LUCKY-BAG

 

I didn't see the writer die. At 3:30 in the morning, I suddenly noticed that my mobile phone starts to vibrate in a conspicuously intrusive and cheeky way, which is very strange and disturbing, because I usually always turn off all power sources after I go to bed.
In most cases, without exception, this kind of thing is always directed at women, as if only they have enough empathy and tolerance, or even enough sympathy for the tragedy, to be able to rise above the imprisoned conditions of everyday life. Although this is not true at all. Women are at the mercy of an extremely sad act just like men, so they walk in similar shoes - at most they just don't show the subjective, more sensitive side of their inner selves. True! Men don't always!
At first, most people listen with stunned silence, and increasingly self-absorbed hide behind the shelter of silence, perhaps hoping that the shock caused by grief will correct what the spoken, consoling words were already unable to change. In such cases, it is better to use not only the donkey ladder of massive guilt, but also the most sincere tone of sympathy. Then, when the person on the other end of the line, as if the person is an idiot or hard of hearing, asks one last time, this time as a final attempt, that the dead body should be identified as it is not a relative or a relative, the person is involuntarily seized by a crusted feeling of nausea, which then becomes sticky , settles on his entire being in a disgusting form.
- Good day! �" a quiet, humble greeting, as if anything could be done with it. - Please... I've come for identification... - I even forgot to put on a little make-up at home, so my alabaster-like skin, which by now must be quite dry, is almost cracking, while the woman who looks like a pensioner, who is at least one and a half tall and looks very strictly measured, who is anxious in the glass cage, glares at me as if she wants to find out real income.
"Relative or relative?" he asks in unison, smelling of paper. No sympathy or compassion can be seen on her witch-like features.
"Friend..." I note.
-Fill out this form and bring it back! �" under the glass of the glass cage, where his fleshy fingers cannot fit, he clumsily tries to slip an official form into my hands. I take it as if I already find it dirty, or at least objectionable from a hygienic point of view, but I return the gesture with a reassuring smile that he is trying to help, even if I assume that it is only a duty and formality.
"Yes!" Thank you very much!
"Do you want a pen?" he asks a little more friendly.
- No thank you! I have! - and I'm already taking the writing tool out of the captivity of my little ridiculousness, and I'm getting ready to submit the filled-in form in less than five minutes, and I'm already going home, because the negative, depressing atmosphere of this bleak and unfriendly place makes me feel tense, hopeless, and crying at the same time you chase In the meantime, I keep thinking about why my best high school friend did this to himself, when he had such a promising future and maybe even a career ahead of him?! I just don't get it!
As I enter, filling in the small squares of the official questions, in which I try to provide almost all the necessary information about myself, which belongs to others, rolling stretchers covered with snow-white sheets appear next to me, accompanied by two dismembered operating assistants. "These must be the hearses!" - I draw the conclusion, then I try to focus only on what my task is, and I don't allow anything or anyone to deviate from my original goal.
I remembered my father's death. It was all as if it had been made in a big factory of lies. Everyone was terribly sympathetic and kind and helpful, until finally the day of the cremation came, and the cataracts that caused the blindness, said to be permanent, fell from everyone's eyes. Even then, I felt that they had no idea either to help the esteemed relatives, or to support us financially from the actual loss.
No one has explained whether the bilateral infarction follows on its own, waits for the person as a silent killer, or is born consciously together with the person?
It took me less than eight minutes to finish the form print, then I go back to the glass cage and try to slide the form in with as little contact as possible with my hands on the glass wall.
"I'm asking you to wait for now, they'll call you later!" - the pensioner-aged Marcona woman gives a clear, military instruction, and then sinks back into her stacks of documents, as if she has more important things to do than express condolences or discover emotions on the faces of most visitors.
"Thank you!" - I answer, and then I'd rather walk around the waiting room, because somehow I don't feel like sitting on the dirty, plastic chairs, knowing that in the health sector there can't be enough financial resources even for toiletries.
Even so, it takes a good half an hour until a professor-type, white-coated, middle-aged doctor comes out and nods his head to reassure me.
In the next few minutes, I feel that my heart cannot stop itself. At the same time, he beats, fusses, shouts, and thumps in my chest as much as when I first fell in love, or when I first slept with a handsome guy who was later unworthy. I am constantly asking and telling myself: "What the hell am I doing here?!" Would anyone even miss me if I died?!”
The doctor leads you to a chamber that is extremely damp and reminds one of the cold of January. As I find out later, we are in a separate pathology room. The whole place has the feeling of being in a Steven King novel, and at almost any moment the undead could crawl out of its ice-cold steel trays. It's disgusting, disgusting, and not a pretty sight at all. ,, To hell with it! Do you all have to end up in such a seedy dump?” I tear up while wringing my hands. It's an annoying habit, but now somehow it calms me down.
