Black

He sat motionless, waiting for... Salvation? He stared blankly at the remnants of white powder scattered on the table, wondering when freedom would finally come. "This is the last time. I swear, never again. I had to today because I felt so awful, it hurt so terribly." He convinced himself. Besides, who else could he convince? He looked around the room. The old, crumbling furniture, the table littered with remnants of food, drugs, and bottles, the couch with the broken back, and him. The only piece of furniture that still functioned. It just needed fuel. Fuel. And fuel was getting more and more expensive. And there had been no money for a long time, and not just money... Oh, on this cabinet there had once stood a 30-inch stereo TV, a VCR with gadgets on top of it, and now there was a dusty cabinet. It was gone. Not only that... His vacant gaze roaming the walls, he saw a photo. He'd hung it there himself once. Once, long, long ago. There had been three of them then. His wife, he loved her so much, had a name... She had... He clutched his head with both hands, trying to remember. "It was such a beautiful name..." And they had a child who was... A quick glance at the photo... A boy! Yes, it was a boy. Where were they now? What difference did it make? He had his dose, the pain had finally stopped, now everything would be alright. Everything had become clearer. Someday he would surely buy back his TV, buy back his life. "You will be proud of me again, someday. I am strong, I am strong enough to overcome my weaknesses, I will not use anymore (that was the last time, because I HAD to). Now I don't have to. Now I'm going."

He felt light, floating on air. He walked to the mirror. He saw an incredibly thin man with large eyes and sunken cheeks, shrouded in impenetrable blackness. Black pants, black shirt, black shoes. He put on his black coat and went out to fight, to win. It

was already getting dark outside. "I'll show them all." Walking aimlessly, he suddenly felt a growing itch in his fingers. A nagging, restless itch, all over his fingertips. As if something were trying to escape. He knew what it meant. The music was coming. It filled him from the inside, giving him strength almost as strong as a drug. It told him to go and search. He became a hunting dog in the service of music. His goal was to be the INSTRUMENT. An instrument that would allow the music to reveal itself in its magnificent form, allow it to grow, blossom, and enchant all listeners, allow it to momentarily capture their minds. "THIS will be my victory." He felt like an overcharged battery. If the melody inside him didn't find an outlet soon, he would start screaming it out in the middle of the street. He quickened his pace. He already knew where it would find an outlet. The bar. That was the solution. He took off running.

He opened the door and looked around the place. A few couples at tables, a few single people. A bar, and at it two men. One was huge, enormous with a massive beard, the other tall, slim, with deep, drunken eyes. Besides, both had drunken eyes. He knew them. The bigger one was Kieliszek, a simple man, but not vulgar. He worked hard, but he could think. Think very... Very... so logically. The other was the Master. Shit, not a master, but that's what they call him here. He's a writer. Maybe he was a writer? He once wrote a few decent books, but lately he seems to be seeing a bottle more often than a typewriter. Never mind. They both turned and waved him over, but he paid no attention. He had a mission to fulfill. Finally, he saw what he was looking for. On a small platform stood a dimly lit black piano. Without even taking off his coat, he walked over to it and sat down. He opened the hatch and began gently caressing the keyboard with his fingers. He felt a growing vibration, first engulfing his fingertips, then spreading throughout his hands. A glass filled with some kind of alcohol and ice appeared on the instrument's polish. He looked at the floating cubes. He saw their slow agony, their slow submission to the inexorable laws of physics, their inevitable death by melting. A thunderclap rolled through his drug-addled brain. "This is THEME! This is tragedy!" A shiver of delight ran through his body.

"Listen," he whispered, "listen to 'Requiem for Ice Cubes.' A musical tale about the tragedy of existence. About the tragedy of the consciousness of the end. About the tragedy of melting..."

His fingers began to take on a life of their own. The entire venue was filled with music. The few present were enchanted by the flowing sounds. What mad mind could create such music? Everyone knew the answer to that question perfectly well. Czarny was capable of anything. To them, he was a hero in that moment.

