. Some people suddenly start running. They scatter like sheep sensing danger. They're frightened. "Or rather, enslaved," Sven thinks to himself. "
Freedom!" he shouts, and shoots the thin girl closest to him. So close that blood from her artery sprays in his face. He wipes her carelessly with his green sleeve. He can smell her. He breathes deeply now.
He shoots a few more times: at a short mulatto man with a dog, a worker in an orange suit, and a young Latino man. He hates Latinos. He has that kind of look himself, and he really doesn't like it.
Then he finishes his magazine on a few pigeons and continues on towards the Old Town. When he sees a group of tourists ahead, he immediately perks up. Oh, yes! How he hates tourists! They wander around Düsseldorf, taking thousands of photos, buying those damn souvenirs, and just littering. And then there's filth and filth everywhere.
Sven quickly loads his bullets and aims at the tourists.
"Die!" he shouts loudly, then fires at them for a moment with maniacal zeal. "Die, die, die," he repeats, watching as liters of blood pour from their mangled bodies. The entire sidewalk is suddenly covered in red goo. When he's sure no tourists have survived, he begins to walk slowly forward. He almost trips, stepping on someone's brain. He inhales the smell of entrails wafting through the air. People are screaming.
[You're a fucking lunatic.]
"Bullshit," Sven says, initially not particularly bothered by the irritating voice. Amid the wild shouting around him, he catches a few words, but the one that interests him most right now is this: Police. He hears them clearly.
[claw, claw, claw!]
"I'm not a lunatic! No, no, no!" Sven repeats, like a spoiled child who doesn't get what he wants. He casually shoots a boy. He's getting terribly tired again. He no longer sees the point in giving people their freedom. They're so stupid they don't even want it! And him? He's sacrificed everything—his job, his apartment, his love—his whole life! He just wanted them to understand his philosophy. They wouldn't even do that.
Sven feels so tired... and so... alone. For the first time in months spent in mental isolation.
He hears the sound of police sirens in the distance. So the authorities already know. They've sent a squad after him, maybe even several. Now more people will arrive, people in blue suits who don't understand his philosophy. They'll come and take him to prison. Or kill him on the spot. That's what these blue people are like.
Sven feels tears welling up in his eyes. So it's all for nothing. His actions were doomed to failure from the start. He can shoot as much as he wants now, it won't work.
[So shoot]
Sven ignores the voice this time. He doesn't want to shoot anymore. He knows it will all be over soon. That nothing makes sense anymore. Now he knows it never has. His life never has, and never will.
"There he is," he hears voices behind him. He turns and sees several policemen running towards him. They are holding guns. Sven sees from a distance that they aren't gas pistols. He feels he's about to die. He suddenly raises his rifle and shoots. He watches as the policemen fall to the ground one by one. He smiles.
[Do you want to delay the moment of death?]
"Yes, I think so. But I don't know why," Sven says. Perhaps exhaustion, or perhaps the intense smell of entrails and blood he's inhaling, makes him suddenly dizzy. He slowly slides down the wall. People watch him from a safe distance.
"Screw you," he rasps, then aims at the head of one of the observers. There's a loud crack of a skull cracking. People scream, "Idiots," Sven mutters. They can't understand anything! Why can't they understand this? Why?! "Is there something wrong with me?" Sven wonders.
[simple, you're crazy]
"I...
[claw, claw, claw!]
He stares blankly ahead. Maybe the voice is right? Maybe everything was a lie? His whole life was a lie? And the pigeons? He can still hear them cooing. Now, here! Very clearly.
Ghr!
...
Ghr!
...
...
Ghr! Ghr!
...
Doesn't that speak for itself? After all... after all...
[you made that up]
Sven now sits leaning against the wall, head bowed, sobbing quietly. More police cars are arriving. People are screaming, sirens are wailing, it's incredibly loud. Sven's head is pounding. He sniffles and wipes his tears with his sleeve. Nothing matters to him anymore. "
I'm crazy."
"The fun's over," he hears a low voice from somewhere overhead. He notices a shadow nearby. He looks up and sees a tall, mustachioed policeman pointing a long, black pistol at him.
[So what are you going to do now?]
Sven stares ahead, tears welling in his eyes.
"I'm going to die."
In an instant, he puts the rifle to his head and, without hesitation, pulls the trigger. The dull sound of a gunshot pierces the air. Suddenly, blood appears everywhere. People scream even louder, the police are clearly disoriented.
Sven lies stiffly against the wall. His head, stained intensely red, hangs limply by his shoulders. A small trickle of blood flows from his mouth. For a moment, he feels a terrible pain in his temple. People are screaming so loudly... Police officers are running around him, shouting something. Sven gasps for air, desperately missing it. Then he feels nothing at all.
His body twists and falls gently to the pavement.
"It's so good," he thinks, closing his eyes.
Brak komentarzy:
Prześlij komentarz