With careful movements, the doctor pulls out the steel-colored cooling tray, in which lies the body of my former high school friend. According to the official autopsy report, he committed suicide.
"Miss!" Do you know this person? - question is a simple routine procedure, but unfortunately necessary.
"Yes!" My friend... from high school... - my voice trembles, it literally breaks at the moment I utter the sad words, and no matter how I try to keep the last seeds of mental presence within me, my tears suddenly fall. - How did it happen? I blurt out.
"The official report established poisoning!" - says the doctor with sympathy in his voice, and then quickly adds, so as not to forget: - I am truly sorry! Would you like a glass of water?
Although there is no doubt that a little water would be very nice right now, but since we are in a morgue, I quickly give up on that.
"No thank you… Can I go…?" �" like someone standing in front of a prison guard.
- Yes, of course! I wish you all the best! �" with that he shuts the cold body of my good old friend back inside the steel door.
Only now do I notice how much this very familiar, always kind, friendly face has lost weight, fallen in and emaciated. That he really wanted to go on a date, and that I would have gone out with him after the prom. Maybe we could have had a candlelit dinner and some champagne. When he first wrote a poem to my girlfriend, she laughed out loud, but I later read this poem and became very envious and jealous that none of my handsome boyfriends wrote me a single line, but they all wanted to get laid and have endless sex.
The autopsy report and other costs also had to be paid. I know that this is the order of the day, but we are still talking about a person. Couldn't they be a little more gentle or partial? And I was already suffocating from the poison.
Another doctor shows up later, and I'm just about to catch up when, at a quarter to twelve, I prepare to leave this cursed place for good.
"Miss, please!" One minute ago! Would you please! - he hastily takes the figure. He's quite handsome, not counting his high blood pressure head.
"There you go!" Do you command? - I look at him curiously, surprised, with tears in my eyes.
"We found it next to the body!" �" he hands over a medium-sized, transparent foil package in which the deceased's personal belongings were placed.
All of a sudden, childish, naive excitement takes over me. I am very curious about the contents of the small package. I see it also has a deadline diary. This was also typical of my friend. He took notes throughout our high school acquaintance.
I get home around two o'clock in the afternoon, and after I try to take a good shower and wash my hair at least twice, I still feel wrapped in a towel, like someone who is filthy from life.
All my clothes have a long-lasting hospital smell. Put it in the washing machine and it's done! But it would be good!
My friend told me many times about his unsuccessful suicide attempts. When the ladies laughed at him after quite a few unsuccessful dates, almost his world collapsed and he was extremely bitter. During the holiday, he confessed in his shy, tomboyish, gentlemanly, constantly apologizing manner that he could barely breathe while kissing because he was breathing hard through his nose while the lady he was dating kept kissing his mouth. I tried to comfort him, but it also weighed heavily on my soul. I felt I could have taken better care of him. I could have accompanied or sent the naughty, arrogant girl to a warmer climate.
I nervously opened the package with trembling hands. Inside was a used, slightly damaged diary with free verse scribbled, some letters in envelopes, and a key. I started to rack my brain: which door can the key open?! Your own apartment for sure! My friend had an apartment or an independent life at all. Most recently, he lived with his mother.
I picked up the deadline diary and as soon as I started flipping through the pages I found a small note with my name on it. Later it turned out that he was in love with me, and some of his poems are love poems, and therefore addressed to me.
The suffocating desire to cry again seizes me, but this time I give free rein to my hidden emotions. Why did I have to neglect such a special, extraordinary person for so many years, who could only be who he was in the eyes of the outside world?! Deep, sentimental emotions rush over me.
On the small note I find an address in the eleventh district of the capital. I decide that I will immediately pick up something and as if I were an investigative reporter I will find out the truth no matter what. I get on the bus and before I know it, I'm already there at the given address.
I glimpse an old turn-of-the-century tenement house with an inner courtyard and many happy peacetime memories. At first, it is so old-fashioned and dilapidated that it is dazzling even in this form. A few gargoyle monsters carved out of stone watch silently as you open the large oak door, on which the people of ancient times installed a wrought iron knocker.
- Forgive me! Lady! Who are you looking for? �" a sort of caretaker or janitor approaches me and inquires.
- I apologize! I don't know if I'm in the right place? I show him the address scribbled on a small note.
"Yes, of course!" Mr. Artist said he would come! You are extremely pretty! - he notes, then decides to become my guide and accompany me up to the third floor. Meanwhile, he tries to explain the history of the place in broad terms.
"You know, I'm one of the oldest residents!" he says proudly. My family has lived and settled here since the settlement.