Until suddenly, everything fell silent. The dark one, breathing heavily, sat stiffly at the piano. He stared ahead with unseeing eyes, as if unaware of the effect his concert had had on those present. He just sat there. He felt empty. Empty, as if something had escaped him. He felt the familiar stab of pain again, but this time it wasn't physical pain. Suddenly, he realized his loneliness, realized that the only thing he truly cared about was another dose of the drug, felt a violent pang of guilt that shook him like a vomit. He felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead, and his hands began to tremble, not from an excess of energy, but from a lack of it. He was like an empty shell casing. All his energy had been expended in one desperate shot. He looked at the glass. The ice had long since melted. "He's dead. Just like me." He thought that by drinking this drink, he would be behaving like a cannibal. "What can I do to prevent anyone from desecrating this death?" He took the glass in his hand and, slowly turning it over in his trembling hands, pondered something. Then, as if still struggling with himself, he slowly tipped it upside down, spilling the contents onto the floor. At that moment, applause broke out. At first, one, maybe two people applauded timidly, but after a moment, everyone applauded. It wasn't exactly thunderous applause; after all, there were only a few guests in the bar, but the Dark One seemed to be just beginning to come to his senses. He glanced around the room with a startled look, smiled uncertainly, and then in one swift movement, grabbed his black coat and rushed out. He no longer needed any triumphs; now he just wanted to sleep. Leaving, or rather, running out of the bar, he nearly tripped over Intel's legs protruding from the bushes; a little further on, the Master swayed on his feet. "These are my brothers in misfortune. The only thing that separates us is the stimulant that's killing us." Staggering, he dragged himself home with the last of his strength. He collapsed onto the bed without even taking off his shoes.

He was dreaming. He saw darkness before him, divided by a thin green line. The darkness was everywhere. He tried to move, but his body was either completely attached to something or he had no control over it. Or he had no body at all. He tried to move his hand, to bring it before his eyes, to convince himself of his existence. Rolling his eyes, he saw only the omnipresent darkness. He wanted to scream. Nothing. Silence. So what? Couldn't scream, or couldn't he hear himself scream? Silence reigned everywhere. Unable to do anything else, he began to observe the green line. Straight, horizontal, emerging from infinity and leading to it. It was simply there. Suddenly, from this profound silence, a single sound began to emerge. At first, it was so faint that it could be felt rather than heard, but it grew stronger with each passing moment. "So I can hear! And if I can hear, then I have ears!" Well, yes... It was better than having nothing at all. At first, he was pleased with the unexpected change, but the sound grew so loud it began to irritate. Other than that, it didn't change at all. All he could hear was a steady beeping... And that line. It didn't change either. Darkness. It was constant. He was slowly losing his liking. "Where am I?"

And suddenly, a single spike appeared on the line, a single peak, accompanied by a single squeak! As if his heart had suddenly started beating again. Squeak! Squeak! And one spike, another... "But why can't I still move? Why can't I move, why—"

—I can't move!!!" He screamed, sitting on his bed. After a moment, he realized it was just a dream, a bad, terrible dream. He felt terribly tired. Drained of all his strength. He collapsed back onto the bed. He lay staring at the white ceiling. The echo of that terrible squeal continued in his head. Besides, what was so terrifying about it? "What terrified me so?" What difference did it make? It was just his sick, numb, and slapped (as one WRITER would put it: slapped) brain, terrified by some self-invented sound. Total schizophrenia.

He stood up. Another dose of white salvation stirred his crumbling personality. Everything was sharper again. Somewhere deep inside his body, his confused stomach demanded nourishment, but his brain, having already received its nourishment, ignored it. With clumsy movements, he began to tidy up the table when the telephone rang. "The telephone is ringing!!!" His right hemisphere tried to communicate with the left. What? One of them, no one knew which, couldn't remember what a telephone was, or rather what it was for. "Telephone!!!" Telephone, telephone. "Ah, telephone..." He found the phone and slowly picked up the receiver. Nothing. Silence. Oh, no, not silence. Something was speaking, only very quietly. And why was it speaking to his lips? After a moment, the appropriate relay activated in his head, and his hand obediently turned the receiver over. Now the voice became much clearer.

"Wojtek? Are you there? Please, say something..." The voice belonged to a woman. He knew it from somewhere. He'd heard it very often before. Now it was clear he was deeply troubled by something.

"Yes. I am..." "Well, yes, his name was Wojtek. Only when was the last time anyone called him that?" "That voice was, no, that voice is very close to me."

"Tell me how you are."—barely suppressed sobbing; even a frazzled mind can tell when someone, especially a woman, is trying to hold back tears. But why?—what's going on with you, because you know with me..." For the next few minutes he couldn't say anything, and besides, he had nothing to say. The words flowed from the receiver in a steady stream, pouring over him, and none of them reached their intended destination. Sometimes a name lingered in his head for a while, but his brain kicked it out before he could explain whose name it was and why he should remember it. "Wojtek. Say something." "Something," he thought, and almost burst out laughing into the receiver.

"It's... nice here." It sounded so stupid to him. The word "nice" and that stupid "something" made him want to roar with laughter, but he felt he couldn't because of that disturbing voice. That voice belonged to someone he had once loved very... Very, very... The word that was about to follow wanted to jump into his head, but at the last moment it recoiled like a startled mouse and fled.

