I've never been afraid of construction sites and that was my mistake.
You know why we're actually not afraid of certain things? Because we don't know we should.
And not to go crazy. That's where the trauma comes from. If you've been crushed by a coffee machine, you'll start to fear them.
If not, don't you know that it can suddenly crush you, trap you under its weight, force you to endure the pain of gradually breaking bones and crushing flesh, and then no one will explain to you why it happened, why you wanted to drink coffee, and you end up in the hospital accidents just happen to people.
You will ride the elevator calmly, content that you don't have to struggle up the stairs, until the door slams shut, until you spend several hours without eating or drinking, because other people forget about you, until you drive your brain almost to madness, sitting in this cramped room, lit by an irritating glow.
You will walk alone in the evenings until someone comes up behind you, until you smell his scent on your face and his fingers ripping at the tissue of your eye, until you feel something running down your cheek.
You will be safe. Or at least that's how you'll feel. You will be unaware.
I used to work on a construction site and thought it was quite normal. Like riding the elevator or drinking coffee. Remember those warning signs near construction sites? Do they scare you? Probably not. You've probably never seen an accident happen in a place like this.
- It was a good job, you shouldn't leave it... Sweetie said reproachfully. She was a charming woman and I felt that I should never leave her. But there were some things we were never meant to agree on... The wages weren't bad... she continued... And at least you had a Rubble job. And now? What did you need it for, everything is going great, and all of a sudden you quit. for hell?
- I am satisfied with this decision. I replied stiffly.
She sighed.
- Because there was an accident, right? Do you have a problem with that, are you afraid of getting hit in the head and messing it up? Wear a helmet, man. And you don't need to worry.
We were lying side by side on the bed. We weren't looking at each other. It amused me that you can tell someone that they care unnecessarily. As if anyone planned it. As if a Rocky like this planned that when he doesn't have a helmet, he will stand in such a place that...
John had the stature of a huge, if rather friendly bear, and similar strength, and three times more eagerness to work than all those who worked longer combined. Often, when we all sat down for a moment to finally take a break, he would finish something or report.
Besides, he often carried something, simply threw it over his shoulder, instead of using a wheelbarrow in a humane way. But he didn't feel like loading the needed materials into the wheelbarrow and then unloading it again when his massive arms could easily support the weight of the many needed items.
So it was on that stuffy, tiring day. There was no sun, only a sticky, warm, suffocating promise of rain hung in the air, and most of our working time was taken up in breaks. In addition, there were a lot of insects around, most often stinging things that completely spoiled our moods.
So we sat on a pile of bricks, drinking water. I was wondering why I actually work here. I've always thought about it on days like this, when things don't go right and the mosquitoes buzz so much you think you have them inside your ears.
Initially, I was going to study, I was going to deal with automation, but my plans, like most of what I did in my life, came to nothing. Classes related to modern technology ended with the use of construction machines and several buildings made of Lego bricks, which I built as a child. I probably shouldn't blame anyone but myself.
Either way, John had no such dilemmas. He just kept working. The others watched him like some strange phenomenon, while he calmly continued to arrange, move, check and so on.
It may sound funny, but sometimes I had doubts if it wasn't some disease, excess energy, overstimulation? Or maybe it's a junkie?
I remember very well Rocky was saying something. He was talking about an altercation with some grocer, funny in theory, but not at all funny to me, and John was marching behind him, wearing various items. It wasn't as loud as usual. Rocky took off his helmet for a moment, wanting to cool down a bit, while our colleague was throwing a large metal pipe over his back, which we were supposed to install later.
His zeal was beginning to get on my nerves. John got up effortlessly and walked forward. He seemed unaware that he was carrying something so huge and so heavy on his back.
Suddenly we heard a loud thud, as if something had fallen over, coming from the side of the scaffolding. We all turned our heads, automatically, instinctively.
Unfortunately, so is John. By the way, making a turn, seemingly insignificant, but enough to hit Rocky properly in the exposed head.
We heard a faint cry of surprise. Rocky staggered but didn't fall over and grabbed his head in amazement. John, even more surprised, immediately put down the tube and hurried over to his friend.
- Hey dude, are you okay? he said.
The other was silent. He looked like he was frozen.
- Hey dude! he repeated louder, clearly concerned. The others turned their attention away from the scaffolding and focused on Rocky.
- Do you hear?! exclaimed John, already slightly panicked. Then Rocky shook his head, smiled slightly and said
- Nothing.
- What? John asked.
We stared at him uncertainly.
- Nothing happened. he replied. He looked at us with that little smile of his.
Most of us were relieved. Several men patted him on the back, one of the workers scolded John solidly, but we came to the conclusion that after all, nothing serious had happened and we could go back... let's call it that... back to work.
