What is so special about an extraordinary person? An extraordinary person helps humans to understand that every person is extraordinary. Well, the writer made our entire life change, turning everything back to front but mysteriously allotting it its normal places. He came not because he wanted something from us – one can’t get something from nothing – and not because Yury had asked him, but because we needed someone to lean on – a person with an amazing gift, that of turning every disadvantage into an advantage. From the very beginning, all our conversations resembled battles where he was the “subject of testing” (or the subject to test), of firmness, of certain convictions. He didn’t try to disprove anything for any purpose, but somehow, everything turned out to be disproved in the end.
“We want to be like everybody else,” I started, as usual.
“What do you need it for?”
He answered my question with a new question. Well, it did not actually bewilder me.
“In order not to stand out from others,” I explained patiently.
He didn’t even stir an eyelid.
“The fact of standing out and distinguishing yourself means that the person is unique.”
I must honestly admit that he infuriated me and so I always kept on arguing. But the more I contemplated my sufferings, the more I suffered, and still didn’t stop contemplating. Our conversations with him went something like this:
“What can be worse than being castaways? No one needs us.”
“But you have each other; not everyone can boast of this privilege.”
“We can never be each of us separately,” you hissed with poorly hidden malice.
“On the other hand,” the corners of his lips curled slightly upward, “you never know loneliness.”
“We don’t want to stand in the tunnel and seek charity; it is humiliating,” we said unanimously.
“Everybody asks for something: help, friendship or blessing. Why not beg if someone is ready to donate to the needy? After all, the pleasure of giving is so much greater than receiving,” he concluded. “The earlier you understand it, the sooner you will find happiness and make the world happy.”
That evening, when he left, turning his back on us, I kept on seeing his smile for a long time afterwards – the smile of a child on an old man’s lips.
Do you know what I’m thinking about? Is everything you perceive true, what you witness, the truth for everyone else? What if memories are just figments of one’s imagination? You are still silent, aren’t you?
I was awakened by a deafening silence, so profound that it seemed to have its own essence. A strange feeling dominated me, its strangeness familiar: a deep loneliness, and simultaneously the necessity to feel such loneliness. What am I so worried about? It is a beautiful, snowy winter day; a little New Year tree adorns one of the attic corners. Today is the last day of the year which is coming to an end, things are looking up. For the first time in our life we will have a real holiday, just like everybody else. Yura is coming soon to help us decorate our first New Year tree. I am so happy that I wouldn’t even be afraid to die. I have only read it in books, but now I know how it really feels.
I heard the sound of footsteps on a concrete staircase…
You slept so peacefully and quietly that I didn’t dare to awaken you. You’re going to wake up by yourself, I decided. The footsteps ended and a long wiggling shadow appeared in the doorway of the attic. This is not Yura. The expectation lasts forever. Meanwhile, the silhouette determinedly looked around and quickly moved to us. I was enormously overwhelmed with fear and curiosity. The shadow came nearer, entering a better-lit area. Mixed feelings filled me – disappointment, annoyance, fear, hatred, helplessness – when I recognized Compass Legs’s face. I always knew that he would come… and that very instant you opened your eyes.
“Peekaboo!” he hemmed. “Have you been waiting for me?”
“Yeah, right, all our thoughts were about you,” you answered impudently.
“Well, perfectly well. And now, pick your asses up,” he ordered brusquely, sending abundant spit onto the floor, “and march to work.”
Not letting us come round, he shook us out of the blanket and towed us behind him to the exit.
“Don’t touch her! She’s feeling unwell,” I begged for mercy. Perhaps we could put everything right between us and him, come to terms by mutual agreement, but…
“Fuck off, asshole! I’m not going anywhere!” you shrieked aloud. With rage, you thrust your nails into his neck.
Not expecting to encounter such a reaction, he was taken aback and got confused for an instant. Well, those magical instants are worth gold for a director, whoever he may be, and also for the public, who we truly are. Nonetheless, no moment lasts forever. Quite predictably, after regaining self-possession, Compass Legs slapped you in the face with all his might.
Absolute hatred permeated every fiber of my soul, and it seemed like someone else, not me, whipped out the screwdriver from your pocket. What was that person motivated by? Was it fear or loathing I harbored for that man? Is it possible to explain and justify everything with fear and loathing? Maybe explain, but not justify. It’s too late now to say sorry. A screwdriver is already in my hands. Killing someone is so easy and, along with that, so revolting! At a loss, I pause for a fraction of a second or less, but alas, the difference between losers and winners is often thinner than a hair, and Compass Legs doesn’t hesitate and acts at lightning-speed. He jerks the screwdriver out of my hand and lifts it above his head.
You know, Hope, I’ve got used to the feeling that death is always somewhere near, but who is going to be the first – you or me?
I close my eyes… hear a bump from inside and then nothing unexpected, just a screwdriver sticking out of your chest in the place where a heart should be. I feel strange relief, strange surprise: there is no pain, no fear, and no remorse. You’re slowly going down: first your knees bend and only then you slump sideways, tugging at my sleeve and my hip.
“It is all her freaking fault, not mine. And you,” Compass Legs grumbles apprehensively, pointing his finger at me, “you’d better not open your mouth, or else you’ll follow your sister in a moment.” And he vanishes into the dark as if that element were his life-companion.
I try to get up and look at you. You don’t move, and, apparently, don’t even breathe. I call your name, try to slap you in the face, and shout like an insane person so that everybody can hear: “It was me who provoked fate, attacking Compass Legs on purpose. For all my life I’ve been dreaming of getting rid of you, of my ballast, of escaping from the prison of our bodies.” And now, when you are dying, I have the long-desired power to speak and act for both of us, live up to the hilt, but at the same time I can do nothing. If you don’t live for me, I will die because of you. It is never going to end. Never! I am doomed to live with you forever and you are going to live and suffer with me. I will drag us to the staircase; don’t you dare die on me. Don’t you dare!”
I grasped your elbow and, thrusting my feet against the floor, tried to pull us up to the door. Like a worm in the sun, I coiled next to your body, striving to move forward at least a little bit, but in vain. Summoning the last remnants of my strength, I jerked you by the hand with all the might I had, but you seemed to be glued to the floor. You’re so heavy, Hope, so fucking heavy! Realizing my weakness, I yelled even harder, as hard as our mother must have yelled coughing us out into this world, putting into that yell everything I have ever experienced in my life: hatred, love, despair and hope. And then… How long did we lie on the floor?