Personal Magdalene

On October 6th, the first snow fell. Lyne had just left a rock concert and was walking down the street late at night, wanting to take a break from the excitement. He remembered how everything suddenly turned white, and in that moment of silence he felt the summer leaving, the fall giving way to winter coming in. It was the beginning of something important, although Lyne couldn't quite put his finger on it. He just knew that the snow was a beginning, albeit a small one.

But after three days the snow was gone. On October 9th it melted, taking with it the little bit of winter charm that had given the dreary autumn some meaning. That morning, Lyne sat on his bed and opened a can of the cheapest beer he could find at the nearest store. It was ice cold. He drank it without turning on the light, staring at the dark ceiling. A fly was crawling along the wall, its monotonous buzzing reminding him of something frozen and helpless. He didn't chase it away. He didn't care. Let it be a silent witness to his impotence.

Everything in his life remained the same – quiet and unchanged. Even when Lyne recalled that concert, his eyes were empty, as if nothing had happened. On October 6th, in addition to the snow, the city gave him another unexpected moment: a rock band that performed in his dirty, gray city for just one night. Lyne was there not out of loyalty, but simply by chance – having noticed a poster on the way home from university, he bought a ticket without thinking. After all, there are no normal concerts, but the chance to see something special – that’s what’s worth the risk. And so he went.

And there he saw him. Cyrus.

Cyrus moved on stage as if the whole world lay at his feet. It wasn't anything grand or supernatural – Cyrus was just there, and Lyne stood in the dark, holding a beer in his hand, feeling like something was missing. Every move Cyrus made seemed so natural, as if he were the center of the universe and everyone else was just an observer. Meanwhile, Lyne felt alienated and awkward.

Something inside him clenched: envy, jealousy, horror at the thought that he could never be like that, that he would never be on stage, that he would never become the one who was watched, the one who got everything without effort.

And now, on the ninth day, sitting in an empty apartment, Lyne could still feel the cold that had entered his chest the moment Cyrus had walked backstage. Cyrus hadn't even noticed him, but the laughter that had spread in that direction hadn't let Lyne forget his own insignificance - it was the laughter of those who pass by without noticing people like him.

Lyne took another sip of beer, but it tasted strange, as if the drink had absorbed something foreign, invisible. He squeezed the can too hard, accidentally cutting his fingers, and blood came out in thin lines, trickling down to his wrist. He ran his thumb over the cut, smearing the blood, but he couldn't let go of the can.

He still remembered how, on the first snow, on October sixth, he stood and watched the silence, the white roofs, as if the city had stopped for a moment, listening to itself. But now only memories remained from that moment, and everything that seemed important was gone without a trace. Lyne could not understand what exactly had broken - where was the world he was looking for, and where was the Cyrus who had become the reason for his hatred?

The seventh he could barely remember, and the eighth was just a grey, wet day, a day with a bitter taste in his throat, with the snow gone, and, it seemed, with a piece of his soul missing. And today is the ninth, and Lyne still feels the cold in his chest.

He suddenly got out of bed, leaving the murky remnants of sleep behind, and went to the kitchen to wash the blood from a cut caused by yet another carelessness. In the small space of his apartment, under the sink, a nearly empty bottle of liquid soap flashed. As the icy water began to flow down his arm, pinkish traces of blood mixed with the clear water, forming small droplets that swirled in a whirlpool, as if trying to erase all memories of pain.

The thought of bandages flashed through his mind for a moment, but it quickly dissipated. Why try to record something that the wound would heal on its own anyway? Lyne just sighed and looked up to meet himself in the old mirror. There he saw not only the weariness expressed in the deep shadows under his eyes and the tousled strands of hair, but also something inexpressibly empty – the reflection of a man who had long since ceased to have anything meaningful.

He clutched the cold surface of the sink with his hands and asked quietly, as if addressing an invisible interlocutor, "What am I missing?" There was no answer, but deep in his soul, a truth was already ripening that he could not drive away. He was left alone with himself, in a cramped, damp-smelling room, where the dim light of a lamp tried to warm the cold walls, and the aroma of cheap soap reminded him of a ghostly feeling of comfort.

The image of the concert stage floated into his mind – the bright lights, the noise of the crowd, the music that made you forget everything, and that elusive moment when Cyrus, on stage, seemed to be the embodiment of life. But now this image was replaced by an unsettling reality: he looked at his reflection and saw a man who had lost something important. Maybe he himself was to blame for his coldness? Or maybe it was his soul that demanded something that he had been looking for so long in other people’s successes and other people’s smiles?

Lyne's fingers, still shaking from the pain, began to slowly slide over his face, as if trying to remember the lost feelings. Suddenly his gaze caught on the corner of the mirror, where a scent flashed like a memory: a subtle aroma of old wood and something distant, reminiscent of childhood, of forgotten toys in the attic. This smell, like a quiet call from the past, made him think about when everything changed, when joy gave way to impenetrable melancholy.