“Who are you?”

“I’m your jailer, of course. Your greatest enemy.”

“What jailer? As far as I know, I’m free.”

“If you think that, it means I’m doing my job well. But since this is a dream, and once you wake up you won’t remember any of it, I can tell you the truth. You’ve been chained up and living in a dungeon for many years.”

“You’re talking nonsense. The world is full of clowns like you, always looking for attention. Get lost.”

“A prisoner doesn’t get to give orders to the jailer. Usually it’s the other way around.”

“Listen, you freak. Your stupid tricks can’t get under my skin. Find someone else to bother.”

“Would you tell me why you refused to go out with your colleagues last night, after work?”

“What’s that to you?”

“Nothing. Just asking. Why did you refuse to spend a pleasant evening in company, and instead go home and keep flipping channels on TV until late?”

“You’re sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“No. That’s exactly my job.”

“And who decided that’s your job?”

“Because that’s the job I was given.”

“By whom?”

“I can’t tell you. Professional ethics.”

“More nonsense. I don’t see who would have any interest in hurting me.”

“Then you know people far less than you think. Even your close ones, for example.”

“Which close ones? Friends? Family?”

“…”

“Right. You’re trying to sound mysterious, but I’m not biting. Cheap tricks. And what are you even trying to do with this conversation?”

“Let’s call it entertainment. Being a jailer inside your mind is, honestly, quite boring. If you had any idea how prosaic your thoughts are, you’d understand. Though I admit—I share some of the blame. I’m the one who’s kept you in this dungeon for years. I can’t expect you to be especially cheerful, interesting, or fun.”

“I know this is a dream and there is no jailer. But since we’re here—wherever ‘here’ is—and even if you’re just some scrap product of my subconscious, crawling out of the swamp of nightmares when a person is most vulnerable… I still want to ask you one question, as if you were a person. Even though you’re not, and you can’t be. But… don’t you think what you’re saying is disgusting, ugly, and cynical?”

“That’s one of your biggest mistakes: you still perceive me as human, because you want to. Deep down you expect a human answer—one that will satisfy you morally. But you will never get it, and the bitterness of that will slowly eat you alive. Which, of course, makes my job even easier. The more traumatized you are, the easier it is for me to keep you in your cell. And as for what you call ‘disgusting,’ ‘ugly,’ and ‘cynical’—for me it’s simply professionalism.”

“You… you… You nasty, filthy apparition—get out of my head, you worm! Go crawl into the head of a snake or a cockroach, where you belong and where you probably crawled out from!”

“It hurts, doesn’t it? With time you get used to it… somewhat… But I advise you to take it philosophically—this is the world, that’s how things are. There will always be winners and losers, and anyway—how can there be good if there is no evil?”

“I just lost my temper over nonsense. You don’t exist. I’ll wake up soon and you won’t be there. You’ll evaporate and I won’t even remember this ugly dream. I’ll start tomorrow without even the faintest trace in my mind of the vile, short-lived flu of the soul that you are.”

“Exactly. By the way—what’s your plan for tomorrow? Probably the same as yesterday? After the ‘exciting’ day at the office you’ll spend the evening in front of a computer or the TV again, right?”

“So what?”

“Nothing. Forgive me, but I can’t not know your daily schedule. You rarely deviate from it.”

“I don’t see why that matters…”

“After work you’re tired. No energy. Irritated. You don’t feel like talking to anyone, right? You’re exhausted. I get it—numbers and letters on a screen all day. It’s not easy being an accountant… But one thought carries you through those eight or nine neurotic hours at the office: after work you’ll stop by the corner shop, buy three or four strong dark beers, sink into the couch, and from the very first sip a wave of bliss and calm will spread through your body and soul. Right?”

“And what of it? Of course everyone needs to relax after work.”

“Of course. Have you ever thought about changing jobs? Something more promising, more intriguing, more fun? A job after which you wouldn’t feel like a crushed worm, trying to crawl as fast as possible into its hole so it can finally lie still and suck on beer? I know you’ve thought about it. You’ve even looked at job listings. But…”

“Well, few people are happy with their jobs. And changing is risky—often not worth it. Still, maybe one day…”

“Of course. One day… Besides, you’re too old, insecure, you don’t have much saved, and it might end up worse for you. I’m not blaming you. Between us—since it’ll stay between us—you’re already a little late. If you’d thought of it earlier, maybe things would be different now. But that’s exactly why I was sent: to destroy your better future and your better self. Sometimes it takes only a little—really only a little—to change someone’s fate. If you know where to touch it. Lightly. Subtly…”

“Bastard…”

“You flatter me. Want me to remind you of all those moments when you could have made a different choice, but something stopped you? A person has many crossroads like that. Starting a new job. A new acquaintance. A trip. A new project. Anything. Waves that, if you managed to ride them, could carry you across the ocean of life—giving you strength and secrets, until your experiences surpassed your expectations and dreams, and you surprised yourself with what you could become.

“Yes, I’m talking about those decisive moments for you—when your inborn timidity unexpectedly won at the last second… or when a pulse of cowardice, fed by some complex of yours, rose from the depths—nudged lightly by me, upward, into your soul. Or when, for no clear reason, you had inexplicably bad luck, wondering what evil force had derailed your path.

“And so, instead of surfing an ocean of possibilities—an ocean full of potential, emotions, experiences—you remain on a hidden pebble beach pressed into the rocks, where there’s a couch, a computer, and a TV. You don’t even dare admit that, secretly, you still hope a golden fish might stop by this joyless shore and grant you even one wish.

“But it won’t. I made sure everything happened this way. And believe me, I worked tirelessly and stubbornly to build the cell first inside you—and then in your life.”

“Why…?”

“Why does the wolf eat the rabbit? Because that’s the order. Because prison for some opens the road to heaven for others. Because the wheel of life turns smoothly—but it’s lubricated by countless crushed destinies. Because if there is happiness somewhere, there must be unhappiness elsewhere.”

“What you call the wheel of life is a soul-grinder. It needs souls in order to exist. And the souls go into it one after another, paralyzed by fear. If fear disappears, that wheel from Hell stops. Its blades will break against the hardness of a soul without fear. And then you will die too—but since you have no soul, you will vanish completely.”

“Words… What else do you have? We both know that tomorrow you’ll do the same thing you do every day.”

“I don’t know. Maybe it won’t be exactly the same.”

Boyan Taksirov