Ah, our dreams grow and ripen with us, then they fade, and we bury them in silence within the depths of ourselves, and console ourselves with tears.
Oh… oh… oh… oh.
Where am I? What is this strange place? Is this a dream? A nightmare? Or have I been kidnapped? My head hurts. I feel a strange feeling. I don't remember anything.
My head is spinning, as if someone is striking the back of my neck with a hockey stick. Suddenly, without any warning, I woke up on the cold floor of the room. I opened my eyes slowly. All I remember is that I found myself in this room furnished with antique furniture. I turned my head to see what was around me. The first thing I saw was:
Near the door, an iron bed covered with brass…
Ivan rose with difficulty, bent forward, pressed his right eye to the keyhole, his hand trembling on the cold wood. He could only see a narrow corner of the corridor: faded, peeling wallpaper, dark, damp wooden planks, and at its end, the faint glow of a small cast-iron stove on a dusty, dilapidated floor.
Ivan slowly crossed the cold floor, his body aching, until he reached the bed. His hand moved hesitantly until it touched the edge of the blanket. It was rough, scratching his skin as if made of dead plant fibers. Drops of his blood gathered on the sheet. He pulled back his numb hand, his blue veins swollen.
Then he said: "Damn this bad day."
In the middle of the room, there was a small wooden desk with shelves above it. Papers stained with purple were scattered on its surface, and beside it rested a heavy pistol: its barrel cold, made of iron, its grip carved from walnut wood, and beneath it a small trigger guard. It too was stained with the same color.
Ivan let out a resounding cry, shouting: "Is what I saw in this cursed room real? Or just a dream?" Ivan screamed in a terrified voice. "If I pinched myself, I would wake from this dreadful nightmare." Ivan rubbed his aching head with his trembling hands, then shouted: "A pistol… a pistol! There is a pistol, and it looks terrifying, just like in most of the films I watch! My God, how did I enter this ill-omened room, and why is the pistol also covered in this loathsome color!" Ivan was utterly bewildered by the objects scattered in the room; he recognized none of them. "Why am I here?" he muttered. "And what are all these old things?"
He removed his hands from his aching head, and his gaze fell upon an old typewriter placed beside him on the desk. Its round keys bore raised brass letters, and beneath them a faded cloth ribbon. At the edge of the desk, there was a window covered with thick emerald velvet curtains, while a faint light emanated from bronze lamps fixed to an old wardrobe.
He approached it slowly. Ivan stopped and drew the curtains aside to examine what lay beyond the glass. He stared at the city shrouded in mist, where a bright crimson light reflected off the rooftops. Unconsciously, he lifted his gaze from the mist upward. He glimpsed the moon, illuminated with a crimson light, like a bloodshot eye, watching the silence of the night…
An indescribable terror seized Ivan, and he froze in place from shock. Suddenly, a burning pain pierced his head. His legs weakened, and for a moment, his strength failed him. He fell to the floor, his backside striking the hard wooden chair that had been placed in a dark corner he had not noticed while inspecting the room.
While he lay on the floor, he heard the sound of a woman's footsteps approaching from afar, a metallic echo reverberating through the empty corridor like a nail being driven into a coffin of silence. Her high heels struck the floor with deliberate cruelty, shattering the stillness.
Ivan's heart began to pound violently as he gasped for breath. Her steps were slow and heavy, the sound of her heels striking the wooden planks and floor like a muffled thud, as if she were not walking, but crawling through the silence of the place.
Then she called out: "Darling… darling… you have returned."
(Three days earlier)
Ivan woke up, and rays of sunlight slipped through the open window to light his drowsy eyes. Annoyed, he put on his black shoes and headed to the bathroom. On his way, he heard his father insulting the poor maids downstairs: "Filthy whores! Imbeciles!" This increased his despair. He entered the bathroom sadly, turned on the faucet, and washed his face with cold water. He looked at himself in the mirror, stared at his reflection, noticed the bruises covering his face, and muttered: "When will this miserable life end? Ah, nothing has changed. The same breakfast, the same table, the same tedious lessons, and the same hideous faces I see all day long. I only woke up early this morning because my father ordered me to, to share this moment with him before he starts his work." "My God, why will this unbearable noise never stop?"
Then he continued bitterly: "I live alone with my father under one roof after my mother's death six months ago. Despite my deep love for him, he does not pay me much attention. He sees me and meets all my needs, but the void my mother left fills every corner of the house… and inside me as well. But in truth, whom am I trying to deceive? He does not see me as a son… to him" "but as an employee in his company."
As he walked with heavy steps toward the living room, tears filling his eyes, he heard his father shout angrily: "Hurry up! I have a lot of work today. I didn't go to work just because I wanted to speak to you. Don't waste my time washing your face in the bathroom. Are you smoking or what? Damn you, I regret having a son like you. You are the cause of all my suffering in this miserable life, you bastard!"
