Du Riechst So Gut

Another week had passed. By its end, what had been a measured chain of days had twisted into a wild, hopelessly tangled knot of events, emotions, and thoughts. Days had tangled before, weaving into weeks and months, but now, beyond the knots, my mind was a realm of pure chaos and unrest. Thanks to the efforts of one person — and the inaction of another.

The inaction, of course, was mine. I hadn’t even tried to make sense of it all, to clarify or seize the initiative. And had there been any effort on her part? Maybe I was just sitting in my cozy little corner, walled off… To say I was "burning with love" would be too grand, and frankly —banal. "Slowly smothering, like a candle drowning in its own melted wax"? No, no, no. More like I was stewing in frustration over my own indecisiveness and a twist of fate that hadn’t gone my way.

I walked to school buoyant, almost giddy. I spent five, sometimes six hours a day there, getting my fix. I came home lost in thought or with a carefree smile on my face. Then, as they say, it would "wear off." The veil of lightness and ease would slip from my eyes. And the brooding would begin: about how there was still a whole month left before exams, how summer was now just a month away, how I had to make a decision, how my hesitation would guarantee yet another failure — after which the only option would be to keep moving forward, pretending nothing had happened… And all the other, other thoughts, most of them utterly vile, leaving me desperate to stop thinking altogether. Even if just for a little while.

Of course, she was at the center of all this inner turmoil. Alone, the delicate threads of any coherent reasoning I might have inevitably tangled with the thick, suffocating strands of her that completely enveloped my mind. Everything always circled back to her—to her image. A thought, an idea carelessly planted three months ago, had taken root, grown wildly, and now metastasized. And unlike the real her, this mental image brought neither joy nor peace. On the contrary, it seemed to drain me, sapping my energy while quietly slipping in sabotage—subtle suggestions that I should curse that February day when I first sat beside her.

Not that it brought unbearable suffering. I just spent even more time with headphones on. What would I do without music? Praise be to guitar chords and drumbeats, letting me lose myself in pleasure, anger, joy, or just memories. Like this: input channel flooded with music, a couple of stray thoughts—and suddenly, I could split myself in two, retreating to where sounds had shape, pulsing rhythmically, tethered to the timeline of a media player. Music, after all, isn’t just a pretty arrangement of noise…

Outwardly, I hadn’t changed, though I imagined my face looked a little gaunt, my body a few kilos lighter—mirrors and scales disagreed. True, my appetite had waned, and I’d taken to drinking nearly a liter of cola daily, chased by a chocolate bar—by eight p.m., I had to force my exhausted brain to work, to grind through the homework I kept ceremoniously postponing "for later."

And yet, despite the wreckage in my head, "surface-level" life was going fine. My grades had started climbing precisely because I’d stopped caring so much. Turns out, moments of focus could be maximized when they were rare. For the past week, I’d worn the mask of "benevolent indifference"—all thanks to that talk with the "Comrade Instructor." Afterward, that inner voice revisited me several times. And since it had already admitted that trying to clarify "Issue No. 1" was pointless, it instead posed the same question each time: Was the old colonel right? Frankly, the best I could muster was, "Human life is the highest value, but…" The heart of the answer always eluded me.

Still, whatever that answer might be, I clearly needed a simpler view of things. A little healthy detachment, so to speak. Life’s already too complicated—why make it worse with how we feel about it, right?

Today was Sunday—an unusually dull day. I woke up, drank a cup of tea, and wandered aimlessly through the depths of the internet, occasionally breaking into pacing circles around my room with headphones on. By four in the afternoon, I was already exhausted, despite having done essentially nothing. Sunlight streamed through the uncurtained window, occasionally stabbing my eyes with irritating brightness. Why not leave the house and go somewhere farther than just the store?

Yes, I’d do that. Only… I needed a reason. I couldn’t just roam the streets pointlessly. Fine. I’d walk to the city center and buy a pack of blank discs—which would most likely remain blank. That would be my little cover story, a pseudo-important mission.

I pushed myself up from the chair and stretched until my joints cracked. Opened the closet, pulled out a T-shirt and pants. Dressed, stuffed keys and money into my pockets. Done. Ready to go.

The time was 4:10. My habit of constantly checking the clock had quietly vanished about a month ago, though I’d only noticed recently—and been surprised. Well, no matter. The main thing was not to start being late.

