Krzysztov, Part VI
And the final part, which I finished only about a week ago.
I know it's weird and anti-climactic, but then that was the point, really - because why should writing have a point to make?
VI
But no, his charm is not going to distract me this time. Not his voice, his touch, the tickle of his hair on my skin or the gentleness of his hands as he tries to console me. I won't have this.
“The writer tricked me,” I complain (trying to sound angry and failing) as I push him off. His chair topples over and he falls.
He doesn't look hurt and I feel disappointed. I think (or like to think) I would feel more empowered, stronger, if he had looked rejected and hurt - not physically, emotionally. (It's all about personality here of course, we're not labelled 'characters' for no reason.) My eyes darken as I turn away from him, towards the window again, facing the brightness but closing my eyes.
“It's not fair of her.” My fist bangs into the glass in defiance, but it won't break; the slow liquid ripples in quiet shockwaves, an undulating whisper before all goes silent again. The air seems thick, cushioning - as if there's water in my head, silencing everything. In fact, the whole room seems on edge, careful to keep its inhabitants from bruising themselves. Krzysztov is behind me, but doesn't touch me. “She's aware of that or you wouldn't say so. She is trying to fix things,” he quietly whispers into the curls at the nape of my neck.
“By making me love my own brother? My twin?” I spin around, my voice shrill in sharp vicous anger, trying to cut the place apart. Krzysztov merely smiles. “She's trying to give you perspective, she's giving you a change to reconstruct yourself, Митенька.” He turns around and leans against the table, reaches for the scone he prepared for me and eats it himself. “But reconstructing requires breaking down. You should focus on the details a little less, it's about the bigger picture.”
It is too much of a riddle to me, too cryptic. I don't know what they expect me to do. Pensive, I lean against the window, cool glass on the back of my head through my hair, half sitting on the window sill. Kzrysztov hands me a cup of tea, lady grey - my favourite.
“We would never make you do anything against your will, Митенька - you worry too much.” He smiles at me, weak and a little watery, but it smothers my fear, covers it with affection - at least for a short while, but a sense of insecurity lingers.
I am convinced to sit back down and at least eat something. With difficulty, I eat a scone, but I drink multiple cups of tea, drinking warm comfort-violinmusic-liquid until I feel my stomach will burst if I drink any more. “If it stops raining we can go outside,” Krzysztov suggests over his own breakfast (he's just finished his third scone and is reaching for a fourth). I toy with my empty teacup. “You think they'll let me?” My brother only smiles. There's something he knows.
Time passes, but there is no activity - no lights switch on, no doors open, no footsteps in the hallways. When I try the door, out of sheer curiosity, not because I genuinely long to leave the confined space of my room, it opens at the lightest touch, the lock drawing back with a quiet mechanical click. (It's one of those sounds I like, like the sound of winding up a mechanical device, clean and sharp - it makes me feel new and fresh.) Krzysztov is behind me, gently pushing me over the threshold, my bare feet padding the linoleum with a quiet whisper. Now that I've stopped being angry, he's returned to tender touches and the occasional affectionate words. I don't stop it, because it's still passively reassuring and because I feel that fighting is not going to get me anywhere.
In the bright whitewashed hallway, I hesitate.
“Well, go on.”
Before I can object, he takes me by the hand and runs, my quite objections echoing away and drowned out by the sound of our running (my stumbling) footsteps. Something is funny. It's like we're running in a vacuum, sounds fading quicker than I'd expect them to, but it's different from the oppressive cushion-like atmosphere I experienced in the room earlier - whatever it is, I can't put my finger on it. Maybe because it's so terribly quiet.
“Where did everyone go?” I ask when Krzysztov leads me outside through the wide open doors. It's stopped raining and there's something triumphant in the air, something clear and fresh that runs through and over me. I feel amazing. I feel tall and new. Krzysztov smiles.
