Mage 1

Two minutes after the alarm went off, I realized I didn't really know what my first thought was. I remembered that my sleep had transformed the first few seconds of the ringing into something I'd dreamed, some dreamy sound, but after a moment, I already knew it was the alarm clock and woke up. And I was lying there. I remembered that two minutes later. But no thoughts. It follows that my first thought in the morning was: What's my first thought? Then I immediately asked myself if my sister was home. Or rather: It dawned on me that she was gone. I could never contain that faint feeling of contentment at being home alone. It wasn't even that she was gone, but that I was alone. And it always seemed wrong to feel that way.

Then I fell back asleep.

Five minutes after the first ring, the second one came. I lazily turned it off, simultaneously grateful that so much time had passed since the first ring. I decided not to fall asleep this time, but I was so reluctant to get up that I just lay there, staring at the ceiling and then the window (because my head was facing away from it, I could only see the cold, white sky). I was mustering the energy to get up.

The decision to get out of bed came, as usual, completely unexpectedly. I always waited for that "Okay, let's get up" impulse in the morning, and it always surprised me that I could just get out of bed without it. Dressed only in my boxers and with my slippers on (which I shuffled around in a very homely way), I went to the bathroom, turning on my computer along the way. I hadn't washed my hair the night before, so I was very reluctant to do so in the morning. First, my hair. Without it, I would feel terribly greasy and unpleasant to the touch (and probably smell) all day long, so, even though I really disliked it, I decided to wash it anyway. Besides, I thought, it would soften my beard a bit, and I'd have a closer shave.

After the usual – deodorant, shaving… I decided to put my contacts in later. My eyes were still full of sleep (it was only 8:30, after all) and I probably wouldn't have managed to do it painlessly the first time. I dressed in what I'd worn the day before – a T-shirt, my favorite simple, loose-fitting, lightweight gray sweatshirt, another thicker one over it, and one of my two pairs of pants (I had more, but only wore two): the one I liked best.

With a faint glimmer of hope (tempered by the awareness of my obvious irrationality), I checked my email. My hope was truly slim, so I didn't scream with joy when I saw the message. There was only one letter, without a return address or subject line, with the simple text: today. Firmly convinced it was some system glitch, I deleted it. However, my satisfaction (or rather, micro-satisfaction) at receiving the email hadn't faded.

I turned on some music and, listening to "Fuel" with a large part of my mind, made myself a few sandwiches. Every now and then, I glanced at the music program's visuals, trying to absorb their beauty as deeply as possible (unsuccessfully, unfortunately; I'd watched them too often to rediscover them, which doesn't diminish their beauty).

With the sandwiches and coffee, I sat back down at the computer, turned on a Monty Python sketch, and ate breakfast without laughing at the jokes. As always, I saved the tasty ones for last. And I ate them all quickly. I've always liked to eat quickly, but somehow, food slowly made me hungrier.

Without turning off the movie, I washed my dirty laundry and realized with horror that I had to be at school in five minutes. The thought crossed my mind that next time I set my alarm, I'd have to take my unwashed hair into account. I quickly brushed my teeth and, bracing my hands against the walls (to avoid bumping into them: my slippers were very slippery), ran to my room. As I put on my shoes, I realized I wasn't wearing my contact lenses. This momentarily stopped my hands from tying the laces: I thought about how I would soon touch the surface of my eye with those same fingers, but then I realized I wouldn't have time to run back and forth to the bathroom for my lenses and back to my room for my shoes. So I hurriedly finished tying them, put on my jacket, stuffed my gloves and headband into my pocket, decided there was no point in taking my Walkman because I'd be home in 45 minutes anyway, and locked my room (we share a hallway with the neighbors, so both the room and the kitchen have to be locked), all while whistling "fuel." I ran to the bathroom, slowed down a bit, and calmly put in my lenses. As I closed the kitchen door, I remembered I hadn't spilled the solution from the lens case and remembered to do so upon returning.

I took the stairs two at a time, so when I noticed someone at the bottom of one section, I had to touch the wall to stop myself from falling. Only when I had evened my pace (knowing it looked very awkward) did I look into their face, but only to recognize them, did I mutter, "Good morning," and hurried on, thrown off balance by the encounter. Only when I was on the street did I remember that my neighbor's face wasn't one of mere indifference or kindness—she was clearly angry and looking at me as if I were to blame for her anger. And she didn't return my greeting. "Hmm," I said to myself, and with a very quick (and probably clumsy) stride, I headed for school. Despite the rush, I walked with my head held high, thinking all the time about not slipping, not bumping into anyone, avoiding drops of water falling from the leaky gutters, and looking the women I passed in the eyes.

