Richard Kozłowski

The alarm clock rang, as irritating as every morning. He didn't care about getting up early, but that unbearable sound in his ears made him angry. There was nothing he could do but turn it off and get up, it's not like he had enough money to buy another alarm clock with a less irritating alarm, he could half pay all the bills in his apartment. His phone didn't even have volume, it had broken a long time ago and he couldn't even listen to audio. His economic life was shit, but in part, when he had enough money to buy his whims, he only spent it on a pack of cigarettes or simply saved them to pay the bills that would come later.

Richard Kozłowski's life was very boring and stressful when he wanted it. Since he was little he has been miserable. His parents focused their love and affection on his older brother who, in addition to being a son of a bitch, was literally a bastard, and they loved him for being... Maybe for being outgoing, for being good at music, and... Honestly, He didn't have the slightest idea and wasn't interested in knowing specifically the reasons why his brother was better than him in some way. The last straw was that he truly got the best grades in school and had a brighter future than his brother, who ended up being run over by an ex; it was an accident, not an attempted homicide. The woman was leaving for the shopping center, she ran over him in reverse and at first thought it was a cow. He was horrified to see his ex's smashed head in the tires of his car, then he must have celebrated because they did not end on good terms, but at the trial he proved to be innocent.

Chatting aside, Richard is already in the kitchen of his house drinking tea. He thinks about his future, which he already has perfectly planned. He's already saved enough money to buy his own house and pay for his law studies, being an accountant was boring shit. He wanted to study law so he could run for a fucking president with the attitude of a dictator, not be a boring accountant who struggled with accounts. In Poland, the profession of accountant was highly revered, but in the United States things were already changing. Having to live as an accountant was complicated, working almost twenty-four hours with extreme care with each paper and ending up returning home with thirty thousand bills to pay was shit. He remembers that, when he was little, his mother always thought he would be the family's salvation. He believed that evading him with his desires and pressuring him about school would make him mature quickly, but it was the opposite, or a path much more complex than that was formed. From a very young age Richard had in mind that he had to escape the country, mainly his home, and never return for his parents. He wished his family would die before him, so he could spit on every grave and despise them until his last day on earth. He was a little childish and supernaturally evil, but he has suffered his entire childhood from abuse by his family. What did you expect? That he would forget everything overnight and welcome them into a nice big home for everyone? Pff, no way.

He was never going to forget those memories that became traumas. Not having any friends, he had to isolate himself, and his parents saw no better solution than to treat him as if he were a strange monster and remind him of it every day. He could have been sent to some sport when he was young to meet more people, but noo, his parents wanted him to be a monster, a weirdo, a lonely ogre in a cave all his damn life, and they achieved it. They sent him to play sports as a teenager, surrounded by guys who had already trained and met each other as children. It was so damn uncomfortable that his anxiety went through the roof and his panic crossed to such a point that he had several attacks, although they weren't new to him. The attacks he had were received with contempt from his mother, she solved everything with screams and blows, he even once felt afraid of spilling a little liquid from his glass and ended up locking herself in the closet so as not to feel her fury.

The brunette's eyes crystallize, remembering. He hated his memory, he already wishes he were old and thought about each day with joy that he could easily die at any moment. He lowers his eyes when he hears a splash. One of her salty tears fell onto his tea. Richard sighs, it was nothing to worry about, but the scene he had made was stupid, lucky that he lived alone, because if anyone had seen it he would feel like shit for months. He thinks he's very sensitive when alone, which is perfect, but it's also very problematic for him. Every big or small problem he has outside his house he remembers perfectly, with a stone face he manages to appear disinterested, but when he gets to the apartment he sits on the couch and watches the turned-off television. The black screen and your cloudy mind make a good combination to give you a space of total silence. It is not a calm, uncomfortable silence or one that expresses any emotion. It is a silent moment, but he knows that he will go out of control for no reason and destroy his surroundings and himself. Basically, the calm before the storm.

Luckily for him, his tears were few, and there was nothing to worry about when drinking his cup of tea, but the pang of anguish in his chest made him leave the almost full cup on the table. He takes a few steps away, but his mind begins to shoot those guilty thoughts. Should he finish the tea or not? There were people who couldn't even take a piece of bread and he was wasting tea. Yes, I had another trauma with the waste. He walks quickly to the table and grabs the cup, lifting it and drinking it so quickly that he feels his throat burn with the burning liquid. Another thought crosses his mind, it was another damn memory when he was little. His mother got angry with him for not eating before going to class and, since she couldn't do anything, she quickly drank the cup, burning her throat and watching as her mother's angry expression grew. Before getting hit, he would run out the door as fast as he could and enter his school very early.

—Damn old shit!— He moves the cup away from his lips and throws it hard against the floor, making it break into a thousand pieces of porcelain. With the sleeves of his hands, he cleans his cracked and burned lips. They have not been broken by the hot liquid, they have been broken a long time ago by the cold and by biting himself so constantly because of his anxiety.

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