You are my Caravaggio (25th of October 2012)

He steps in nervously. Mumbled something, cannot be heard properly. Raises the holo-glasses on his forehead. Again he was calculating something on the way home. Bad sign. His forehead is sweaty, and his movements jerky. He is angry. Walks through space as if he's looking for something. Cannot find it. Sometimes he looks at her. It is not a look full of love, there is more of some sort of disappointment and pity in it, if anything besides rage can be seen at all. She touches her fingertips, one then another, and then on the other hand. And then again. Another of those days of his. She hopes he didn't kill anyone. You never know with him. And then follows one of the usual monologues. Only details are different. He speaks seemingly calmly and quietly because the vocal chords betrayed him a year ago. He would probably scream if he could.

- Every year about ten millions of scoundrels are born in the world. I don't mean small mean scoundrels which enjoy the suffering of others, I mean real scoundrels. I mean people who exist only to bring evil in the world, to destroy everything by which a man is something. Something worthy, something more meaningful than a bacterium and better than a rat. In twenty five years, when they reach full maturity, the world is populated by about two hundred of scoundrels more. Incurable scoundrels. And so, on this day, about seven hundred millions of scoundrels are here somewhere. You can see some of them all the time. If you train yourself, you can learn to recognize them, you can spot them. There is something ugly about their faces. It is not easy to categorize, neither the knowledge on recognizing scoundrels can be written down. You just know it. If you are not one of them, you will have to learn the skill. They know each other very well, and they can easily recognize those who are different. It is not that it means something to them, to them both men and scoundrels are the same.

He doesn't know what to say more. He has so much to say but he cannot do it anymore. He sat. She sat next to him. She hugged him.

- You are my Caravaggio, but you don't have a sword. You have to stop suffering for the world. There is nothing that can be done about that.

She runs her fingers through his hair. It is easier now. He calmed down. When he was young he despised marriage. The contract against the world. Now he knows that he was stupid. Of course it's the contract against the world. The world gone to hell. Fought by two feeble people without a chance. Yet they fight it. Together. It is easier now.

Antonio Šiber, 2010.

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Last updated on 25th of October 2012.