I love looking women in the eyes on the street. I try to avoid doing it to men (I don't know why – maybe because I once almost got a slap in the face from a station bum for looking into their eyes, or maybe because it's too intimate?), but sometimes (like this morning) I actually try to look women in the eyes. That's what happened then. I walked and looked everyone in the eye. No one returned my gaze until I reached the corner, and just before it, I lowered my gaze to avoid stepping on the ice. Then, briskly walking around the corner (so brisk that it took a lot of effort to avoid a collision), a girl a good head taller than me, about 20, stepped out. For a split second, our eyes met, and I don't know if it was the sheer excitement or the sheer fact that we were rushing past each other, I looked away. I blinked in surprise. The girl was looking at me with clear, undisguised hatred. I felt a surge of adrenaline in my stomach. I always felt them in situations like this—no matter whether the emotions were positive or negative. Making emotional contact with a stranger, even just by looking at them, always brought on this nervous excitement in my stomach. I took a deep breath and collected myself. After all, it was just a stranger, I thought. But this hatred was so obvious, so pure, and so clearly directed at me… Deep down, I felt a hint of discomfort.

I entered the school, gave the doorwoman a "good morning" (unrequited), and ran up the stairs. At the door, I caught my breath, unbuttoned my jacket, knocked gently, and entered.

The pianist (it was the piano lesson I was in such a hurry for) was looking at me with her arms folded and a very sour expression on her face. Although I was only three minutes late, I apologized very politely, and then silently (it took an awfully long time, in my opinion) I took off my jacket, tucked my armband into my sleeve, hung it up, and took the sheet music out of my backpack. I placed it on the desk (still silent) and sat down. Then, instead of the usual "Shall we start with an etude?" I heard:

"Etude." – Firm. Tolerant of no argument.

I started, but as usual in class, I got nervous; my fingers started shaking a little (but not abnormally), so in the fifth measure I held down a quarter note for too long. At that moment, I heard the pianist's inhuman scream:

"THERE'S A REST!!!" – completely, insanely off-kilter. I turned my head toward the teacher. Her face was contorted with a mad grimace of rage; she stood clutching her notebook tightly in her hands.

"HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO REPEAT YOU ABOUT HER?!" she screamed, growing louder, furiously slamming the journal against her thighs. Finally, she couldn't contain the tension boiling inside her and threw it at me – very accurately, I barely managed to dodge it. Then, unable to find an outlet for her rage, she growled like an animal and ran towards me. Her face still didn't resemble a human. If she could, she would have extended her claws, making them even longer than her fingernails, which from my perspective looked like curved talons.

I didn't have time to think anything; adrenaline blocked all thought processes, and with its help, I made a mad leap backward from my seat. She ran into them, momentarily stopping her. By then, I was at the door, grabbing my jacket, and five seconds later, panting, I slammed the door behind me. For a brief moment, I felt safe (later, I realized it was pointless), but then I immediately broke into a run at the sound of the teacher's heels clicking. Still without time to think, terrified and disoriented, I ran down the stairs, pulling on my jacket as I ran.

Taking the slippery stairs two at a time, I couldn't see the faces of the people I passed, but I could have sworn I saw several faces out of the corner of my eye, similarly contorted with rage. Not to mention someone trying to trip me, but since I could still hear the clicking of the pianist's heels behind me (or were they other heels chasing me?), I simply jumped over her and kept running. I burst into the street, panting and pursued by the sound of heels, and I sprinted toward the house. I ran really fast, completely oblivious to the rage-contorted faces of the people. I just tried to avoid their hands reaching out towards me. Running, I pulled my keys out of my pocket, reached the gate, and with a feeling of relief, stepped into the cool hallway of my building. As I calmly ran up the first flight of stairs, I heard a pounding on the gate. This made me, completely out of breath, rush to the very top, to my apartment.

I didn't foresee one thing. I didn't really foresee anything, but I should have thought about my sister being home before entering. As I opened the door, I heard her voice, and a moment later I saw her standing at the intercom, pressing the gate opener. Still with her finger on it, she turned toward me, her face (which didn't surprise me at all) distorted with hatred. Terrified, with the murderous pianist behind me (I guessed she'd let her in) and my equally murderous sister in front of me, I bolted sideways, down the hallway to the kitchen. Before she could catch up with me, I slammed the door shut and locked it. A second later, she slammed her body into it. Terrified, I looked around for some way to defend myself or escape, but in a flash of insight, I realized that even if I took the knife, I wouldn't be able to use it, and the people pursuing me looked so desperate that the thought of threatening them with a knife seemed utterly pointless. My sister began to bang her body against the door repeatedly and incredibly forcefully, and after a few seconds, I heard the blood-curdling sound of the pianist's heels, and that's when I knew that if I didn't escape, I would die. Still in adrenaline shock, still disoriented, I couldn't fully grasp the threat, but fear compelled me to act.

The door creaked louder and louder. With a desperate effort, I blocked the door with a dresser and wedged it with a table, buying me a considerable amount of time. Then I grabbed the knife and ran to the bathroom. With the knife, I cut the laundry lines and twisted them into some kind of rope. I stepped out onto the balcony, tied the rope to the railing, and without waiting for the adrenaline to dissipate, I began to descend to the balcony below.

A moment later, I experienced the longest split second of my life. Suddenly, I felt a fatal slack in my rope, and not even a moment later, I was falling. I never believed those words about "my whole life before my eyes," but if, as I fell, I hadn't irrationally thought about getting back up (and in the background of those thoughts was a beach somewhere in the Pacific—that's how it is when you fall: things that make no sense come to light), I probably would have managed to reflect on a good chunk of my life.

Then I heard a boom that shattered my eardrums and lost consciousness.