2

Rose awoke with a terrible headache and a vague sense that something terrible had happened. Her gaze wandered around the room, noticing, in turn, an empty cognac bottle, two glasses with remnants of half-drunk liquor, a full and unpleasantly smelling ashtray, and a large wall clock that, shockingly, showed eleven o'clock. At that moment, she jumped up with a scream, realizing she had slept through the morning hours. Never before had anything so shameful happened to her. Terrible pangs of conscience would have forced her to leave the apartment immediately and head for the church, were it not for the dire state she was in. She knew perfectly well that it was inappropriate to enter God's house with a hangover, exuding the stench of stale alcohol and cigarettes. On the other hand, she was aware that she had succumbed to temptation and indulged her basest instincts, which would most likely result in her burning in hell for eternity. However, the desire for confession, cleansing, and penance couldn't be stronger than her sense of decency and shame, and, moreover, common sense told her that momentary indispositions could have dire consequences if they were noticed and interpreted appropriately by the mohair berets lurking at her every slip-up. So, Rose, realizing the full horror of this near-impasse, fell to her knees and, after turning off the television, on whose screen the oppressed servants from Bolivia were experiencing their ups and downs, began to ask for forgiveness on her own. Immersed in fervent prayer, she desperately struggled for salvation, which suddenly seemed incredibly distant and inaccessible. Meanwhile, Saint John's head was still deep in sleep. Mumbling under his breath and snoring mercilessly, with a disheveled beard and tousled hair, he presented an utterly pathetic sight. After three hours spent in prayer and mortification, Róża decided it was high time to restore order to the apartment, tidy herself up, and head to church. With difficulty, she rose from her knees and, after rubbing her stiff legs, went to the kitchen. As she filled the kettle with water, she reflected on the events of the previous day. She could not forgive herself for her carelessness and weakness of will. On the day the Lord sent her another vision, the vision she had waited for so long, she behaved like the last pagan, allowing herself to commit acts inconsistent with the ethos of her faith. She knew she would have to pay a heavy price for this. She was already feeling the first symptoms of her approaching punishment quite clearly, as her head felt as if it were about to explode with pain, not to mention her intestines, which were completely failing her, tormenting her sinful body with what is commonly referred to as nausea. After a quick visit to the bathroom to relieve her stomach of its sinful burden, she returned to the kitchen, where she hastily prepared and ate breakfast. Then she went to the bathroom,She spent over an hour trying to restore some kind of balance to her tormented body and imbue her face with a look of dignity and peace. While the results of the various arduous procedures she had undergone were not overwhelming, she decided she could now leave the apartment without embarrassment, without exposing herself to unpleasant remarks or prying eyes. Meanwhile, Saint John's head continued to sleep soundly in the room, snoring and groaning loudly from time to time, which reminded our heroine of her duty to care for this precious relic. She gently smoothed the Baptist's matted hair and combed his disheveled beard, removing cigarette butts and ashes (for it was a solid and capacious beard). She wiped his face with a refreshing tonic with cucumber and aloe extract and smeared it with formalin. Having dealt with the issues of hygiene, comfort, and preservation of the saint, she gently picked him up and placed him in the box. He didn't so much as sigh heavily or blink, so deep was his sleep. Rose closed the lid of the box tightly, and after placing it in the safe, she exhaled with relief, whistling softly. She resolved never to open the secret compartment again and never to wake John, for she had considerable doubts about his holiness and origins. She even suspected that Satan himself had placed the false relic in her hands, but she had too much fear of God in her heart to allow herself to throw away the head, which, after all, might have been genuine.which, despite everything, could have been authentic.which, despite everything, could have been authentic.

She dressed quickly and left the apartment with a heavy sigh. For a moment, she considered going to Boniface, but decided against it, considering him a traitor and a supporter of Father Editor. She would write to the Vatican about it today. Father could pack his bags now!

The heat was unbearable, and a murderous hangover only intensified Róża's suffering. Although she walked with a quick and determined step, giving no sign of her inner torment, she felt that with each meter she covered, the risk of a heart attack increased. With relief, she finally immersed herself in the soothing coolness of the church, greedily absorbing the atmosphere of silence and concentration. She headed straight for the confessional, where, having fulfilled all the requirements of a good confession, she threw off the yoke of sins. This all took an exceptionally long time, as Róża refused to be put off too quickly, describing the previous day's events in meticulous detail, weeping quietly, beating her breast, and whimpering for mercy. She remained silent, of course, about Jan's involvement, as she didn't trust the priest enough to entrust him with this priceless information. Finally, dissatisfied with the penance her confessor had imposed on her—too light, in her opinion—she approached the altar and prostrated herself in the very center of the nave. She did this daily, despite the priest's attempts to dissuade her for years, patiently explaining that it was pure madness, medieval and obscure, and simply inappropriate, because what would all those foreign currency-lovers who flocked to the historic church think? Róża refused to acknowledge any arguments and cruelly abused the priest every time he dared to broach the subject. The locals even gave her a suitable nickname, so fitting that everyone soon knew who Rose of the Cross was.