“We're changing this. I told you in my letter - this whole thing is your own making. You made your house into a prison - we're changing that back into a home now.” I nod quietly, but it sounds strange and impossible.
“I thought the writer did everything.” Krzysztov laughs. Normally, I think I would've felt offended, but now, I don't. Maybe because I feel Krzysztov's not laughing at me, he's laughing at her.
“A writer may come up with a good many things, but a story doesn't work until characters get lives of their own,” Krzysztov smiles at me and pulls me along over the grass (all the signs with 'do not walk on grass' have miraculously disappeared). It's longer than I remember and tickles my ankles. “Once characters develop their own will, there's not much a writer can do - do you really think she liked seeing you so miserable?” I shrug. I suppose not. Or maybe I did think she did - she seemed to like pouring misfortune out over me like acid rain, under the pretence of calling it a 'study in grief'. Krzysztov seems to guess my thoughts - again.
“Did you think she did not cry when she wrote you?” I shrug again, stoically silent. To be honest, I never thought about my writer crying. Do you ever think about your God crying for you, reader? It seems an absurd idea, doesn't it? Maybe it's my silence, maybe Krzysztov just has a lot to say, but he continues. “If she didn't care, then why would she send me to fix it?” Anger. I stop walking. I hadn't expected this bitter resentment to suddenly flare up again, I thought tea had extinguished the flames pretty thoroughly. Krzysztov meets my glare with an expression I can't read. Something quiet and calm - is that pity or compassion, I can't quite tell? “You're still angry about last night, aren't you?” I think about his question for a moment. Am I angry? Maybe I'm mostly disappointed - or angry with myself. By the time I finish my little analysis (without proper result), I find that Krzysztov has decided to lay down in the long grass, eyes closed. He's not exactly ignoring me, he's simply not intruding. For a moment, I wonder if I shouldn't just leave, lest I'm intruding on him.
Krzysztov opens one eye and grins up at me. “Did I mention you think too much?” Yes. Yes, you did. He pats a patch of grass next to him, then reaches a hand up to me. Funny - I thought he was here to pick me up, but apparently he's also here to pull me down. I don't resist, though, and lie down in the grass, shifting for a moment before I'm comfortable.
As I lay next to Krzysztov, glancing at the cloudy-bright sky, something hits me.
“So we're mirror-images.” A rustle of grass next to me indicates that Krzysztov is nodding his head. “Are we opposite or the same?” A breeze washes over us, it gently picks up Krzysztov's grin and runs it over my face, my eyelids - I can feel it. He is amused, but he remains silent. Apparently he wants me to finish the puzzle myself. I'm not sure whether to feel offended (because it feels like he's laughing at me - he knows the outcome already) or flattered (he trusts me to solve things myself, he doesn't patronise me).
Then he turns. “Do you know what must become of one's mirror image?”
Dumbly, I shake my head and look up at the sky. When I look back at Krzysztov, we are standing on the rooftop. Vertigo hits me like a sledgehammer.
“Mirror images can not be allowed to exist.” Krzysztov walks over to the edge, peers down. “For lots of reasons, really,” he continues, before I've had a change to ask him to explain - why? “It's a cliche, for one thing.” He steps upon the ledge.
“It is the ultimate way for you to prove yourself unique.” Krzysztov's eyes are alight with something. He seems duller now, a reflection or a copy - is he? “I can be the Teleny to your Des Grieux,” Krzysztov mocks, lifting his leg and striking a pose as though he's simply going to walk off the roof - soar six stories down to splatter. “Or, if you'd rather, the painting to your Dorian Gray. Cleansing, either way. The end of a revelation - if you were me, isn't that how you'd like to go?”
The sky distorts and I think we both fall, the world toppling over and folding in on itself.
I wake up in my bed, breathing hard and sweaty and shocked. I pinch myself, flick on the lights, and stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror for a long time.
Of course I'm not a fictional character. What was I thinking?
Just a bad, twisted dream.
Fin
Maybe we are all fictional, our lives being twisted and turned by puppeteers.