"You know, I'm actually calling because I just wanted to tell you that all the time..." The word seemed to stop halfway, unsure whether to keep running or return. "Well, you know."

He knew nothing. He only knew he had to lure that word back. There was an awkward silence for a moment. He knew he should say something, but he was completely absorbed in hunting the tiny animal that damn word had turned into. And just when he thought he couldn't catch it, the creature pounced on him.

"I love you," the snap of the receiver being thrown away. The word turned out to be a word, the animal transformed into a huge beast that galloped and rammed him. The hunter became the hunted. "I didn't expect that." He sat still, still listening to the monotonous sound of the disconnected connection. After a moment, his hand voluntarily put down the receiver. "Did someone say I love you? Who was it? Did I know her?" Yes, he did. He knew that voice, but he couldn't connect it with anyone. This wasn't about hunting for the missing word anymore. There wasn't even anything to hunt for. The hunter stood in the middle of the field, looking around helplessly. Nothing. "And she called me Wojtek." He shrugged. Why bother? But the thought kept wandering through his mind. "She called me Wojtek. Get out of my head!! She called me Wojtek. So what, get out of my head!! She called me Wojtek." He ran out into the street. Just as he was. Besides, he didn't even need to change; he hadn't even taken off his shoes since yesterday. He ran along the sidewalk, ignoring the people passing by. He ran. Straight ahead. The street, the screeching of brakes, the screeching of tires, the screams of angry drivers. The sidewalk, the angry cries of people being hit. Just to escape his own thoughts. "She called me Wojtek." He fell. He curled into a ball, closed his eyes, and lay there in the middle of the sidewalk. He felt a crowd of gawkers gather around him. They chatted, chatted, and chatted. All the words blended into one incomprehensible gibberish that surrounded him from all sides. He didn't rise, so as not to see all the heads bending over him. A moment later, he heard the wail of a siren. Police, ambulance? It didn't matter to him.

"What's going on here?" A sharp, strong voice. He cringed even more. "Who is that man?"

"I don't know," a shrill female voice said, "he was running down the street, almost hitting me, and suddenly fell. Probably some drunk...

" "If he falls, he's a drunk, right?" a worn male voice protested.

"Please, stay calm. Hello, can you hear me?" The hand belonging to the strong voice shook his shoulder. He preferred not to move. He felt someone lifting him. A moment later, he was held by strong arms. He opened his eyes. Staring. Gazes full of an uncontrollable desire to see something unusual. Full of disgust mixed with pity. Full of venom. He didn't want to look at it. After a moment, the hands holding him practically carried him to the police car. Half an hour later, he was sitting in the police station across from a fat policeman talking on the phone.

"Who? Who the hell knows, he doesn't have any ID on him... Probably some fucking junkie... Wait until he comes to his senses and let him go? What if he blows his brains out somewhere?" It'll be on me... No, I'll bring him to you... Home? I explain that he has no documents and is in a state of total Nirvana...

"I don't have Nirvana," the cop was speechless.He looked at the Black Man as if he had just appeared - I feel quite well now, can I go?

"Okay, the prince has spoken after all, I won't be taking him to you, for now, bye." He hung up the phone. "So what, prince? Did you get high like a pig and think you were Batman or something?"

"No, I just..." He bit his tongue. "If I tell him I was running away from my thoughts, he'll have me taken to the madhouse, he's probably calling there now." He hung his head. He didn't know what to do.

"But what? You're a damn junkie. A pain in society's ass.

" "I'm not a pain. I'm a musician. I have an education. I have a diploma."

"Why are you silent? Get a grip, man, you're wasting your life.

" "You're right, Mr. Policeman, but you're using such slogans that it makes me want to puke."

"Can I go now?

" "Go to hell..." A resigned wave of the hand.

"I'm a pain, and she called me Wojtek." Sometimes the mind gets in the way. Controlling his screams with all his remaining strength, he walked out of the police station as usual. At least he hoped it looked normal. Fortunately, that crazy thought never recurred.

"I'm hungry." It was as simple as that. His stomach was doing a real riot; after all, he hadn't digested anything all day. From what he remembered, all he had at home was a piece of stale bread, nothing more. "Money! Damn, do I even have any money?" He pulled a crumpled ten-zloty bill from his pocket. What would it be good for?