He reached the living room, wiping his tears with the back of his hand. He whispered: "I miss you so much, Mother," before slipping quietly inside. Ivan sat in silence opposite his father. The smell of fried eggs and dried meat filled the room, but his stomach was heavy as stone. He was not eating to satisfy his hunger, but to make a good impression, to please the man sitting before him. Ivan did not dare look into his father's eyes; he kept his gaze fixed on his plate. His father's glassy, almond-shaped eyes were not trying to understand him, but to classify him; a look that judged him before he uttered a single word. From his mouth?
Ivan did not speak much with his father after the latter noticed the bruises covering Ivan's face and hands. When he asked him coldly: "Did you get into a fight or what?"
Ivan shook his head and answered: "No, Father, I didn't fight. I fell off my bike yesterday. I was riding it and not looking." Then he swallowed his saliva with difficulty, avoiding his father's stares. He seemed to be hiding something… dangerous behind his silence.
He looked at Ivan and said firmly: "Fine, you will listen to me carefully now and next time. Pay close attention while riding your bike. I don't want more problems. Oh, I forgot to tell you… I paid your tuition fees yesterday." He took out a wad of banknotes, counted them slowly, then separated a five-hundred-dollar bill and handed it to him. Ivan looked at it. His voice was hoarse. "Thank you, Father… but I don't want this money. I have enough for my expenses… Father…"
He repeated desperately, as if the echo of his voice could change his mind: "I don't want it." Then his father added angrily: "I told you to take it."
Ivan stared at his father in anger, but his father insisted on taking the money against his will. Ivan took the money reluctantly and put it in his back pocket, then asked his father sadly if he could go to his room now. His father looked at his watch, then picked up his keys and added: "I have to leave now. I am late for work." Ivan bid his father farewell and went to his room. He opened the door forcefully, slamming it against the wall. He entered irritably, nearly breaking the door. He took the money out of his back pocket.
He threw it on the floor, and it scattered around the room. Then he lay down on his bed, staring at the ceiling, saying: "How many times have I tried to tell him that I don't need his money?" Hopeless, he does not understand nor listen, as if I am nothing to him. All I want is attention. But my attempts always fail. I am tired of this exhaustion and indifference.
Then he continued to himself: "I will read one of my novels; perhaps my mood will improve." Then he went to his desk and took one of his novels; its cover was red and its title was The Window of Childhood by Sarah William Burke.
He returned to his bed and sat on its edge, holding his book in his small hands. He opened the novel, sighed, and began turning the pages of the first chapter, titled "A Buried Memory." "Each time I open the window of the old room, that night returns to me as if it had never left. The sky was gray, the wind played with my mother's white curtains, while that little boy stood in the corner, staring at me with eyes that knew more than a child should know. I did not realize then that childhood is not a stage we leave behind, but a door that remains ajar, waiting for the moment we weaken to swallow us anew."
And while he was reading, drowsiness overcame him, so he closed his drowsy eyes and sank into a deep sleep.
Ivan began dreaming of the day his mother died. It was seven o'clock, the time he left school, and his mother was waiting for him in the car in the public parking lot. She got out of her car to accompany him home. And while she was crossing the road toward him, a speeding black car hit her. The impact was so strong that the car crushed her bones, and she bled profusely. Ivan heard a sound coming from afar—a sharp, metallic shriek that tore through the silence. As he was leaving school for the road—a smell like that of rusted iron greeted him. He rushed outside to see what was happening, but the shock was staggering when he saw his mother lying in a pool of blood.
Profusely, and her blood covered the street. Ivan could not bear what he saw; he froze in place, his legs stiffened, as if he were in a horror film. His mother lay on the ground, covered in blood, and tears streamed from his eyes. Then he began to run like a madman, fell to his knees, and carried her in his small arms. His clothes were soaked with her blood. "Mother! Don't die! Please… don't die!" But she died. Ivan tried to chase the car and stop it, but it did not stop. Then Ivan lost consciousness. Everyone was shocked by the accident. No one believed what had happened, and he remained in a coma for three months. From then on, his condition deteriorated.
Ivan suddenly woke from his nightmare, his heart pounding violently as if he had run a long distance without stopping. He felt short of breath and nearly suffocated. He tried to move his fingers, but they did not respond. He tried to scream, but the sound was trapped in his throat. He was drenched in sweat, his clothes clinging to his wet body as if he were swimming in a lake. Sounds began to seep into his mind: a sharp ringing in his ears, followed by the roar of a black car's engine—like the one that had hit his mother. He saw blurry shadows moving in the corners of the room, distorting his sense of place. He felt his heartbeat accelerate. As if it were about to explode.