I know it's weird and anti-climactic, but then that was the point, really - because why should writing have a point to make?
VI
But no, his charm is not going to distract me this time. Not his voice, his touch, the tickle of his hair on my skin or the gentleness of his hands as he tries to console me. I won't have this.
“The writer tricked me,” I complain (trying to sound angry and failing) as I push him off. His chair topples over and he falls.
He doesn't look hurt and I feel disappointed. I think (or like to think) I would feel more empowered, stronger, if he had looked rejected and hurt - not physically, emotionally. (It's all about personality here of course, we're not labelled 'characters' for no reason.) My eyes darken as I turn away from him, towards the window again, facing the brightness but closing my eyes.
“It's not fair of her.” My fist bangs into the glass in defiance, but it won't break; the slow liquid ripples in quiet shockwaves, an undulating whisper before all goes silent again. The air seems thick, cushioning - as if there's water in my head, silencing everything. In fact, the whole room seems on edge, careful to keep its inhabitants from bruising themselves. Krzysztov is behind me, but doesn't touch me. “She's aware of that or you wouldn't say so. She is trying to fix things,” he quietly whispers into the curls at the nape of my neck.
“By making me love my own brother? My twin?” I spin around, my voice shrill in sharp vicous anger, trying to cut the place apart. Krzysztov merely smiles. “She's trying to give you perspective, she's giving you a change to reconstruct yourself, Митенька.” He turns around and leans against the table, reaches for the scone he prepared for me and eats it himself. “But reconstructing requires breaking down. You should focus on the details a little less, it's about the bigger picture.”
It is too much of a riddle to me, too cryptic. I don't know what they expect me to do. Pensive, I lean against the window, cool glass on the back of my head through my hair, half sitting on the window sill. Kzrysztov hands me a cup of tea, lady grey - my favourite.
“We would never make you do anything against your will, Митенька - you worry too much.” He smiles at me, weak and a little watery, but it smothers my fear, covers it with affection - at least for a short while, but a sense of insecurity lingers.
I am convinced to sit back down and at least eat something. With difficulty, I eat a scone, but I drink multiple cups of tea, drinking warm comfort-violinmusic-liquid until I feel my stomach will burst if I drink any more. “If it stops raining we can go outside,” Krzysztov suggests over his own breakfast (he's just finished his third scone and is reaching for a fourth). I toy with my empty teacup. “You think they'll let me?” My brother only smiles. There's something he knows.
Time passes, but there is no activity - no lights switch on, no doors open, no footsteps in the hallways. When I try the door, out of sheer curiosity, not because I genuinely long to leave the confined space of my room, it opens at the lightest touch, the lock drawing back with a quiet mechanical click. (It's one of those sounds I like, like the sound of winding up a mechanical device, clean and sharp - it makes me feel new and fresh.) Krzysztov is behind me, gently pushing me over the threshold, my bare feet padding the linoleum with a quiet whisper. Now that I've stopped being angry, he's returned to tender touches and the occasional affectionate words. I don't stop it, because it's still passively reassuring and because I feel that fighting is not going to get me anywhere.
In the bright whitewashed hallway, I hesitate.
“Well, go on.”
Before I can object, he takes me by the hand and runs, my quite objections echoing away and drowned out by the sound of our running (my stumbling) footsteps. Something is funny. It's like we're running in a vacuum, sounds fading quicker than I'd expect them to, but it's different from the oppressive cushion-like atmosphere I experienced in the room earlier - whatever it is, I can't put my finger on it. Maybe because it's so terribly quiet.
“Where did everyone go?” I ask when Krzysztov leads me outside through the wide open doors. It's stopped raining and there's something triumphant in the air, something clear and fresh that runs through and over me. I feel amazing. I feel tall and new. Krzysztov smiles.
“We're changing this. I told you in my letter - this whole thing is your own making. You made your house into a prison - we're changing that back into a home now.” I nod quietly, but it sounds strange and impossible.
