The Victim File

There are roughly three moments or one billion three hundred seconds until my death. One eyeblink or a hundred breaths. A short sweet sleep that will be forgotten upon waking, or an endless cyclical nightmare—it doesn’t matter. I perfectly understand that the recorder with my story will get lost somewhere in the subconscious of this moron. He doesn’t even have the brains to dream it up. Fragments of the recording will turn into obsessive feelings, sensations... and nothing more. Of course, there’s a tiny chance he’ll decide to play victim again. Then another hunter, less soft-hearted than me, will find the recorder and record something. And my “self” will die here—in the head of a guy with an IQ around 70. And you know what? It’s a beautiful place to die.

Heather fields bloom and wither again to the rhythm of a heartbeat. This guy has probably never seen them. If you take a cluster in your hand, it first looks like lilacs, daisies, forget-me-nots, then crumbles to dust and reassembles into something else. I lift my eyes to a sky the color of dirty watercolor rinse water and watch two enormous moons. It’s remarkably calm here. My mind has never known such serenity. No wonder my death seems so idiotic.

Good I crawled this far through memories. “Here” is who knowing what: this guy’s character? Soul state? Child’s dream? Meditation spot?

Wanted to look around, but his imagination’s damn limited—try spotting a fjord in the field or stars overhead, and nausea hits, like glimpsing something sideways that blurs head-on.

Phili’s never seen stars, fjords, heather. Moon from pics, maybe—too big, too perfect...

Quiet here. Almost pleasant. Ha, that’s why? Know nothing, see nothing, imagination scant—nothing to worry about. Before I forget, a note about myself. My name is Alec Neumann. I’m a professional hunter of “victims.” That is, those morons who want to earn a little cash and let someone like me into their head. I don’t know how it’ll be in the future, but right now the rules are simple. If the victim can hide from me in their own mind for 90-120 minutes, the company pays them good money. If not—the person turns into a vegetable, fit only to function as a biological unit. I kill people’s sense of self. That fragile, elusive “I” that even they themselves can’t fully grasp. The soul, bare-handed.

Who was I before this? I can’t answer. It feels like I never existed until I entered someone else’s mind.

The name of the guy whose head I’m dying in right now is Phili. I knew nothing about him until this morning. I was walking through the office, chatting with a colleague, when suddenly a skinny guy with a dumb face approached and shoved the victim’s file into my hands. “Phili, 22 years old. Unemployed. IQ 73. No special talents.” Then I looked at the guy—that is, at Phili himself—and thought the job would be easy. I’d wrap it up in five minutes. He looked like a fledgling fallen from the nest. No clarity in his eyes. But now, after time, after what I’ve seen, I want to say something very important: there was no malice or smugness in his eyes either.

The hunt started at 12:12. Phili fell asleep, I drank a tincture of herbs, and they hooked us up. The first thing I always do when entering someone else’s mind is look for my reflection. My own idea of myself means nothing here. So, it’s always interesting to see how others perceive me. Sometimes I look like my usual self. Sometimes I take on traits of a monster, a vampire, a soul-hunting demon. But at that moment, in the puddle at my feet, I saw myself better than I am. Ten years younger. A youthful, bright, rosy face. I thought: “God, this guy sees me like this?” Probably that’s when it all began. Besides the young face, like a character from a noir detective story, I was dressed in a long coat and a sharp suit. For a second, it seemed like I’d come here not to destroy Phili, but to help him find himself.

Yes, definitely. That was the moment.

Hard to sum up someone else’s mind in words. Picture an old Polish city—not quite real. Too clean, job ads screaming from every pole. Like a hazy, tidied memory of known streets, sans butts and cans.

I thought I’d prepped poorly; maybe an illusion to toy with me. Wandered seeking childhood echoes, though Phili wasn’t even Polish.

Then, a blond five-year-old Phili dashed by on the pavement. He let me into his memory—trusting, like an honored guest. What an idiot. I followed without a thought. Near the nearest gray alleyway, a couple more boys nearly knocked me off my feet. The memory was quite heavy, tangible. Though they were just chasing Phili, laughing, a wave of anxiety washed over me. The little blond boy crashed to the ground, and stones immediately pelted his head. I turned away. Having seen all sorts of horrors in people’s minds, violence against children still throws me off balance. These kids weren’t friends. Just vile street scum. Phili, lying on the ground, suddenly giggled. They flipped him over and smashed a large stone into his face with force. The crack of bones reverberated through my entire body. Blood gushed from little Phili’s chin, and its smell hit my nose. His lips twitched. I clapped a hand over my mouth. But just as one of the boys was about to strike again with the stone, Phili spat out his front tooth sharply and asked: “How much longer are we gonna play like this?” I could see him straining to smile with all his might through that bloodied grin. Then the second boy, the one who’d been throwing small stones at Phili, calmly replied: “Every day. Every day, Phili.” My hair stood on end. This was a happy memory.

Time and space dissolved to sand, sweeping me away like a tidal wave. Deeper I fell, sand scraping skin; I clawed to climb like on a ladder.