As I scanned the room before leaving, my eyes landed on the still-running computer. Turn it off or leave it? No, better shut it down. The image of a short circuit and its consequences flashed too vividly in my mind. I hit the power button, stepped out, closed the door behind me, and a minute later was standing in the courtyard.

The air outside was neither light nor free—stagnant, dry, and oven-hot. I planned to walk to the center, as our city was oddly suited for such strolls: cutting straight through it, from one end to the other, ran a wide pedestrian street known as Revolution Avenue. Here and there, old rusted plaques clung to building walls, their pre-Imperial inscriptions barely legible: "Grovema Vstachnitsy." The avenue’s buildings—some crumbling pre-revolutionary relics (though still standing), others two- or three-story gray concrete blocks—were monuments to Republican architecture, which rejected decorative excess but made no effort toward variety either.

The ground floors, whether of historic houses or concrete boxes, mostly housed shops and restaurants, their quality and density increasing toward the center. There were also a few corporate offices, a couple of cinemas, a large shopping mall, a smattering of monuments, and several faceless buildings of unknown purpose. And with that, the avenue’s landmarks were exhausted.

I strolled along cheerfully. Alone. I’d already covered nearly half the distance when my inner interlocutor decided to chime in again, apparently convinced I’d inhaled enough fresh air and that the walk had shaken up my brain, neatly organizing its contents. As if! My mind was about as orderly as the Party’s execution of its ten-year plan.

"Still, stepping outside for some air was the right call."

"The right call?" I shrugged. "It’s just a walk. Concrete is just concrete," I added as another two-story cubic block came into view.

"Yes, the right call—because you’re so tangled up in your thoughts and feelings that I’m almost afraid to talk to you."

"Tangled up… Maybe I’m saying something criminal here, but wouldn’t it be better if this—" I barely stopped myself from making a dramatic, all-encompassing gesture with both hands—"this bizarre parody of bizarre love didn’t exist at all? Think about it: is it fair that your mood, your thoughts, your mind—everything that makes you human—is consumed by another person? One word, and you’re happy; another, and you’re miserable. Throw in some nonsense your brain takes at face value, and suddenly you’re charging off to chop wood, forgetting the axe, your head, and your diary."

"Why the diary?"

"Well, usually if someone forgets their diary, they’ve forgotten their head too."

From inside, I received a look of such fiery bewilderment that I actually felt a little embarrassed.

"That’s what they tell us at school. The teachers," I mumbled, nearly blushing to fill the awkward pause.

 Anyway. So what’s next?

Dependence and this insane longing to be near her. Already. And those constant mood swings—like there's some lever controlling you. Your emotions are twisted and manipulated at will, while you yourself haven't yet been spun around and used—either out of ignorance or some purely human restraint. The worst part? Maybe it’s already happening, and I just haven’t noticed until now—" I was spiraling into a rant—"In short, I have serious suspicions this is entirely one-sided. And most of the time, those suspicions get shoved to the backburner—second, third, fifth priority—because I keep deluding myself, feeding myself empty hopes, indulging in happy fantasies I’ve done absolutely nothing to realize in three damned months!

"You know, this reminds me of a song lyric. '...He loves her more than he will ever show...'"

"And that’s another problem," I confirmed grimly. "Behind Mask Number Nine, neither deed, nor word, nor even a needle’s prick has revealed the soul’s yearnings, the mind’s impulses, the inner ruptures, the feeble strivings—slanted, forceful—to tear Mask Number Five off its hook. Let me tell you who I am: I’m a person who’s undeniably decent in some aspects but far from the best in all others. Oh, and I scored ten points above the norm on a schizophrenia screening test. So there’s that."

My inner interlocutor listened to this confession impassively before posing two succinct questions merged into one:

"What masks are you talking about in the test?"

"The test? Oh, nothing serious. Twenty simple questions, normal range between 15 and 65 points. I took it out of curiosity, scored a pitiful 75, got a warning about potential schizotypal tendencies, and now here I am talking to you. As for the masks—drop by sometime, I’ll explain."

"Well, you see…" The voice hesitated, then began, "It just so happens that…" It leaned in and whispered conspiratorially into my ear: "I’m already here."

