October 25, 2003
He came to me with that same cold gaze he had the day we parted. And on the very last day, too.
I became scared. He had brought an old man with him. In the old man’s hands was a blue plastic chest. The old man intended to gather everything valuable in my home into that chest.
He had brought the old man to rob me.
I threw the feeble old man out of the window.
HE smirked and said there was no escaping…
I began to defend myself desperately. I knew that either he would kill me, or I would kill him.
I knew exactly where on the shelf my “proper” knife was.
I grabbed the knife.
I had to defend myself.
I was terrified at the thought that I might have to kill him.
But he, it seemed, had no regret about the idea of killing me.
I was scared.
He was strong, tall.
I knew that a single blow of his fist to my head would be enough — and I would need nothing anymore. Neither to defend myself, nor to protect anything at all.
I cried, I fought him.
I screamed, “You bastard, I loved you! How could you do this to me!”
And suddenly, something strange happened.
My words and tears made him… cry too.
But it was as if two people were struggling inside him — the cold scoundrel with swamp-colored eyes, and the beautiful soulful man with eyes the color of foliage.
He kept fighting me.
I realized I had no choice.
I stabbed him in the chest with the knife — but somehow absurdly, ridiculously, the knife didn’t even cut through his clothes.
It was all like a movie.
I started banging his head against the parquet floor.
He kept holding his head up high enough that I couldn’t land a proper blow.
So I just started hitting him on the head.
With my hands.
Desperately.
From pure despair.
He went limp.
I dragged him into the bathroom and dropped him into the bathtub.
It seemed to me that blood was flowing.
While he was unconscious in the tub, I found some twine and tied his hands with it.
He suddenly woke up, but like a drunk.
He tried to tear off the ropes.
I tied him even tighter.
For some reason, he was naked.
I realized that I might actually have to kill him…
Cut the body into pieces.
Drag it out and scatter it around the city in garbage bins.
Without clothes or documents.
Just as K. had taught me…
Or maybe call emergency services…
The dream cut off.
November 19, 2003
When I came home, D. was already sitting in the kitchen, waiting for me.
Honestly, I didn’t even understand why.
I was so shocked by the sheer audacity that it didn’t immediately occur to me — if he got in, it meant he had a set of keys.
He sat on a little stool by the window, eating something with a teaspoon from one of those tiny plastic containers — maybe yogurt. Or maybe ice cream.
He was, as always, beautiful.
I asked, “What are you doing here?”
Fear gripped me.
I looked around the apartment.
Everything was in its place, except the fridge, which now stood by the entrance to the room.
I remembered he had once asked me to show him the dumpster where I’d throw away the fridge.
I went back to the kitchen — in the fridge’s place now stood a tiny one, about four times smaller than mine.
Apparently, D. decided that would be enough for me and planned to confiscate mine, along with the food inside.
For some reason, I went to the bathroom.
It turned out he was already there, taking a shower.
I climbed into the bathtub with him, the water streaming down on us, and started asking what he wanted, what was even going on between us.
I pleaded for him to explain “why.”
I said I couldn’t understand.
He behaved arrogantly and dismissively.
For some reason, he hugged me around the waist.
I asked, “Did you just need a loan?”
He said, “Yes.”
I asked, “And what would you have done?”
He didn’t answer.
I understood everything.
I asked, “And what was I supposed to do?”
“Repay it, like a good little girl.”
It hurt.
We were back in the kitchen.
He was sitting in the sink (!!!) wiping his eyes, still wet from the shower.
Black paint was running down his cheeks (so that’s why his eyelashes were so long and black!)
Bright blue contact lenses glinted in his eyes.
How could I have been so terribly wrong about a person?
Finally, I asked, “Do you actually have a set of keys?”
Again, no answer.
We were in the room.
It was dark.
I was scared.
I asked, “What else have I lost?”
“One of your jobs. I figured you were earning too much.”
I woke up.
It was disgusting.
The sensations were so vivid…
As if I hadn’t been asleep at all.
November 24, 2003
I was supposed to star in some avant-garde film, with yellow-green lighting.
For the role, each of my ears needed to be pierced in five places.
They brought me to a nurse who was holding a special piercing gun (for the record, I had always pierced my ears myself with regular medical injection needles).
She grabbed my ear and, for some reason, started drilling it.
And when it was all over, it turned out she had pierced my right wrist instead, and in the hole there was a piece of yellow metal, like a four-centimeter-long tie pin.
Then the filming began.
I was playing some ultra-trendy girl.
I had adorably plump lips, which I was supposed to use to kiss a charming young man sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, and — according to the script — holding me by the butt.