"Congratulations!" - I answer, because I can't think of a better idea, I'm more excited about the apartment.
One more step and we arrive at our destination.
"Can you come in ma'am?"
"Yes!" I brought the key! - I reach into my purse and fish out the golden, slightly rusty key.
The old man doesn't bother, he carefully asks for the key, puts it in the lock, and within a few minutes the front door dings open, just like in a Sergio Leone Wild West movie.
�" If you need anything, just look for the two-bedroom apartment on the ground floor! he says in a friendly way. "The dear Mr. Artist was a very good person!" God rest her soul! - he adds, then starts walking down the stairs.
At first sight, the apartment seems to be a special combination of modern and old style. There was a huge bookshelf in the living room, where no guest had set foot in for who knows how long, because the writer didn't really receive guests. He tried to keep in daily contact with everyone using the Internet. Of course, this does not mean at all that a person has become self-centered or just antisocial.
Later, his eyes immediately fell on the already slightly creaky rocking chair. He was still alive, the memory throbbed in him of how radiantly happy his old friend had called him back then, that he had finally bought himself a rocking chair, and no one said anything about it. You will finally have time to think and ponder new literary plans. How simple everything must have seemed at that time...
I thought for a moment and sat down. What harm can it do? After all, objects and things fill their mourning at this moment and rest next to the living. Well, I also try to breathe with them.
Later, I will take down an old book of poems bought in an antiquarian. It is more than likely that he also turned the pages of an unknown volume with the same curious, childlike excitement. The excitement of the old university literary history classes suddenly became as alive and palpable as if only yesterday they were classmates at the same university.
I catch myself and stand up after ten minutes, because I can feel that my limbs are a little numb, but now somehow I like this slightly dull numbness. I walk over to the large laptop. You can see that it is already ten years old, yet it is as clean and well-kept as those objects that a person deliberately takes care of, since they can represent emotional and extremely important values ​​in your life.
I open the screen, which automatically loads the start screen of win 10, but it asks for a password. Nothing is simpler! Average users usually enter either their year of birth, or the number of their birthday, or usually the date of some very special day. Let's see! I enter eighty-three as the year of birth, add his nickname without the accent, of course, and voila! I'm already in! A strikingly exotic woman in her thirties wearing a wedding dress, a bun, and a mini tiara stares at me with a beaming smile. Suddenly, he is seized with a good-natured jealousy. What a fool my friend must have been to get such a beautiful wife. And then when I think later that in high school he would rather hide in his fear with hesitant half-heartedness than to address a girl properly, and asks her out on a date, then for the first time I stand idly by with my own question: How did this woman manage to wrap it around her fingers? After all, the dead man must have written a lot of love poems, but modern women are not at all interested in poetry or poems, let alone the power of words. That's a fact!
I open a folder where I find manuscripts and larger text editors, apparently everything is in its place in a precise, immaculate order. It is fortunate that people do not like to change their originally formed habits over many years.
Finally, among the video files, I come across a wedding video. The macaw is apparently extremely happy, while my friend the groom feels hesitant, nervous, restless, maybe only because the small, narrow group of guests are all curious about him alone. Later they are at home because a little girl with flaxen hair runs screaming across the room with a storybook in her hand. My first thought is, where can the little girl and the mother go now?!
A secret power of the soul must be driving me forward, because I pick up the landline on the wall next to the kitchen and call my workplace, where my slave shop boss is probably already considering putting me out of a job if I don't put my tight little garlic pops in my workplace. For some reason, I never liked the guy.
- Good afternoon! Excuse me, I want to take a week off because I have personal problems! - I announce so diplomatically, but at the same time determined to the point of breaking my nails, and in a Karakan style, that my colleague sitting at the other end of the line probably thinks they really left home, but it doesn't bother me. Something tells me that now I will have a proper task.
Again, this damn guilt that I can't put anywhere! Maybe I'm to blame? It can be. My friend would have needed help, but as always, he was the one who didn't ask for it out of pride or manly duty. However, the last time we had a meaningful and long talk, it was as if he was constantly saying goodbye to the world, and then he looked at me hesitantly, but with the same mysterious smile on his face as when I met him, and his gaze whispered: maybe everything will be alright!

Reviews

[1809 Black Plague Decem..]

Hellos, Tasi83, I like your country, chatter-box monologue.
I like the whole story line. My impact was the high-school guy
who died, out of no-where. LOL. Then all to a book. He must of
been special. (chucklng). No one liked him, until his poetry.
The thing about his wife. Yeah, and the ending. Loved it very much, yeah,
great write! -1809 Black Plague December