Where is My Mind?

For the second week now, I had been stuck at home, bored out of my mind. And the reason was simple — I was sick.
Spring had launched its offensive, and by mid-March the roads were full of treacherous puddles, some hidden under thin ice or barely veiled by snow. I had the misfortune of falling into one of them. I was coming back from the store, almost at my apartment entrance.
Darkness, a slippery road, and my own clumsiness did their job. My foot slid out sideways, I flailed my arms, and fell on my side into the dirty, murky water, slamming my elbow painfully. Fortunately, I managed to throw the grocery bag into the snow. Only my clothes suffered. And, well, my elbow. The wind was strong, the water was cold, and despite my best efforts — I still got sick.

It was a mild but persistent cold — and deeply unpleasant.
The first two days I lay in bed with a fever. Then came the brutal runny nose and a twisting cough, though I was feeling better already and aimlessly wandering the apartment, stewing in my own thoughts. There was nothing to read, my internet access was limited, and I couldn’t even bring myself to look at the TV. I made a point of ignoring my inner voice too — I was sick of its hints and jabs.
The furniture refused to talk, and only the fridge kindly suggested I go see a doctor. Not about the cold, though.
So I had nothing to do — aside from standard homework, of course.

My mood was clearly in the gutter. What joy was there in chills, in soaking through half the house’s tissues every day, or in the mountain of pills that, once swallowed, started a full-scale French Revolution in my gut?
“At least it’s not the October Revolution,” I thought, and gave a strange little smirk.

My dad wasn’t pleased to learn I got sick from literally sitting in a puddle. But he wasn’t particularly upset either.
He just got angry that something so minor had sidelined me for over a week, leaving me sniffling and poorly imitating a terminal patient. Shaking his head, he muttered that in Sparta, kids like me would’ve been tossed off a cliff at birth.
I found that comment pretty offensive — but I said nothing. I didn’t feel like pointing out that people like him would’ve been executed in Sparta as war criminals.

Strangely enough, I actually wanted to go back to school.
Just a few years ago, getting sick in the middle of the term would’ve felt like a gift from above. But that was then.
It’s not like I had many friends there. Not like school was easy, or I never felt the urge to stand up mid-lesson, say “screw this,” and walk out. No. But it was interesting. I felt alive. I felt that what I did there mattered. That it might come in handy one day.
Priceless experience in social interaction, varying degrees of connection, and navigating real-life situations. I felt that I wasn’t lost inside myself, that even as I dug deeper, I wasn’t burying the exit — I left an opening for light and air.
Talking to myself wasn’t the only kind of conversation I was part of. And that brought relief.

Then I’d come home, overwhelmed by this endless sense of detachment.
As if I was supposed to do something… but failed. I had no idea how much worse that feeling would soon become.
Once again, I hadn’t managed to reach the people around me. Once again, I felt that sharp pain in my lower back, that awful sense of being broken and pathetic. Yes, I am dependent on society. Even if I often don’t feel like a part of it.

“Ololo-ololo, ‘no one understands me’?”
“No. I don’t understand them. And anyway, I’m ignoring you. So go away.”

A heavy hand landed on my shoulder. Another ripped the headphones from my head.

— And what do we have here? Ah, music.

On instinct, I pressed the space bar. The music stopped.
Squinting, my dad slowly began reading the title glowing on the screen — syllable by syllable:

— “Sys-tem… of… a… Down.”
His English was clearly lacking.
— Christ. How many times have I told you — this kind of “music” leads to moral decay and probably brainwashes people into carrying out secret commands. That’s first. Second — headphones fry your brain and cause tumors. You’ll burn out your brain!
And third — why the hell are you still sick?!
Actually, I know why. You go outside twice a day — to school and the store. The rest of the time you’re inside, slowly killing yourself with radiation, microwaves, and God knows what else! — he was worked up now. — Look at me!

I’m fifty-five! Fifty-five! Can you count?! That’s several times more than your entire... — he paused, struggling to find a word — life!
And in all that time, I’ve been hospitalized for just two days — not counting combat wounds! — he jabbed a short, thick index finger at me, the nail half gone.

“Maybe if you didn’t drink so much, you wouldn’t have stayed even that long,” I thought, already growing angry.
My palms were sweaty from tension, but I forced myself to keep a blank face.

— One day I swear I’m going to smash this computer to pieces and make a man out of you! — he yelled, flecks of spit hitting the monitor.

That was the peak. He’d erupted, released all the frustration of the day like an overheated volcano.
Now, he’d stay quiet for the rest of the evening, avoid me, and in the morning put on that fake smile over tea and say hello like nothing ever happened.

“A real man.”
Those words made me sick, the way that cursed cough did.
Here it was again — the concept, the cult.
I’m supposed to love the Republic.
I’m supposed to shout its praises.
I’m supposed to scream the anthem, draped in black and green.
I’m supposed to be ready to kill, to tear apart anyone seen as an enemy of the state.
A hulking slab of muscle with no brain — the new ideal.
A country and people who’d twisted the idea of a human being beyond recognition.

Why?
Why were mindless action movies full of shooting, explosions, dives and cover — why were those becoming our new “Tale of a Real Man”?

I remembered those propaganda posters from the “Be a Man!” campaign: a furious-looking man with a contorted face shaking a clenched fist at the viewer.
White background. Bold, handwritten slogans above.
I’d never liked those posters — or any propaganda. As the saying goes, “You make me sad.”

But now a crooked smile crept across my face.
Nervous laughter was coming. My teeth chattered. My chin trembled.
Tears, bitter and angry, welled up in my eyes. I was ready to laugh in his face.

Day after day, year after year — all these baseless reproaches, imagined complaints, the yelling.
But I felt certain — this wouldn’t break me.
I was right in my anger, my resistance, my faint smile at all this talk of radiation and brainwashing.
Because in that moment, I felt no guilt.
Oh yes, when I knew I’d done wrong, made a mistake — that hot shame came. That gnawing remorse. I’d mentally drag myself through the mud and swear that next time, there’d be nothing to reproach me for.

But now I stood in my own room, red-faced and sweaty, fists clenched, muscles twitching.
Dad stood across from me, just as red, chest heaving. Slowly, he was coming down. His fading flush was the sign.

I could have given him a dozen counterarguments. But would he have listened?

Once again, I said nothing.

We stood in silence for maybe thirty seconds.
My strained grin still lingered.
His face was almost back to normal.
He seemed calm now.

And I kept asking myself — why do I talk to myself so often?

— And you’re still smiling? — he asked at last, in a normal voice now, even with a hint of fatigue. — There’s nothing funny about this. Nothing at all.

He gave me a stern look and walked out, closing the door behind him.

Feeling utterly drained and suddenly exhausted — the crash after the storm — I sat at my desk and buried my face in my hands.
What followed was the next phase in the cycle of this complicated machine.
The first stage after conflict — despair.

God, I was so tired of it…