A few days later, I met Rocky at the Rosanna Pub, outside a noisy, absorbing construction site.
It was a rather shabby place, smelling intensely of old fat, with something like a wood nymph on the sign. Her image was also on the wall just behind the bar, unfortunately some of the paint was peeling off and it seemed that this dryad was suffering from some specific skin disease.
However, no one paid any attention to her, only the numerous alcoholic beverages, placed against the background of her ... intended ... sweet face.
The chairs were covered in remnants of red plush, plucked as if the place had been raided by a bunch of rabbits.
Old songs played softly from the speakers. And in the center of it all, someone seemed to have placed Rocky, awkwardly sitting over a mug of beer.
- Hi. I said.
He looked up at me. It was relatively early. The pub has not yet filled up. Rocky looked at me with a strange indifference, as if I were a fly that had flown into the room.
- Rocky? Why are you coming here alone? I added. Usually the man stuck with the rest of the construction workers.
Then he shuddered slightly.
- Rubble... he said and smiled... I didn't recognize you at first.
There was something strange about his face, some asymmetry, but I couldn't figure out what it was. I sat down next to him, watching him carefully.
- Yes, I didn't quite notice you at first... he added... Could you tell me what's going on with you?
I was silent. Something was wrong, but I couldn't describe it. Choice of words? Mimicry...?
Suddenly Rocky leaned towards me.
- So, would you like to tell me how your woman is doing?
He was close enough that I could feel his hop-scented breath. He stared blankly at me from a distance so close that if there had been a few more guys in the bar, one of them would have thought we were gays to talk to.
- At Sweetie's?...I asked...Okay. She's happy, I think. It doesn't need much.
- Oh... he replied... Your Sweetie is fine. But only you think so.
- What does it mean?
I straightened up a bit on the stool. It would almost sound like a threat if only I didn't know Rocky so well.
He didn't answer me.
- You're acting like you're a unevenly on the ceiling. I stated. Maybe I shouldn't, but the guy was getting on my nerves. Plus that blank stare, mostly focused on the beer mug.
He doesn't recognize faces, he has disturbed facial expressions, he can't choose words, he can't draw conclusions, he doesn't understand metaphors. Head injuries are very dangerous
- Uneven under the ceiling?... he asked and laughed... But what's under the ceiling? There is nothing.
I stared at him, amazed, not knowing what he was talking about.
- You know what I mean.
- So go.
- This is not a bad idea. I announced.
I didn't drink anything. I got up and walked, looking back at him and vowing to myself to watch him carefully.
The next day we had work again. Rocky didn't really catch my attention, at least in the morning, and I started to wonder if he hadn't been drunk at the bar the day before...? It wasn't quite like that, but I couldn't think of a better explanation.
We were going to work together and I preferred not to be hostile, especially since at some point he got into the excavator, and I was supposed to supervise its work and make sure that the situation was safe, no one was standing in the wrong place, and so on. Everything was going well. The man seemed calm, the robot slowly moved forward, and I stood to the side and gestured to him what to do.
Until suddenly the machine stopped.
I looked at him, confused, after all, there was still some earth left to move. Meanwhile, he turned the digger completely the wrong way, then lifted the shovel up, for no reason at all.
- ROCKY!... I roared, trying to shout over everything around me... ROCKY, what the hell are you doing!
A moment later the man fell out of the cabin. His eyes were wide open, but his eyes were blank,
- It was not me. he called to me.
- If not you, if you were in that fucking digger!... I screamed, furious... Well, at least don't tell me it wasn't you! Someone else?!
At that moment, I saw what was creating this strange impression of asymmetry in Rocky's face. He was just half shaved. The other half of his face was covered with a delicate stubble.
- Why are you shaving so strangely? I asked suddenly. The sight completely caught me off guard.
- Strangely? he asked, and suddenly he raised his hand, shook it, then lowered it. My intense dislike of him and the job itself suddenly subsided somewhat, replaced by anxiety.
- What are you doing? I asked, but no more fury.
- It was not me! he shouted and walked away.
A little later that day, I saw him trying to take off his helmet. He unbuckled his belt with his right hand, while he held his headgear firmly with his left.
A few days later, first thing in the morning, I overheard him talking to Malshall, standing off to the side, away from the rest of the staff.
- This is not normal, you need to go to a doctor about it...
I stopped a few steps from them.
- I'm fine.
- Come on, can't you really see...
A dull thud. Startled, Malshall clutched his face.
- It was not me! Rocky's scream.
I had no idea what was going on. It's like a man has to fight with his own body. I didn't want to think about it, but all kinds of chilling scenarios ran through my mind about who or what was controlling his body.
