Warszawa

Anne. -Time to go.
Christie's voice floats in from the doorway. I pull myself up to look at him. It's not too difficult because sleeping in someone else's house unnerves me enough to make me sleep very lightly, I'd almost been waiting for him to come in. He looks even paler than usual, tired for the first time, his face drawn and lacking its usual arrogance and sense of energy. I slide out of bed and he leaves, which I take as my cue to get myself as ready as possible. I'd slept in my underwear and t shirt, so I pull on the rest of my clothes and go out to find him. I'm in a sort of daze, I don't know what I'm supposed to do now.
-Is there anything else?
-What? No. Fine, great, we can leave now.
He seems awfully distracted. Is this the psychopath experiencing an incredibly delayed sense of guilt? I doubt it. It's more likely that he hasn't slept for a while. It's not that disappointing, because I don't really care. We exit the building and get in a taxi.
-So are you going to tell me what I'm supposed to do?
-What?
-What do I have to do? I'm supposed to talk to someone, aren't I? It would probably help if I knew who, don't you think?
-Oh. Yes. Okay...his name is Yves.
-That helps.
Christie gives me a look that conveys accurately the impatience I have no doubt he feels towards me. He looks so exhausted by my presence and the sound of my voice that I very nearly think of pitying him, but I rapidly recall what a ridiculous and repugnant figure I firmly believe him to be.
-He will be wearing dark blue. He has light brown curly hair, and a girlish face. He lives in the same block of flats as you but he only moved here in the last two months. If you have seen him before, you will no doubt have seen him with a man who is slightly taller than him and is usually dressed in black. That man's name is Gabriel. Do you know who I mean?
I think back to a day when I looked out my window and almost shouted to a boy out the window. I have seen him, as a matter of fact, he seemed to very quickly integrate himself into that garishly colourful crowd of people that occasionally storm past me on the stairs and make me feel dreadful about my lack of life.
-I think I know who you mean, yes.
-You'll know when you see him. What you say to him is what is important.
I notice that we drove past where I live a long time ago now. I wonder where we're going.

Yves. -Why...why would you do this to me?
-Gabriel wouldn't have refused, Yves, you know that, don't you? Not me, he wouldn't have refused me...
He is trying to stop me from escaping. My arms are pinned down against the wall I've turned my back to and his lips almost touch my ear. I find some strength, from somewhere, and pull away as roughly as I can. I think he anticipates this because he lets go at exactly the right moment for me to overestimate the force needed and crash myself again into the side of the cheap thin wooden panel, painfully.
-No, no, get off me, I don't even know you-
I'm out of the cubicle now and I look at him to see if I've just horribly misinterpreted the situation, but all there is on his face is a frosty, victorious glare. I get out as fast as I can, pushing past people until I'm in the fresh air again. The dancers have dispersed, it's got to be past three in the morning now. I have to run, I have to shake myself back into understanding things. I set off down the road at a stupid pace, not caring after ten minutes about the pain in my side and in my legs and especially in my head, but soon I can barely breathe. It's too much, I stop, leaning against a brick wall. I've a vague idea of where I am so I continue to walk in the same direction. I should eventually get home.
It's actually around two hours later that I locate my road, and a half hour after that when I slam my front door behind me, calling out to see if Gabriel's there out of some weird habit, then remembering what time it is, what just happened, why I ache so much. I try to get to my room and just about make collapsing on the end of the mattress.

Anne. Christie has gone. He left me outside this abandoned-looking building, with recylced wooden boards nailed crudely over window frames and it's the only non-barred door in about five potential buildings. It's down a road I'd never go down, and I don't feel too comfortable here as it is.
I've been instructed to walk halfway up the stairs and come out when the boy called Yves comes in, which apparently he will. I try the door, it's very stiff, like it's rarely opened. I give it a kick and it swings around, clouds of dust coming off the rusty hinges.
I step inside after trying to make sure that the door stays open behind me, ensuring escape. I'm not nervous, as such, but in any building this decrepid and stereotypically creepy I'm sure anyone would be a little mindful of their safety. I start carefully up the stairs- the first one creaks ominously, but I don't think it's that unstable, so I continue. The walls are very close on either side, it's quite dark but I can make out from the light at the bottom of the stairs that they are cream coloured with years of graffiti growing like climber plants over their dirty shade.
I think I must have been there a while now, so I sit down on the stair to wait, my legs still a little weak from having only just woken up.
When the dust has settled around me and the floorboards have stopped crying out under my weight on their rotted wood, it is quieter than I have heard for a long time. I can just about make out distant traffic if I try, but I have to try hard.
I sit in this relative silence for some time, until it is interrupted by a muffled sound, then a clearer one; the unmistakable ring of an injured cry.
I jump to my feet, it's coming from upstairs.

Yves. My head hurts like nothing I've ever experienced before as I try to lift it a little. As I open my eyes I feel a sharp pain in the back of my neck from the strange position in which I fell asleep. I'm in the mood to stay here for a long time nursing my injuries but as I lift my arm to rub the back of my head I catch sight of what's covering it- soft, dark blue fabric that isn't my own. There's a rush, a freeze, a fire that engulfs my skull as the realities of the last few hours or so integrate themselves into my thoughts. I forget all about my head, unstick myself from the mattress and sprint out the door and up the stairs to flat 104.

Anne. What do I do? What does anyone do in this situation? This doesn't happen in real life, it doesn't happen to real people. Absolutely not. I breathe in. Nothing that's happened to me recently happens to real people. Breathe out. So that means I can safely conclude that I should just...breathe in...take control of myself and find out what's happening. Breathe out. I go upstairs and listen outside another shut door. I can hear whispering, panicked sounds I can barely make out.
-I'll come back...wait here
This is uttered louder than the rest that I didn't hear. I step back just in time, the door swings open and someone pushes past me.
-What...oh, jesus, get out the way...
He runs down the stairs before I can say anything, before I register fully who it is. I run into the room he just came out of from which hurt noises are still emitting.
-Anne...is that you, Anne?
I see the whole scene too slowly, each square centimetre of the floor revealing itself to me painfully gradually. A trickle of blood meets the top of my shoe, where it spreads out. I follow the thin red trail to its gory source, unwillingly meeting eyes that are too horribly familiar, perhaps one of the few pairs I would feel so hurt upon seeing so filled with physical pain.
Staring up at me, bruised and bleeding from the dirty wooden floor, are the huge, sad eyes -make up smeared, replaced with purple and black rings- of Cassie.
They close in the effort it takes to lift up her head to see me, I walk over and pick her up, her tiny figure frighteningly ragdoll-like in my shaking arms.
I have to take her downstairs and outside and out of the dust of this house and out of the air of this room.
When I get outside, I stand on the doorstep still holding her, looking around for someone who could help.
The scene that greets me is like a still from some bizarre anti-realist film, alien people moving their heads too slow for it to be normal.