[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.Why won’t this night end? I cry inside and I leave my cot and stand by the window, looking up, feeling the hint of a breeze.Through the bars I see stars, then a cloud passes that resembles a dead, naked woman.I stand that way for a long time, thinking how, during the dark times, I would often stand this way and dream that the breeze was the breath of a curvy blonde, or a mysterious brunette; I would smell peach, or vanilla, or strawberry and I would imagine lips pressing down on mine.I would never picture a face, the idea was good enough, and I would be transported from this dungeon into a world full of possibilities, where cars were fast and women were ripe for the picking.My world, a world…“That doesn’t exist,” says the old man.My reverie breaks and I twirl around and yelp, “I thought you were gone?”The old man is now slumped in one corner, paper bag sitting beside him, the sour smell of vomit now a most unwelcome addition to the mélange of putrid vapors.“You’re full of shit and you know it,” the old man whose face is still covered by shadows croaks.“You still have the demon in you, you always will.I should know.”“No…I…” I stumble, looking to the bars, wondering if they were already open, maybe I’m allowed to leave? But no, the bars are in place, and it’s still night, and why, oh why won’t the morning come already? “Are you my father?” I ask.The old man nods.“Let me ask you – what’s waiting for you out there?”“Plenty,” I say, the wall cold against my back.My father gurgles.“Like?”“Well…”“You got no wife, no kids, and your mom doesn’t want anything to do with her rapist son.”“Fuck you,” I spit, but the spit has no venom.“But here, well, here you’ve got everything you need…”“I hate it here,” I say, and that’s the truth, I do, I hate the routine, the suffocating boredom.I hate concrete and metal and plastic and numbers and the smell of blood, semen and sweat makes my head hurt and my spine crumple.“I just want the morning to come,” I tell my long-dead dad.“That’s all, I’m just waiting for the sun to shine and then I’ll be out of here.”“Well, if that’s the case, then that’s easy.”I swallow, taste hope.“What do you mean?”The old man grips the bottle wrapped in paper and raises one raggedy arm.He releases his fingers and the bottle falls.With a sound like a baby’s scream, the bottle smashes to the cold floor, spreading red wine and glass.I wait for a guard to come, but it doesn’t happen.I turn to my dear father; of whom my memory consists of nothing more than the smell of alcohol and the size and power of his fist.That, and the time I found him in the den one evening, slumped in his chair, something like red wine oozing from his wrists, staining the carpet below.“There’s your way out,” my dad says, nodding his shadowy head to the floor.I frown down at the small pond of wine and glass.“There’s nothing there.”“I know, but you won’t listen.Still, if you want the morning to come, look harder.”Yes, I want the morning to come, I think I tell him.That means I’m free, I can leave this construct of torture and step out into the free world.But the night…“Is there for the taking, if you want it.If you really want this pain to be over, then all you have to do is climb through the hole, jump down into the river, and float away.”I swallow.Taste blood.“I see no hole.”“Yes you do.It’s there.It’s always been there.People don’t realize that anything is there for the taking if they look hard enough.Take this paper bag.I looked, and I found it.Now I’ll always have it, just like you’ll always have this place.”“But I’m leaving this place.”“As you wish.”And then I see the hole.Just big enough for me to slip through, it’s like the spilled wine was acid and ate right through the concrete.“Where does it lead?” I ask.“Hop down and find out.”I get down on my knees.I hear the glass crunch, feel pricks on my knees and hands, but they don’t affect me.I peer down into the hole.I see a river rushing by not five feet from my face.A deep red river, with streaks of creamy white, like strands of milk have been poured into a tub of ketchup.It smells sickly sweet, like wine.“Just hop down into the river, float away and soon it’ll be morning and you’ll…”“Be free,” I finish [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

zanotowane.pl

doc.pisz.pl

pdf.pisz.pl

listy-do-eda.opx.pl