"Oh, damn you!" I rolled my eyes skyward. "Don’t you know the human mind is such a crowded thoroughfare it’s embarrassing to admit? These days, we’re swarmed with so-called ‘top-tier specialists’ who’ll dissect your entire psyche in five minutes, solve all your psychological problems for you, and tidy up your head like a closet. They’ll drill into the depths of your mind and run some ‘life-changing personal growth workshop’—discounted, of course. Or at a ‘special rate’ for ‘particularly fascinating clients.’ Take your pick. And then half the country’s on antidepressants, and corpses swing from nooses. Anyway—" I circled back to my original point—"You don’t exist. I’m just talking to you, and you’re answering me, but really, I’m just answering myself."

"No."
"Clown response."
"Not an argument."
"Dreams hold no truth."
"What do dreams have to do with this?"
"A sound sleep is better than a heated debate."
"I’d dare say a sound sleep is better than anything."
"Unless you’re twenty and bearded."
"What does age or facial hair have to do with it?" I kept cornering my inner interlocutor (or was it just myself?).

I smirked cryptically.

Meanwhile, as this internal dialogue unfolded, I’d covered the remaining half of my trek to the electronics store—a temple of discs, TVs, computers, and other gadgets large and small. The shop greeted me with cool air, warm lighting, gleaming floor tiles, and soft background music. Not that I planned to linger. I snatched a spindle of fifteen blank discs, paid at the counter, and stepped back onto the avenue. A glance at my phone: twenty minutes had passed. Perfect. Another twenty for the return trip, and I’d have a proper walk under my belt. Oddly enough, my thoughts did feel clearer, if only briefly. All thanks to a goal—even one as trivial as buying discs. "Life has meaning as long as it has purpose"—Dad used to say that. These days, though, he mostly parrots state propaganda. Kitchen-table debates don’t count. A man of the regime, a man of the state. And yet—my father. Do I love him? More yes than no. Do I fear him, within limits? Undeniably. Respect him? Certainly not for his actions. I refuse to follow in his footsteps. And when others compare me to him, it stings.

Do I even have a choice?

"Tell me, what does the phrase ‘I want’ even mean in a country where everyone says ‘you must’? Where brawn trumps brains, and the rifles of life tear through you like knives through fabric?"

"Spare me the gift-wrapping on sharp questions. The packaging always rips open anyway, and the truth oozes out through every hole."

"While you were busy satisfying your consumerist itch, I had a thought: you desperately need to change."

A memory from last summer flashed in my mind: our family walking down the avenue, my father pressed close to me, his shoulder nearly brushing mine. Out of nowhere, he started lecturing me about how tense, inhibited, and full of complexes I was. How I needed to "let go," stop worrying—"and start living," I mentally added with a sneer. It pissed me off. He was playing psychologist, acting like he knew my mind better than I did. Like he had the blueprint for how I should behave. Worst of all, he was convinced I had problems—and that his help was essential. Sure, Dad’s experienced. His guidance is indispensable. But what about the freedom to choose how to act?

Back then, I wanted to scream it all in his face, to hurl my anger at him in a scalding, vile torrent. Instead, I just walked beside him in silence—perfectly proving his point. But I won’t stay silent anymore. Not now. And I haven’t been, at least not during those exhausting kitchen-table debates. Isn’t that change? Has this inner voice’s sermon come too late?

"Change. Of course. You can’t just stay as you are forever. You absolutely must frantically break yourself down, reeducate yourself, commit god-knows-what violence against your own soul. And not to root out vices—well, not just for that. Simply to meet some arbitrary standard."

Picture this: There’s a Commission of Normality that’s stamped and signed off on some moral and physical ideal of a human being, decreeing we all must strive for it. Never heard of it? How?! You’re clearly abnormal! Look at you—socks with sandals?! What kind of idiot does that? You don’t watch boxing or soccer on TV, never been in a fight, don’t drink alcohol on principle, indifferent to the opposite sex? You’re not a real man! Oh, not indifferent to them? Even worse!"

"—Simply because this isn’t a perfect world."
"—No, not perfect," I agreed. "It’s profoundly strange."
"—Something like this?"