Admittedly, I've avoided him ever since. Simply out of fear. Simply because I didn't want him to do anything to me.
I had Sweetie, and I didn't want her to lose her partner so some workman could say "that's not me."
The next day passed perfectly calmly. The weather was pretty good, not too warm, not too cold.
I slept quite well at night and had enough energy to work. The others seemed to be in quite a good mood as well. Rocky's case wasn't so heavy anymore, he also seemed calmer, he didn't struggle with his hand, although it felt like he was dragging it behind him.
There were no unforeseen events or accidents until the evening.
Unfortunately, halfway back I realized that I must have left my mobile phone in the cabin of one of the machines. I couldn't find it anywhere, and I certainly brought it to work, and I was always careful not to throw it anywhere.
Contrary to what Sweetie believed about my employment, I didn't make enough money to disrespect my equipment.
I knew it could be useful today, people called me quite often, especially my partner.
I turned around, a bit frustrated. I never liked to go backwards.
I saw Rocky's back from a distance. He was the only one left in the square. He was standing with his back to me, crouched down next to a pile of sand.
- Hey Rocky...I called. I didn't feel much need to greet him, but I wanted him to know I was coming. What else could he be doing here?... Rocky!
- Do not do this. He shouted in a strangled voice.
I stopped mid-step, surprised. What was I not supposed to do...? And why?
Then I heard a guttural gurgle.
I ran to him and saw the man crushing his own throat with his left hand and trying to stop the other with his right.
Stunned, I stood still for a moment, then grabbed his left hand as well and tried to pull away, but the hand was too strong.
I watched as it tightened on his throat, as his shocked face gradually changed color, as he wheezed less and less, I continued to try to help him, I tugged at his limb, but to no avail.
As I watched, Rocky's body collapsed to the ground, his face frozen in disbelief, his own hand clamped around his throat.
I stared at the body on the ground.
I stared, not knowing what to do next. Not believing what happened. My perception was jammed, refusing to obey me. An error has occurred in the system.
I took a few steps back. I didn't take my eyes off him. I couldn't fathom that he was dead, that he had suffocated, that he had done it himself, with his own hand, in front of me.
That hand did it.
I turned around and decided to walk away from there as far as possible. Then... make a call somewhere. The police or something, I don't know. For now, I just wanted to leave this place.
As soon as I turned my back to the body, I felt a tingle on the back of my neck. I preferred to keep an eye on them, even though it's idiotic, even though... I heard a sudden crack. I stopped.
Hand. At first I thought Rocky was alive, moving, but he was lying there with the same surprised look on his face. But his hand was twitching convulsively, like a chained dog. His wrist felt strangely loose, as if broken.
I looked. Nausea welled up in me, but my brain was flying far away, disconnected from the rest of my body.
The hand jerked hard, and I heard a loud crunch, something like a meaty cracking sound.
As I watched, it separated from my wrist, tearing muscles and tendons, leaving them ragged and fluttering like flags, then leaped forward.
Then I started running. I've never run like that in my life, convinced that somewhere close to the ground I hear a soft shuffling, I hear torn tendons gliding across the floor, the horror twitching its fingers, approaching my ankles to . . .
for what?
Fingers piercing my eyes, muscles sliding across my face, an ownerless hand clamping down on my throat... I ran faster and faster.
It seemed to me that I was dreaming, that I was watching a strange movie, that it would all end in a moment...
She didn't catch up with me. I rushed into the house and slammed the door. I leaned against it and started to breathe, slowly, inhale exhale, how fascinating it is that I breathe, for example, Rocky doesn't breathe anymore...
I'm never going back to work, no matter how much Sweetie persuades me. I often look at my hands when I wake up in the morning. I never give them to anyone, I don't trust those that belong to other people. I'm not going to work in construction any more. I take mild tranquilizers. It's no wonder, after all, my colleague from work was diagnosed with damage to the right hemisphere of the brain some time ago, and I was the only witness to his death, not counting the monitoring.
He obviously finished himself, but why doesn't he have an arm? For some reason you can't see it on the video, I know I have nothing to do with it, but colleagues from my former job remember perfectly well that just before his accident I was strangely distrustful of him, I didn't talk to him, I avoided his company.
Who knows if I didn't come back for a souvenir after the whole incident? Who knows if I don't keep his paw under the bed now for good luck...? No one says it out loud, but in my situation, it's hard not to be considered a freak. No, not by court. By so-called public opinion.
No matter what Sweetie says, I'm not going back to work.
But you can get used to all this. You can get used to almost anything in life. In fact, the only thing that bothers me is the scraping.
It happens every evening. Sometimes in the window, sometimes in the walls. And sometimes when I'm asleep, I feel like someone is touching my face.