“I thought the writer did everything.” Krzysztov laughs. Normally, I think I would've felt offended, but now, I don't. Maybe because I feel Krzysztov's not laughing at me, he's laughing at her.
“A writer may come up with a good many things, but a story doesn't work until characters get lives of their own,” Krzysztov smiles at me and pulls me along over the grass (all the signs with 'do not walk on grass' have miraculously disappeared). It's longer than I remember and tickles my ankles. “Once characters develop their own will, there's not much a writer can do - do you really think she liked seeing you so miserable?” I shrug. I suppose not. Or maybe I did think she did - she seemed to like pouring misfortune out over me like acid rain, under the pretence of calling it a 'study in grief'. Krzysztov seems to guess my thoughts - again.
“Did you think she did not cry when she wrote you?” I shrug again, stoically silent. To be honest, I never thought about my writer crying. Do you ever think about your God crying for you, reader? It seems an absurd idea, doesn't it? Maybe it's my silence, maybe Krzysztov just has a lot to say, but he continues. “If she didn't care, then why would she send me to fix it?” Anger. I stop walking. I hadn't expected this bitter resentment to suddenly flare up again, I thought tea had extinguished the flames pretty thoroughly. Krzysztov meets my glare with an expression I can't read. Something quiet and calm - is that pity or compassion, I can't quite tell? “You're still angry about last night, aren't you?” I think about his question for a moment. Am I angry? Maybe I'm mostly disappointed - or angry with myself. By the time I finish my little analysis (without proper result), I find that Krzysztov has decided to lay down in the long grass, eyes closed. He's not exactly ignoring me, he's simply not intruding. For a moment, I wonder if I shouldn't just leave, lest I'm intruding on him.
Krzysztov opens one eye and grins up at me. “Did I mention you think too much?” Yes. Yes, you did. He pats a patch of grass next to him, then reaches a hand up to me. Funny - I thought he was here to pick me up, but apparently he's also here to pull me down. I don't resist, though, and lie down in the grass, shifting for a moment before I'm comfortable.
As I lay next to Krzysztov, glancing at the cloudy-bright sky, something hits me.
“So we're mirror-images.” A rustle of grass next to me indicates that Krzysztov is nodding his head. “Are we opposite or the same?” A breeze washes over us, it gently picks up Krzysztov's grin and runs it over my face, my eyelids - I can feel it. He is amused, but he remains silent. Apparently he wants me to finish the puzzle myself. I'm not sure whether to feel offended (because it feels like he's laughing at me - he knows the outcome already) or flattered (he trusts me to solve things myself, he doesn't patronise me).
Then he turns. “Do you know what must become of one's mirror image?”
Dumbly, I shake my head and look up at the sky. When I look back at Krzysztov, we are standing on the rooftop. Vertigo hits me like a sledgehammer.
“Mirror images can not be allowed to exist.” Krzysztov walks over to the edge, peers down. “For lots of reasons, really,” he continues, before I've had a change to ask him to explain - why? “It's a cliche, for one thing.” He steps upon the ledge.
“It is the ultimate way for you to prove yourself unique.” Krzysztov's eyes are alight with something. He seems duller now, a reflection or a copy - is he? “I can be the Teleny to your Des Grieux,” Krzysztov mocks, lifting his leg and striking a pose as though he's simply going to walk off the roof - soar six stories down to splatter. “Or, if you'd rather, the painting to your Dorian Gray. Cleansing, either way. The end of a revelation - if you were me, isn't that how you'd like to go?”
The sky distorts and I think we both fall, the world toppling over and folding in on itself.
I wake up in my bed, breathing hard and sweaty and shocked. I pinch myself, flick on the lights, and stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror for a long time.
Of course I'm not a fictional character. What was I thinking?
Just a bad, twisted dream.
Fin
Maybe we are all fictional, our lives being twisted and turned by puppeteers.