Echo of the Past

19. Marcin

Translator: Schiotka

Editor: Pasadera, JacquelineMonaie

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Two faces.

Marcin.

A pseudo-punk boy with the expression of a shitting cat.

Marcin.

A boy who knew nothing about singing.

Marcin.

An arrogant, insolent, narcissistic brat.

Oh, no. That wasn't even the start of what she thought of him. And she thought a lot. She cursed him under her breath whenever she caught herself shaking in anger, whenever he filled her thoughts as she tried to fall asleep. When she cried because of the hurtful, although true, words he said. Whenever she closed her eyes and saw his roguish smile.

In the beginning, she couldn't stand him because he spoiled everything she'd worked so hard for. He destroyed her dreams with his presence alone. With his existence.

He wouldn't adjust to the environment. He walked his own path. He argued and fought, disagreed, or just plain walked out of the room. She couldn't grasp why he didn't leave with the first group of rejects. Why did he stay in Oslo? She knew he suffered.

It's not that she felt threatened by him. She had no reason to be worried about her standing. She was brave, charismatic, confident. She had a good voice. She possessed skills that had been honed and perfected through twelve years of constant vocal training.

And him? What did he have?

A Pole from a small town, who didn't know anything about the big world?

What did he have that drew your full attention to him, what made it so you couldn't take your eyes off him when he sang?

What did he have that allowed him to sing so well on stage, and to scream? Yet in class, no one could squeeze a proper sound out of him? How did he do it without training?

She didn't know.

She didn't understand.

____________________

Oslo. Morning.

He opened his eyes lazily and smiled, because his first thought was the memory of last night.

He had the urge to cuddle up to the most desirable body, lie in bed a little longer, to use the opportunity to the fullest.

But the most desirable body wasn't lying next to him anymore.

It was sitting.

On a chair in front of a laptop.

Opposite a box of the integrated circuits he used to love. Now he considered them his greatest enemy. Competitor. An evil machine.

"Nivan, for fuck's sake," he said with resentment, drawing his brows low and automatically dragging himself up from the bed. "Can't you control yourself for once?"

Nivan was so absorbed that he didn't respond. Or he pretended not to hear him. Or he was too lazy to give him an answer.

All three options were possible.

Marcin got up angrily and walked toward Nivan.

"Did you even hear what I said?"

Before he was able to look over his shoulder, Nivan closed whatever he was doing. Only the browser was left open.