"In the mental sphere, we're dealing with the devastation of work ethic, a loss of initiative, learned helplessness, and the resulting entitlement."
Krystyna Kersten
The blue Volkswagen Golf bravely took the brunt of the downpour, though its wipers could barely keep up. It kept bumping over the bumps of the sparsely traveled road, surrounded by dense forest. The road was strikingly empty; there were no people, no buildings, not even a bus stop. Just trees and trees...
Robert pressed the accelerator harder. He was in a hurry, because his watch read 2:30 PM, and the funeral was scheduled to start at 3 PM. He still had at least fifty kilometers of driving left through the wilderness.
"I guess I'm the biggest loser in the family," he thought. Indeed, if there were important matters to attend to, like scheduling family celebrations, he was always chosen. Today he would have to watch his stiff, white-faced uncle – assuming the coffin was open – and, strangely enough, his aunt mourning the deceased, who had been exceptionally primitive in life. How could you describe someone who finished his education in the sixth grade, habitually beat his wife, and was more often seen drunk than sober? Add to that the terrible weather and bumpy road conditions, and Robert might have considered the day wasted.
He didn't even notice when a deer ran onto the road. He swerved sharply, but couldn't avoid it. Suddenly, his entire life flashed before his eyes, then he heard the screeching of tires and a loud crash. Fortunately, he finally braked without hitting anything else. The dying animal lay on the road, covered in blood, but the Golf emerged almost unscathed. It only had a small dent in the front and a few scratches. Robert got out of the car, grabbed the deer by the legs, and dragged it to the side of the road.
Suddenly, he noticed he'd gotten blood on his pants.
"I've had enough of this!" he roared and got back in the car. "A little longer and I'll end up in the chapel myself.
" The rest of the journey was uneventful. The monotony of the drive was compounded by the Volkswagen bouncing over potholes, the irritating rain, and, of course, the trees—they looked as if someone had recorded them on tape and maliciously rewinded them before Robert's eyes. To lighten his mood, he turned on the radio. The lyrics to the song came from the speaker: "
Maybe we could divide it in two...
Maybe my animals live in your zoo..."
After a moment, the radio crackled and fell silent.
Finally, he emerged from the forest, and a small town appeared on the horizon. Two kilometers further on, he passed a green sign with a shoddily executed pink inscription: "Welcome to Dłutowo." Yes, this was Dłutowo – a complete mess, where no attempt was ever made to create even the semblance of urbanity. The sight of a man dressed in tattered clothes, swaying back and forth with a bottle in his hand, was the norm here, and since visas to the USA were abolished, only drunks, slackers, and retirees remained.
After passing the first row of neglected houses, Robert drove across a bridge spanning a dirty river, fed by waste from a nearby dairy, and turned onto the street where a dirty gray soap dish 1 had been parked. Around the next bend was a park. In the center stood a monument glorifying the perpetuators of people's rule, and it didn't look like anyone would remove it anytime soon. On the granite, someone had spray-painted in large letters: "Red whores." Three ragged men sat on a green bench, casually drinking methylated spirits, which they used to call "gumberry juice." The weather clearly didn't bother them at all.
It was still pouring down rain as Robert parked in front of a small brick building. He pulled the cheapest wreath he could find at the flower shop from the trunk and headed toward the ajar, barely hanging on hinges door to the chapel. He hadn't even stepped inside, and the sounds of monotonous prayer were already unnerving him.
Inside, it was an unpleasant semi-darkness and the repulsive smell of chrysanthemums and lilies. Four elderly women were praying the rosary on the benches riddled with insects. Next to the closed coffin, his aunt was praying on a dedicated chair. Robert placed the wreath next to the case containing his dead uncle and muttered some condolences to her—the first words that came to mind. He prayed briefly and sat down in the back, behind the women. He glanced at his watch—it was a few minutes after 3:00 PM. The organist was clearly half-awake from the previous night's party—a party that had obviously been heavily intoxicated—so everyone was just waiting for the priest, who was due to arrive any minute. A
shambling old man in a clerical collar entered through the back door. He was about to begin the ceremony, but something rudely interrupted him—the coffin suddenly rocked on its catafalque. Suddenly, a large, cadaverous fist pierced the weak pine wood and then recoiled back inside. Two elderly women fainted, and his aunt and the other women ran screaming from the chapel. It was amazing that old, sick people could run so fast, if need be. Meanwhile, struck by a scene straight out of a well-known horror movie, the priest's heart gave out, and within five seconds he was lying stiff on the floor. Meanwhile, Robert stood paralyzed with fear, unable to move even an inch.
The coffin shook harder and fell from the catafalque. The corpse kicked the lid, losing a shoe in the process. Then he stood up and wheezed horribly. Dressed in an elegant jacket—though slit in the back—he would have looked quite presentable if not for his bulging, watery eyes, his white face, and his open mouth, from which some greenish-yellow discharge dripped onto the floor. And that missing shoe... But no matter how you look at it, this was probably the only opportunity to see this usually dirty ragamuffin in a suit.
Interestingly, the uncle didn't immediately attack Robert, but instead became interested in a painting of some saint—probably the local patron saint—hanging nearby. He headed in that direction, probably intending to devour the work of a local "artist," but on his way to the painting, he came across a crucifix. He let out a terrible howl and hunched over, looking like a cowering mutt. Only after a few seconds did he move again and, taking small, circuitous steps, approach his intended target. Then he unleashed his savage rage, pounding the canvas with his hands until it fell to the floor with a crash.
At this sight, Robert had the foolish thought that his uncle's dislike of the church had reached its peak after his death. He glanced at the spot where the priest had fallen earlier, but there was no one there now. However, he had no time to wonder where the priest's body was now.
The monster sat on the floor and, with animalistic aggression, began tearing at the painting with its yellowed teeth, swallowing the broken pieces as it went. Robert struggled to overcome his fear. Trying to avoid attracting attention, he began walking toward the door. He only broke into a run for the exit when the corpse stopped its unusual consumption and clumsily moved toward him, swaying from side to side.
Suddenly, the figure of a pale, wrinkled priest emerged from around the bend. The old man grabbed the fugitive's wrist with a cold hand and bit him hard on the neck. Blood began to drip quickly onto the floor. Robert managed to push the attacker away and get out of the building. Before he could reach his car, however, he staggered and fell.
***
He woke up with a smashed head in his car. He struggled to pull his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed the emergency number. He was bruised and bruised. His Volkswagen Golf was in a ditch, its body bent on a thick tree trunk that hadn't tilted even an inch from the impact. A dead deer lay beside the car. Suddenly, the radio turned on by itself, and the lyrics of a song played from the speaker:
Maybe we could divide it in two...
Maybe my animals live in your zoo...
After a moment, the radio began to crackle and fell silent.
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