- Once upon a time there lived a beautiful prince and princess. They weren"t married, but lived together and a small successor to the throne was born to them.
- Like me?
- Like you.
- And then they couldn"t understand each other, got bogged down by bank loans, mortgages and mutual claims, they squabbled and divided the kingdom, and then ...
I say all this, hardly able to move my tongue in utter deepest darkness. We haven't divided anything, I have only the laptop and my daughter. I refused the rest myself. I have a terrible migraine, haven't had sex for probably half a year, and I have the whole night ahead to think about how to live my life. My life is daily pointless pressure, which consists of so many small, never-ending routine tasks that I have forgotten where my mouth is to smile. It seems the look of a hostile she-wolf struggling with difficulties doesn't leave me even in my sleep. Inert, I pull against the current for a long time with my last strength. Away from the coast.
Not so long ago I was abroad, where I stood for ages looking out over some gulf, so unreal and fine that it seemed not the view from a hotel window, but a screen saver in a tourist agency, a dream location where I would take him, some day. I still habitually added + 1 to everything. But gradually my thoughts smoothed out, and my face got a dreamy look. When you go abroad for longer than two days, involuntarily you start to smile at people, instead of going around with your typically Moscow look: "I"m going to throttle the lot of you, you swine."
But how did I come to be at the very bottom of the funnel? In a very ordinary way. I simply understood that I cannot live with my fake husband anymore. That the life which I live is not real and not mine, diligently adjusted to a dream of a family, one big self-deception that I will not sustain a second longer. I called two mad friends, with a propensity for collecting things and moving.
It got worse then. Well, that is, before then. When I tried to understand my private life.
Basically, I made the hundred and thirty fifth attempt to meet up with my ex-lover (don't go there, it is a very painful place.)
But I had occasion, honestly I did! It was his birthday, and I was moving, both of us were not so sober and met in the street in terrible cold. Having jumped in his car, where I knew all the seats to the touch, I tried to embrace him. He caught hold of the wheel, probably not to fall.
-Somebody"s waiting for me at home, - he mouthed in reply to my shy attempts at tenderness.
- Who? - I asked, preparing for the worst.
- Kitt-ten, - he said in an important-drunk voice.
- Who?! I had to ask again. No, I could win against any girl, none of them were real competition, but a live kitten no one could win against.
- She"s a Siberian, fluffy creature, she always meets me, we went to the bird market, bought a kitty, there should be an S in the name.., - he muttered with a drunk voice. And I felt, this is it! I simply have no more right to love this person. What to him were my difficult sincere world, all my efforts and sacrifices, which I threw down as sable fur coats so he doesn't soak a foot in his vital pools. What to him are optimism, tenderness, sincere forces?! Kittens, kittens pounded in my head as I slammed the car door. Simply a horror! We will meet in 100 years I thought, my most gently enamored. Go, feed all of them with Whiskas "til they get gastritis.
In my new apartment I was awaited by my chums, transporting things and powerless to part after the moving-in party. Seeing their silly, good-natured faces, I broke down and burst into tears loudly.
- What? What? - The baboons began to wail in eager rivalry.
My teeth knocked with existential horror, cold and humiliation. - Kit-tens, I could only squeeze out, and was filled with a river of tears, in comparison with which Shakespeare's "Tempest" was but a boring play for a children's morning performance.
- Hey-hey, - No 1 said, - this is no good! He carried me into the kitchen.
-Do you ever go to the toilet, - he lamented en route, - why are you so heavy? And why are we crying? - he sympathized as he continued the interrogation, pouring into me the first glass of vodka with cola (don't drink it ever!) Un-understand, I have left my husband, and my lover has left me. That is, it"s the other way round, but now there"s absolutely a vacuum inside. I hoped ... I continued knocking my teeth against the glass"s rim, that we .... spilling vodka on his collar, .... That ....second sip ....we would sometimes meet up .... And he .... And these kit-tens ....loud sobbing.
