kilgore-trout

Przecietne polskie liceum. Przecietna lekcja. Narracja tez niezbyt wybitna.
`Profesor`: (..) dobrze, wiec niech mi pan przytoczy jakies argumenty popierajaca teze, iz czarni sa gorsi od bialych.
Glos z boku sali: ...bo... bo nie ma czarnych krwinek...

I walked briskly up the path to the cottage which I hadn’t visited for two months. The grass had grown to a height of about twenty centimeters. Hardly surprising, since it had been raining a lot, although that particular day was dry and sunny. It was late afternoon and it was getting colder. I put my hand in my pocket, got out the key and unlocked the door. Before leaving, I had locked every door and window. As I stepped inside, I noticed that the air was fresh. That couldn’t be right. Was I imagining things, or did I hear a creak from the top of the stairs?

            I’d felt very curious about the sound so I came up the stairs. I looked around but everything was in a perfect order, just as it should be, without any changes. Suddenly I spotted a moonshine on the floor. A moonshine? On the floor? What could have reflected it?

            I slowly stepped toward. Then I remarked that it was a trail of blood. And it wasn’t dry yet. It was leading to one of the doors. Although I shuddered, my curiosity was stronger than my fear. I couldn’t notice when I got to the door and I was ranging for the knob. My hand felt a cold iron. My hand felt also that the knob was smeared with blood. And the organic liquid opposite to the iron mould – was still warm. I couldn’t think in a clear way. An unconscious impulse made me to turn the knob. I had no other choice than submitting to my brain’s command.

            I carefully pushed the door. It had creaked. At least now I knew what the source of the sound was. I imagined that I was only a quiet breath so that no one could see me and I slipped into the room. I don’t think I’ll be ever able to describe what I’d seen there. The floor, the walls and even the ceiling. Every square meter of the room had been covered by blood. In the centre of the room, there was standing a young woman.

            I realized that the sound, the scent of the blood, the trial or the redness on the walls – the whole surrounding reality was prepared for my incoming. The worst foreboding: I had been designated to be the only spectator of this performance, and the show wouldn’t had any sense without me. All these thoughts came from my mind’s uninterruptible stream of consciousness. I was terrified. I couldn’t do anything. I was like a puppet, and somewhere there – above me – there was a puppet master controlling my body. The puppet master made me to close the door, stand in silence and watch the play.

            I didn’t felt scared anymore. I was numb and deaf. I looked at the girl, who was standing just in front of me. Although I’d been trying to remember as many details as I could, my memory of that event is very blurred. But the thing that I can remember is a dreadful expression of her face. She looked like she was already dead. The paleness of her skin and the whiteness of her dress were contrasting with the signs of blood dripping from her. There was a some kind of voidness in the way she was staring at me.

            I set my eyes on the sharp object in her left hand, reflecting moonshines falling through the window just as the bloody trail on the corridor did. She rised her right hand and turned it in the way that I could clearly see her wrist. While still staring at me, she put the knife to it and cut herself.

            I felt her pain. I was actually feeling her pain rushing through my veins. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I started to cry. In one moment I understood her entire history. Why had I been designated to take part in this sick scene. Why had she committed the suicide again. Why had she had so much sorrow in herself. Everything was so frightfully obvious. These weren’t my memories. These couldn’t be my memories.

            A sharp scream whisked the air with emotions. It was a sound of spirit emerging from body. My tears were burning my face as the pain was burning my soul. What was happening to me?! I desired to leave this damn cottage. To be anywhere else. Or if not, then to disappear. I would give everything just to stop feeling the way I was.

            I collapsed into the puddle of blood. It seemed that the puppet master cut his puppet’s strings.

            I don’t remember what time it could be, when I woke up. I don’t even remember had I slept couple of hours or couple of days. I slowly opened the eyes. I couldn’t figure out what had happened before I passed out. I had an enormous headache. I sat on the floor and looked around but everything was in a perfect order. It had to be a nightmare.
            Suddenly I realized a small scar burnt on the wrist.

[a teraz krytykowac, wynajdywac bledy ortograficzne a w szczegolnosci gramatyczne - pooh, zabawa dla Ciebie - prooooosze ... w naszych ocenach pomijamy urywkowosc tegoz tekstu - gra idzie o wielka stawke! - CZEKOLADE [Milka lub Wedel - z duzymi orzechami]!]

6/11/04

Pyt: Jaka byla najwieksza tragedia w historii literatury polskiej?
Odp: Smierc Orszulki.