Strange people of a strange world
Strangely living in strange houses
Strangely keeping ancient customs
Strangely painting on strange canvases

Strange people in strange apartments
Singing strange songs strangely
Strange furniture rattles oddly
The drill and hammer sing off-key

Strange people forging at midnight
Strange metal for strange sculptures
Oddly standing with Fortuna’s face
Strange people play heavy metal
Strange growls roar through amplifiers

A hand draws a symbol in a circle—strangely
Strange that the symbol holds no power
Strange, for the symbol was born strong
Strange, it was meant to bring peace
Strange, the world rejected its strength

Strange strokes in this portrait
Strange rhymes missing from these verses
Strange to walk only from antiquity
Strange to live where we’re all so strange.

"Wait—now I smell something strange. Or rather, not the smell itself, but its strange location." I sniffed the air.

"That scent will drive you mad. If it hasn’t already," the voice smirked.

As usual, it wasn’t entirely wrong. Her fragrance did drive me insane—I’d come to revel in it. I’d tried finding substitutes, all futile. A single whiff would pierce me to the core, hurling me onto vast plains... Briefly, of course. But that aroma was divine. It brought peace, near-tangible warmth, and sent my thoughts floating effortlessly.

Yet now, the scent was absent. Only two blocks home remained, so I quickened my pace to cover the distance as fast as possible.

The walk had genuinely helped. Forcing myself (ah, the dreaded necessity of change...), I finished all my homework before sunset—around nine. Then came the bathroom. Sunday meant shaving and other hygienic rituals...

Discovering my once-substantial soap had dwindled into a pathetic sliver that kept slipping from my hands, I sighed and reached into the cabinet above the sink. Inside was a pack of five fresh bars. I tore it open, pulled out the first one—

Boom.

Stunned, I nearly slipped, saved only by the fuzzy bathmat. No mistake. I lifted the soap to my nose. Something inside me ruptured. A rainbow of sparks erupted, warmth flooding my body. My pulse spiked, breath quickened, hands trembled, knees buckled. I stifled the urge to burst from the bathroom shouting "Eureka!" and dance naked through the apartment, nose glued to the soap—my parents wouldn’t appreciate it.

A wave of euphoria seized me. You know that feeling? Say you have... a fetish. Unusual, not something you’d admit openly. You scour the internet for it—photos, videos, texts, anything to satisfy the craving. Then your cursor hovers over the link... Anticipation surges. Beyond that screen: dozens, hundreds of images! Your eyes gleam unnaturally, palms sweat, you hunch like a gargoyle, frantically clicking to save each file. Like a stalker cornering prey, you’ve won—immense moral satisfaction. Soon, physical "retribution" will bring even greater pleasure. You’ll swear this is enough, you’ll never look again. But your mania will drag you back. Sooner or later...

I turned off the bathroom light. Then violently twisted the hot water tap before adding just enough cold to make it scalding - one more degree and it would've been unbearable. The shower jets cascaded over my burning skin as my heart hammered wildly. I lathered myself from head to toe. Yes, that unmistakable fragrance - no doubt about it. I inhaled deeply through mouth and nose, ready to bite into the soap bar, to devour it whole without water.

I lay down in the tub. Now nothing existed here. Nothing but arousal, pounding heartbeat, warmth, that scent and water. Hopefully the rushing water would drown out my moans.

Careful now. Inhale-exhale. Slow, deliberate movements up and down, up and down. Don't accelerate, don't increase tempo! I mustn't ruin everything with careless motions...

My fevered mind operated at full capacity. So exquisite. So unattainable...

My movements grew erratic and disjointed. My breathing became ragged - not that steady rhythm was possible in this steam anyway. Scorching hot and impossibly good.

My heartbeat now throbbed in my ears, creeping slowly upward to my temples. Tension mounted with pleasure as a moan escaped through clenched teeth.

No need to hold back now.

My heart reached my temples and exploded in a piercing flash of light, bliss and infinite pleasure that struck my ears and eyes before radiating to every cell, every organ. The moans couldn't be contained.

The afterglow faded slowly, leaving monstrous relaxation and satisfaction in its wake. When it disappeared completely, only a ringing in my ears remained. I still couldn't see anything. At first I didn't remember turning off the light - the absurd thought "Have I gone blind?" flashed through my mind. Powerful... incredibly powerful. I lay exhausted for several more minutes. Just don't rinse with hot water.

To hell with collections, to hell with searching, to hell with it all! Now I have this fantasy. Something that can't be taken away, only destroyed along with its creator. A pure creation of the mind, my fantasy.

You smell so good...