Zmiana sposobu prezentacji
“Breathe.” he heard a voice, distant, yet soft and comforting, warming him up from the extreme cold, lighting up his darkness with a halo. His body arched upwards with the shock of the defibrillator, and the vital signs monitor finally had the reassuring heartbeat registered on the monitor, he took a deep breath, and attempted to struggle up, only to be pushed down, and groggily, he slipped back into unconsciousness.
He woke up in a room unfamiliar to him; it was a messy, yellowed room. Shaking his head, he looked to a window, with the evening light shining in. he could see ruined buildings from afar, and desert starching for miles. Unclear sketches on the walls faded with the wear of time, and smudges of blood were present over and under the sketches and on the grey cement floor, some new, some old, some in small drips, some in large splashes. As he pulled himself up to better inspect the surroundings. A young lady entered the room without any knock, for there was no door to knock on. Dominating the room, her presence was not that different from that of a princess, and as she sat down in front of the man, he could not help but notice a scar marred horizontally across her face.
“Your face…” the first words he muttered for five days. “Ah, you mean the scar… its completely healed now, don’t worry. What you should worry more about is your own body. After the operation, you were knocked out for two days. We almost thought you were going (...)
--- cały tekst ---
Prologue
“If life were described in a word, what would it be?”
“I don‘t know, there are too many words to choose from, you know.”
“Then, umm, if it were your life in a word, what would it be?”
“Well, I believe that ‘life’ is the only way to describe life. If there were another word for it, then we would not be talking about this anymore, would we?”
“Such a predictable answer. Trying to impress young ladies with it, aren‘t you?”
“Probably. How about yours then?”
“I guess it would most probably be ‘love’.”
“I see why.”
LOVE
The young man and the young lady sat at the top of the building, feet dangling down, the girl’s slippers prepared at any moment, to do a fifteen-storey dive. The young man’s white sneakers, had hot pink laces jutting out from the it, and there was only a remote possibility of it sharing the same fate as the slippers.
A strong breeze blew and ruffled both of their hair, which, from the back, looked almost disturbingly similar. The young man chose not to tie his hair back, as did the girl, which resulted in a disastrous mess and tangle of their hair together, but as of then, since they were not moving, neither of them gave much thought to it.
In the silence both of them sat, wondering where both of them would be next. The young girl was of Korean descent, born to a (...)
--- cały tekst ---
Unknowingly, my eyes wandered off in her direction again. Noticing my gaze, she gave me a smile and a little wave; I faintly smiled back at her, yet my heart went the opposite way, as it thumped quickly and made me feel all nervous. She was looking bored, like everyone else in the class, as the English teacher droning on and on. Every minute detail, every little action was amplified when I saw it. Her hands that went down her calf to pull up her socks, the long smooth fingers of hers performing the action almost in slow motion, the blinking of her eyes, the long lashes moving up and down gracefully, and the tiny droplets of tears that squeezed out of her eyes as she yawned. As if caught by a sudden thought, she paused in thought for a second, holding her head high up in the air as she thought of something. As inspiration struck, she quickly turned her attention to writing it down on a book, captivated in her own world, yet captivating me as well.
The incessant whispers filled the room, sounding like a radio station with bad reception. Yet, whenever she talked, her voice was crystal clear to me. Every single word of hers was as though she was sitting next to me, and I could even hear her soft breathing in my ear, although most of that must be my imagination. I threw another sneaky glance at her, as she still was busily scribbled something down. Just one look, could make me long for something I wished I would be able to do, but always out of reach. Knowing that I (...)
--- cały tekst ---
The coarse and filthy rag scraped against my skin, chafing against the numerous scars on my body, some new, some old. For how many times I have been beaten I have lost count. Like a curious little child, I fingered my scars gingerly, feeling the contrast of new tissue against old ones, the smooth and cold touch added by a stroke of the whip, a slice of the knife, or some other instrument the caretaker currently had. Over time, I forgot who I was, who I used to be, where I was from, just remembering the pain, the lustful glint in the caretaker’s eyes, wanting my face to be contorted even more with pain.
Today isn’t the day to be thinking of memories, however recent they are, I thought to myself. It’s a new start, the start of my flight. To where, I don’t care, but yes, I must fly today. Walking towards the cracked mirror, I used this chance to examine myself as an orphan for one last time. After today, I’ll no longer be an orphan. I’ll be a vagabond. The past is luggage to be left behind here. The present is my focus. The future… well, let us not think so far, shall we? Other than being riddled by scars, my body’s muscles were also unusually developed for a kid that looked to have sat around in an orphanage for all his life. Secretly, I trained my body whenever I got the time (which was pretty much all the time) not just to withstand the harsh beatings I suffered, but to also prepare for this day.
I went to the room that I shared (...)
--- cały tekst ---
The artist creased his already wrinkled forehead, focusing intently on the model, looking for the essence of her, for the element inside of her, the one thing that differentiates her from all his other work pieces. His old and tired grey eyebrows matched his whitening hair and unshaved stubble; the blood vessels in his eyes numerous and patterned, as if he did not sleep well for many a night.
The teenage girl looked at him in fascination, with the exact same intensity as his; certainly it was not the first time he has seen an artist, but it certainly was a first to see him fit into the stereotypical artist description: messy and dirty hair, a chaotic workroom and wild, fiery eyes, unbefitting of his old age. The eyes that looked so raptly at the old artist spoke only tales of innocence and purity; it was an exceptional case for her to have eyes that held such beauty.
The old man’s eyes widened; for the answer for his long-thought question had certainly been looking at him all the time; the eyes. Without wasting another moment, he picked up an unsharpened pencil in his right hand, and a charcoal stick in his left, and started on the one and only type of drawing he swore and did till this day: sketches.
He old artist’s creaking bones and withering muscles would have complained madly by now, with the swift actions any other old man could only dream of taking. But adrenaline coursed through the old veins of his, and there he was, (...)
--- cały tekst ---
The young girl stood in front of the loaves and loaves of bread in the supermarket. Looking at them, she salivated a little, for the food that she was looking for was right in front of her. Yet, despite the bread, with its faint aroma of the flour and its fillings rushing into her nose and exciting her, she coldly knew how impossible it was for her to get a taste of any of it.
She had sworn to give up searching her pockets for anything for she knew that every single time she did that, the only thing she would find in those sorry excuses of pockets, was disappointment, lingering in her mouth like food that have been left under the sun for days. But, food gone bad was better than not having any food at all, and she dug into those pockets again, those pockets that never harboured anything from the moment she placed it on her tiny body frame, wasted away from months and months of starvation.
Disappointment soon evolved to desperation, with her stomach pleading for, and later demanding real, solid food; not just inhaling its aroma and pretending to eat the scents; not just swallowing her saliva, now with a sour tinge to it; not just the dirty and muddy water from outside the supermarket, pretending that the inhumane drink was actually cold chocolate milk, even though she did not know how chocolate tasted like.
The young girl was not in this pathetic situation by choice. Thrown out of her last orphanage three months ago, she lived off the (...)
--- cały tekst ---