Now, lying stiffly on the cold marble floor, praying in a whisper, fervently and meticulously, she felt as if this were a kind of final reckoning with God. For some reason, she felt that something bad would happen today, something bad from a purely human perspective, something to her body. Death? That was precisely what she feared. She didn't want to die; she had too much to do, but she knew that what the Almighty decided was never without justification, which made her even more ashamed before Him and before herself for having so loved her earthly form, from which she now refused to part for any price.

After several hours of meditation and prayer, Rose finally decided that she had done everything she could to obtain forgiveness for yesterday's debauchery. The rest of the penitential work had to be spread out over time, so that it could acquire the proper dimension and weight. She struggled to her feet, feeling the rheumatic pains intensify with each passing minute. It's great, she told herself, pain is good, pain is necessary...

She left the church and felt a wave of hot, heavy air rush into her lungs, choking her breath and quickening her heartbeat. Dust motes floated everywhere, settling on her face, hair, and clothes, and the city dust unbearably irritated her eyes. Róża couldn't shake the feeling she'd experienced this before—the heat, the ache in her chest, the hostility of her body, weakening with each passing moment. Images flashed through her mind, blurred, as if through a fog, but persistent and familiar. She staggered forward. She tripped over the wooden crutch of a disabled man sitting outside the church and cursed viciously. The repulsive man sat here every day, preying on the sympathy of the uneducated, uncultured crowd, which infuriated Róża, for he spoiled the pious atmosphere of this holy place. She decided to write to the city hall about this, but for now she contented herself with simply berating the beggar. Then she continued on her way, her gait more springy, for all sorts of social initiatives always gave her energy. At the gate, she encountered a sinister group of Christ's Radio Station militiamen, but she passed them calmly and confidently, though tensely. She didn't show her agitation even when, yammering under the protruding antennas of their colorful berets, they followed her. She walked with dignity and deliberation, gracefully avoiding potholes in the sidewalk, wondering how much longer she could endure without turning her head in the direction of her pursuers. She decided to visit the small stationery shop on the corner to stock up on suitable stationery for extensive and important correspondence, necessarily on handmade paper, in muted and natural colors. At the same time, she wanted to finally lose her "mohair tail." Suddenly she felt a light impact, a shove, really, that sent her careening into the street, tumbling right under the wheels of a bus approaching at high speed. The last sound she heard was the screeching of tires and the blare of a horn.

It was terribly hot, and the air was filled with the irritating smell of dust and human sweat. The crowd was shouting and spasming. At first, it was difficult to make out the din... but wait, wait! Rose already knew; she had been here before. She would surely see Him soon... Oh, he was coming! She knew everything, understood everything; the vision had returned, because she was dying! At that moment, panic gripped her. She couldn't die now; there was an empty cognac bottle and two glasses on the rack, the perfect excuse for nasty suspicions and slandering her good name. Surely someone would assume she had entertained a man during the night! She'd already seen the headlines—"Holy Drunkard," "Mary Magdalene Reincarnated?" or "Liberal Vatican—Papal Spy Merchants Relics and Hosts Binge Parties." What a nightmare! She couldn't let this happen, she simply couldn't...

The press chronicled Róża's death, as the Vatican began the beatification process. The heroine's dispute with Father Editor became a marginal issue for a time, as the failure of Rozdziala Chrystusowa (Christ Broadcasting Station) only began to be discussed openly after Róża was officially declared blessed.

Róża's parish invested in a small monument in her honor, which was erected at the church gates. From then on, beggars sought this very spot for donations from the faithful, who flocked in ever-increasing numbers after rumors spread about the statue's miraculous properties—rumors that, according to some sources, were spread by the beggars themselves.

The head of John the Baptist disappeared under unknown circumstances, and the only mention of it is found in Róża's will, which sought to build a chapel dedicated to the saint and enshrine the precious relic there.

Father Boniface increasingly encountered various evil forces, monsters, and demons, and when exorcists proved ineffective, he was confined to a mental institution.

Although considered blessed, Róża did not perform proper penance before her death, forcing her to wander the Underworld for a long time before she was granted the grace of communion with the Most High. She cursed the day she unleashed a war on the Christ's Broadcasting Station, for this very conflict resulted in a fateful drinking spree and then a successful attack by the mohair berets. Senseless heroism, even bravado—that's what she called it in her mind, though she dared not speak it aloud, for in the Other World, this struggle was considered her merit.

CONCLUSION:

Genealogy is a particularly tricky subject today.