The summer evening was coming to an end. A pleasant purple blush spread across the sky. The metropolis and its inhabitants were sweltering in the heat of the day. Today was the hottest day of the year, and everyone longed to finally breathe in the coolness of the night. However, the sun was in no hurry to leave. It clung to the tops of the high-rise buildings like a spider, until the storm clouds interceded for the tired citizens. At first there was a fine drizzle, alternating with glimmers of the evening sun. The weather was unstable. Gusts of strong wind covered the sky with storm clouds, and then again pushed them apart, clearing the way for the sunny azure. After a while, the long-awaited thunderstorm won the battle of the elements. Lightning flashed a few times, a strong thunder sounded in the distance, and then the first large drops of rain fell to the ground.
Sitting in the car, I admired this summer play of nature and listened to Haydn's music. His "Farewell" symphony flowed with an inherent elegance of simplicity, both soothing and relaxing at the same time. The transparent sound of the melody echoed the heavy rain that had begun to fall. The fusion of a human masterpiece with the natural elements was truly fantastic.
All the beauty of classical music was discovered for me by an old nurse who took care of me in the hospital a few years ago. At that time, I was brought to this unhappy place with severe injuries after another beating by my "loving" husband. While I was recovering from what had happened, this nurse often played me pieces by famous world composers. Matilda, that was the name of that cheerful old lady, believed that high music promotes physical and mental recovery of a person. So, lying on a hospital bed, under beautiful, simple and complex melodies, I indulged in painful reflections on the frailty of life. The beauty of sound and the ugliness of my insignificant existence merged in my thoughts. The majestic compositions became my best and probably only friends. They soothed, criticized, made me cry and rejoice, gave me hope and reminded me of the harsh reality. During the few months I spent in the hospital, I fell in love with the classics with all my heart. However, I never listened to a composition twice. There were too many bitter repetitions in my life. So I began to strive with all my soul only for the new and did not accept tautology even in music.
While I was immersed in the memories of my past life, the rain was slowly coming to an end. The last movement of the "Farewell" symphony carefully accompanied my pictures of bygone days. The traditionally shaped finale was followed by an additional slow movement that soothed my memory after the frenzied agony caused by the incessant pain of the past.
During its performance, I imagined sitting in the hall and seeing musicians who one by one stop playing and go backstage. First, all wind instruments are eliminated. In the string group, the double basses subside, then the cellos, violas and second violins. Only the two first violins finish the symphony; after the music is over, they extinguish the candles and leave after the others.
...And in "Farewell," sliding down the slope,
Down the graceful slope into the sunset,
Haydn extinguishes the candle, with a bow.
Marks the final checkmate.
The music was silent, but the last drops of fine rain from the scattering heavy clouds continued to play on the windshield of my car with its echo. The traffic jam, like a clot in a thin blood vessel, stopped the flow of traffic and did not even think of dissolving. I opened the window and stretched my arm out. The parting drops were so warm and gentle. They flowed down my arm as if begging me to come out to them. I gave in to the entreaties and, leaving my car a few blocks before my destination - the theater - I walked. I walked barefoot to avoid getting my shoes wet or ruined. The skin of my feet was in contact with the sidewalk cooling down after a hot day. At the same time I felt the warmth of the asphalt and the coolness of the puddles left by the rain. Walking silently through the fresh streams of water, inside I was screaming to the heavens. I begged them to wash me clean of burdensome, soul-wrenching memories. Thoughts deeply rooted in my childhood had haunted me day and night for so many years. I would have given anything to erase the tormenting images of the past from my mind forever and start my life with a clean slate. But in answer to my plea, the sky sent only a fine summer rain, the drops of which ran down my face in tears. Today the whole city was crying with me.
I finally arrived at the theater. In spite of my considerable lateness, I was allowed to attend the performance. I had come to this temple of art to forget myself and take my mind off my heavy thoughts. However, the darkness and urgency of the play plunged me further into the abyss of reflection. Shakespeare's drama Hamlet was being staged on stage. Thoughts in my head, like dialogues on the stage, replaced one another. My inner state sounded in unison with every thought of the great playwright. Some phrases and statements were engraved like a tablet into my consciousness:
"A speck of evil destroys the good."
"Is it not my duty to him who has ruined
My mother's honor and my father's life,
"who stood between my choice and my hope,
"and so treacherously cast his rod,
Is it not right for me, myself.
to repay him with this hand?"
"You turned your eyes with pupils into your soul,
"and there are black spots everywhere.
"To be or not to be, that is the question.
"Is it worthy
"To resign oneself to the blows of fate,
"Or must we resist
"and in mortal combat with a sea of troubles.
"to end them?
I began to understand the essence of statements that I had never given much thought to. I was more familiar with Hamlet's condition than anyone else. Like him, I was hungry for justice and searching for answers. The only thing that differed between us and the character in the piece was the reasons why we wanted retribution for our wrongdoers. For him, it was revenge for the treacherous murder of his father. My heart wanted to get even with those who had inflicted permanent wounds on him by physically abusing him and subjecting him to terrible moral humiliation.
The play was nearing its end. The actors before my eyes were easily and effortlessly living the fates of those whose pain they probably did not even understand to the end. Perfectly performing their roles, they still left me with a feeling of artificiality, lack of understanding of the meaning of revenge and struggle. And suddenly I wanted to stage my own much more realistic play called "Nothing Personal..." or "Retribution for My Essence".
After the premiere, I didn't enjoy sitting in a cozy theater cafe and participating in "backstage" discussions about things that most of the audience doesn't understand. I walked out of the monumental theater building and headed to my car. The rain had stopped by this time, giving way to a pink-blue sunset. The parting rays of the sun were drowning in the puddles. For a few magical minutes, they reflected the setting glow of the majestic luminary beyond the horizon. The whole city glistened from the sun's reflection in the murky water, as if studded with precious stones. Despite the slanted glances of passersby, I jumped through the puddles like a little girl. I was happy because I finally realized how I could free myself from the weight of the past, under the weight of which I had slavishly lived all these years. The anticipation of the future performance, which I was going to put on, caused in me a powerful surge of strength and energy. It was as if a vitamin bomb had exploded in me and ignited a flame that could burn my past to the ground.
I came home and started making a list of the main characters in my drama. It included ten hated names from my past. I took my time carefully writing out each letter, visualizing their faces. They were the faces of the people who had wiped my feet and morally broken me throughout my high school years. Each initial of their names was a reminder of how much they hated me. Each spelling distorted my soul from the pain of memories of their unreasonable anger and unrestrained aggression. In every mark I saw the unconcealed boundless contempt of my classmates for me. They had once taken the joy of life from me. Now it was my turn to leave my signature on the parchment of their lives.
S. And now a few words about the author, director and actor of this brilliant performance in my person. I am a real person of flesh and blood. Although, facing my action, many would prefer that I was a fictional character, and my stories - the fruit of a sick imagination. But I have to disappoint you. I am a human being, so I can do what I want. Right now I have everything: beauty, envious people, a beautiful house, an apartment, several cars and, of course, money. I am a rich man and a spender of life's resources. Once upon a time in my life things did not look so rosy. I had none of the above. Life was broken and I didn't see any prospects. But at this point, I was strong enough to allow myself to turn the pain of the past into a medicine that could cure me of pity not only for myself, but for those who caused it. So I have consciously strayed and deviated from the norm, moral codes and other anchors. The boundaries of the norm are blurred though. It all depends on the glasses you put on to see them. I don't wear glasses. I prefer to look at the world, at the facets of human emotion without intermediaries.