-He doesn't deserve you, - unanimously concluded Љ1 and Љ2. People in general understand nothing if they haven"t been battered by life, they"re not ready for anything. They"re not ready - you go get ready! - joked Љ 2, neighing at his own joke. Forget it! You have us!
- Ah..., I waved them away. I will go, and sit in an asana.
Lying down on a yoga mat, I put my feet up on the wall, the baboons joined me, one of them put earphones on my head with some intolerably gentle music. So we lay for some time, almost like Bertolucci"s "Dreamers", only the film would be called "Cynics" because there weren't any dreams, any love. These fools bawled songs, I fought back tears and vodka which basically I do not drink, and which blended with the ever-so- gentle music.
And next morning I died. In all senses of the word. Physically I couldn't breathe, and no hope remained in me to live on.
In book "Way of the heroine", the scheme of the course of life of a person is described in classical Jungian manner. It looks rather like the MTS logo - a white, empty egg. Above it - harmony, below - destruction.
Along the way different deals come along: exit from the parental nest, the first prince, ashes of the first prince, connection with the masculine, career, the first successes, disappointment, crisis, spiritual death. I was that morning in the very bottom egg. Experiencing not only spiritual death, but it seems a physical one also.
After the stresses, cold and surplus of drink I had something like a small heart attack (though more likely simply strong neuralgia), my heart fluttered, I couldn't breathe, speak or even get out of bed. Inside me was a hole through which all words left me.
That morning, my blockheads had skipped away to their freelance jobs, having left a note: we love you, the vodka"s in the fridge, something in such spirit. But I couldn't read it - the contents were relayed to me later.
I reached for my phone, but understood that there was nobody to call. Absolutely no one. My husband - certainly not, my former lover - even less likely. For them it will only be more sad and more pleasant if I die online, it will paint their grief in solemn mourning tones, and I don't want to give them such unintentional pleasure. Mum - she will get a fright, also she is always without her phone. Friends? What friends? The 270 friends on Facebook, perhaps with the message: Hey, I"m apparently dying? How many cheerful comments will I have time to read, while I can still see? So I lay there and didn't even try to think about what to do. It was the bottom of the bottom. There was nowhere lower to sink.
And here in the wadded silence, one bell drop of a text from a girlfriend - director, who joyfully asked how my work on a screen play was going that morning. "Intensely", I managed to answer and also: "Katya, bring Valocordin".
Katya arrived in two hours, with solar shining 54 teeth. Besides medicine she brought two packages of shrimps and a pack of laurel leaves. Fiber is necessary for you, she said with conviction and began to move the refrigerator. The refrigerator blocks the light, she explained, this is not good feng shui. With my chaotic life I adored Katya for her scientific approach to everything. God always sent me, with my feelings, people with brains.
-So why do we hardly creep? - Katya began cheerfully, resolutely tearing off a shrimp head. I tried to start up my music box about kittens (I no longer had the voice to do a street organ), but was joyfully stopped with the unequivocally clear formulation: if I hear about it once more - I will kill you. How many times it is possible to be humiliated, what kittens? Leave the splash pool to frogs. Let"s make a film, about people, for people, instead of your fools whom you try to entertain. After all, your poetry-writing and stories are all your unfettered imagination. You"re losing self-confidence, you are capable of reaching the top. You need real people. Hey, she repeated, having made sure that prostration was releasing me from its tenacious embrace.
- Yes, it is necessary to live. Alone. Without relying on anybody. This is the only way to understand who you are, what you want and what you stand for.
I dragged myself out of the turbulent crisis on shank"s mare, very slowly, but it seems, correctly.
Next day, direct parcel post sent me my little doll from the countryside.
Hanging on my neck, she told me in a hot whisper: I do not allow you to leave anywhere. We will play, and then watch cartoons and dance and eat lots of sweets, yes? Yes?!
-Yes. And that"s what we did.
And here I lie, still in the same immemorial darkness, but to me it"s not so terrible anymore. The future is unknown, and morning is far, but in the complete darkness I hear the same tiny voice.
- Mum, do you want me to tell you a fairytale?
- I do.
- Once upon a time, there lived a beautiful prince and princess ...