Ritual of Fear and White Dust

*A note for the book 404: Reality Not Found

I burst out of the factory, away from those glass panes where every face is a judge. Hood up – my only sanctuary, a fabric armor against the stares. A lit cigarette trembles between my fingers, headphones dug into my ears, cutting me off from a world that wants to catch me, chew me up, and spit me out. I’m walking toward the bus stop, but I’m not just walking – I’m fleeing, though no one is behind me. Or are they?

Waiting for the bus is a torture stretched thin through time. People. Too many people. Their mouths move to the rhythm of my worst fears. I see them glancing, exchanging secret signals. “Look at him,” their eyes seem to say. “We know what you are.” I grit my teeth, melting into the concrete, praying for the roar of an engine. On the bus, the window becomes a mirror for my own paranoia. Every stop is a potential threat; every opening door is a risk that They will step in.

Finally, my street. A dash toward the building, almost a run, heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Key in the lock, turn, bolt. Slam. I shut the world out behind me, lean against the wood, and let out a heavy, leaden “Uff.” I made it. I escaped them again. I outran a pursuit that doesn't exist.

I enter the room where twilight reigns, my only friend. I take out the plate – my ceramic island, cold and white. I pull out the shard of amphetamine. It’s hard, relentless, like my life. I begin to crush it. Slowly. Precisely. Millimeter by millimeter. Every movement must be noiseless – surgery on an open conscience. I grind it into a dust so fine it offers no resistance, until it becomes a ghost. The sound of the card clicking against the plate cuts the silence like a scalpel – quieter, fuck, keep it quiet...

Suddenly – a rustle. In the hallway. The world cracks in half. The blood in my temples pulses so loudly it drowns out my thoughts. I freeze. I am no longer a man; I am a mummy, a statue made of ice. My hands, so steady a moment ago, are now dead, paralyzed mid-motion. My gaze is glued to the doorknob. I see it glinting in the dark. I wait for it to twitch. I wait for the verdict. I wait for the door to fly off its hinges. Seconds last for hours. “Piotrek, it’s just a house, it’s just the neighbors, nothing is happening...” But the heart knows better. The heart drums to the beat of paranoia.

The silence returns, but it’s different now – thick as tar. I go back to work. I form a line, a perfectly straight road to the emergency exit. A banknote rolled tight, nervously, so it doesn't rustle, so it doesn't betray me. I lean in. Inhale. A stinging cold invades my brain, tearing through the veil of dread. I close my eyes. The tension in my neck snaps, the lights in my head flicker on one by one. I can breathe again. I’m back in control of the chaos. At least for a moment... everything is okay again.