He'd bought instant noodles at a nearby store, and while waiting in line at the checkout, he wondered where he could get the money for a hit of heroin. He had nothing of value left to sell; his friends had long since stopped lending him any money, and he had a feeling that in an hour, an hour and a half, he'd be writhing in the agony of hunger. "Maybe... a band?" As he paid, he forgot about his churning stomach; he just kept trying to think of something to say to get the guys in the band to give him a cut.

Redrum. They'd been good friends from college, and one day, bored, they decided to start a band. At first, it was a lot of fun, but as they saw it getting more and more interesting, they started thinking about playing seriously. Small gigs, serious rehearsals, and competitions began. After a year of playing, drugs started popping up. And not just him. The whole band was taking whatever they could get their hands on. Darek, their vocalist and guitarist, was the first to change his mind. One day, he announced he was suspending his activities in the band because he was going to rehab.

"And you, fuck, better do the same. I'm tired of waking up every morning with my head full of questions about where to get my next fix." That's how he put it then. The other two, Wojtek and Leszek, were so worked up that the news only reached them when no one was singing at rehearsal. He remembered that... Then Leszek came to his senses. Six months after that conversation, those two could say they were clean. And him? He supposedly tried to quit, but increasingly he saw in his friends' eyes a mixture of disgust and horror that they might look the same. Sometimes they talked. They sat him down between them and asked him to quit. And he just nodded obediently. Then his wife left. A week later, Leszek came to him with his things. He wanted to keep an eye on him, but even he gave in after a month. Then the conversations started again, but in a different vein.

"If you don't stop using, we'll kick you out of the band." He really wanted to be clean. He wouldn't even work for a week, but then it always seemed to come up, something...

And finally, it happened. One short conversation. He had no reason to show up at rehearsals. They fired him. "Besides, they were right. I would have fired myself." They hired a new bassist; he'd even heard them on the radio a few times. In short, they were climbing the ranks. "I wonder if they still play in Darek's old garage?" He was heading in that direction. On the way, he thought about what he could say to get some money. "I'll say I'm starting treatment. Or no, I'll say I'm clean now, I just need some money to get started. Or maybe just say I'm on a diet? No, that's stupid." Thinking this, he stood in front of an old, wooden door locked with a big, old padlock. He knocked lightly. "If they're playing, no one will hear me."

"Hey, guys!" He pounded his fists on the rotten door. Nothing. "Open up, it's me, Czarny."

He felt his eyes water. They were gone. "What am I going to do now?" Sobbing, he began alternately kicking and pounding on the wood. Feeling he was losing control, he began to scream,

"It's all because of you! You've been through this too! Now help me! You owe me..." He was slowly losing his strength. He couldn't do anything anymore. He fell to his knees, then turned around and sat on the ground, leaning against the damn door. "What now?" He closed his eyes. "I need to rest for a moment." He heard a car approaching somewhere in the distance. It stopped and three men got out. They were laughing, talking about something, maybe one of them was telling a joke? They came around the corner and saw an emaciated man dressed all in black. "

Black!" two of them shouted. The third one didn't quite understand what they were talking about. "That's our former bass player," one of them said, and they all approached Wojtek. He opened his eyes and looked at them. He looks at them and doesn't know who they are. He tries to say something, but only incomprehensible gibberish comes out.

"We're calling an ambulance!" Tomek shouts. But the others look at him, and Tomek sees two words in their eyes: SHUT UP. They carry Czarny to Darek's house and put him in bed. Wojtek's body is shaking as if he were cold, but at the same time, sweat is pouring from him in torrents. Darek and Leszek look at this devastated body, both thinking only of what they themselves managed to avoid. And they were so close.

"We have to help him somehow." Leszek knows he won't give up this time. "I don't want to have him on my conscience. Remember, we've both been through this. We have to get him through this; he can't do it alone.

" "Sure. It's easy to say, but what, are you going to watch him 24/7?

" "I don't know. Maybe we should actually call the ambulance. He should probably go to rehab.

" "If he doesn't want to, even God himself won't help him." Meanwhile, Czarny felt like someone had moved him somewhere. He didn't know if someone had picked him up or if it was just a hallucination. He lost interest. His entire body howled with pain. He was losing touch with the world, drowning in a sea of ​​pain.

"I don't know if he'll want to, but we'll take the chance. Tomek, call."

Czarny felt someone moving him again. After a moment, or maybe an hour, he lost track of time; he was in some large, white, metal box with several people dressed in white bustling about inside. Then someone turned the power off.

Turning it back on didn't hurt. That surprised him. Someone had given him something. Some kindred spirit had seen him lying under the garage and given him a hit. He felt... No, it wasn't drugs, something was keeping him going, but it wasn't drugs. He opened his eyes. Hospital.

A chance?