It hardened—non-Newtonian—then I tumbled onto a lace carpet. Dust and cheap women’s perfume lingered, sobering me like smelling salts. I’d screwed up. Failed to kill little Phili. And now I had no intention of missing my chance. The apartment was cramped and cheap—flowery wallpaper, an old Soviet sideboard along the wall. I hid among the dishes, next to the “pot-bellied” TV. That’s when the full picture unfolded before me. In high heels, on legs smooth like polished wood, a woman paced back and forth through the apartment. Her face was frozen in a single grimace of some incomprehensible bliss, but curses burst from her chest. Phili, a bit older now, trailed after her, clutching at her skirt. “I promise, we’ll go to the exhibition! We will!” her voice rang out. “Just get off me!” Phili froze. Stopped whining. Just halted. And I blinked.

I opened my eyes already in an art gallery. It didn’t resemble any I’d ever been in. More like how someone who never visited one might imagine it. The canvases pulsed with colors, lacking defined forms. Instead of the old carpet, marble lay underfoot, and there stood Phili—the very one I’d seen that morning. But something new appeared in his gaze. As if he was starting to understand something.

“She didn’t take you, did she?” I asked, not even understanding why.

The marble boiled. My boots began melting on my feet. For a split second, I forgot it was a dream and tried to take them off. My heart skipped a beat and started pounding again when my wife smiled. I immediately knew what memory this was. Our honeymoon. My mother-in-law had gifted us a trip into the imagination of a renowned artist. My wife and I sat on pink sand, watching two enormous abstract figures making love against a sunset. Dozens of meters tall, they nearly blocked the entire horizon and stirred the ocean.

“Ah, Alec,” my wife sighed (and I couldn’t recall her name), “you know, when we first met, I was so nervous... Remember those suede brogues of yours?”

“Yeah, I remember,” I replied. Though I’d always hated those shoes.

“...They suited you so well! God... and I thought you’d never date a girl like me. So, for my birthday, I asked for exactly those. I thought you’d see me and realize I was your destiny.”

I wanted to laugh, but couldn’t. After all the years spent in other people’s heads, I’d learned one thing: most people think of love exactly like that.

“I don’t even remember you having suede brogues,” I drawled lazily after a couple minutes of silence, as the huge dark figure began to ejaculate.

“That’s the point, silly!” My wife suddenly poked me in the chest with her finger and laughed loudly, drunkenly (we’d drunk a ton of Negronis back then). “On my twenty-second birthday, I was beside myself with anticipation. I thought I’d put on those brogues and ‘accidentally’ walk by your house. You know, pretend I was just strolling... So, you’d finally notice me.”

I gave a brief smile. She really did love me deeply. And me... I only loved poking around in other people’s heads, ignoring everything they said out loud.

“I ironed my pantsuit, fixed my hair, ran downstairs... And there was a box waiting. I opened it...” Her laughter faded, turning more and more nervous. She no longer looked at the figures or me. Just grimaced and hiccuped. “Mom was standing there, smiling. And in the box were old, worn-out high-heeled shoes. I was so upset...” Her voice trembled, tears streaming down her cheeks, which she furiously wiped with her palms. “Mom said then: ‘You’re so short... and fat... like a nightstand. For anyone to notice you, you need to wear heels!’”

I hugged her, still watching the giant figures shift positions. I’d never liked recalling the past. Preferred thinking only about what’s here and now. On the beach. We live in our own thoughts constantly, but peeking into others’ is an expensive pleasure.

“You know what’s the worst part?”

“What?”

“You did notice me because of it. Mom was right.” My wife buried her nose in my shoulder, smearing mascara on my crisp white shirt. Black streaks ran down my chest, instantly turning into lace patterns all the way to my belt. I no longer remember what I replied then. Something like “it’s just a coincidence” and shut up.

Phili’s gaze sent shivers down my spine. He stood nearby, ankle-deep in water, savoring the damp wind. His blue eyes fixed on my wife with frightening clarity. As if he truly understood something.

“You think I should have destroyed that memory for her, huh?” I shouted at him. Phili turned his gaze to me. “You think that would have been mercy?” But he didn’t answer. He just walked forward into the water, sinking deeper and deeper. I suddenly had to remember: I’m at work. This is a hunt. My job is to destroy Phili in any incarnation, not empathize with him. I rushed toward the water, shattering my wife into thousands of shards, and began slowly sinking into the ocean.

Tiny flowers entwined my bones. I tried to breathe and coughed up petals, the taste of cotton candy lingering in my mouth. In this dim-witted guy’s mind, flowers taste exactly like that. Cheap candy. How could anyone hate him? He’s a complete idiot.

“Is this why you came?” I yelled after Phili as he fully submerged, while I battled waves crashing over my head. “It doesn’t work like that, kid! It doesn’t work like that!” Suddenly, something yanked me to the bottom.

Soaked through, I stepped out of the water stream like from a waterfall. Wiped my face with my hands and realized I’d landed in a completely imagined place. No smell. No taste. Wallpaper covered in pure gold and delicate handcrafted patterns. In the middle of the room loomed a massive red oak dining table, set with silverware. “This is how you think I live, Phili? What nonsense.” I turned my head and saw Phili stroking my head—me as a little kid. He squatted beside me, gently running his slender fingers through my hair. Each touch echoed with strange déjà vu. I wanted to say something, but loud parental shouts from the next room interrupted. Through the thin walls, my father’s curses echoed. He was beating my mother again after she, for the umpteenth time, begged him not to take part in those brain experiments.

“Why does Daddy want to suffer so much?” little me asked.

“And why does Mom keep suffering beside him?” I quietly asked myself, unable to move.

My father was a victim his whole life—of his greed, his anger, his weakness. My mother was her husband’s victim. And I... I just decided it was better to break others than be broken myself.

My heart began to ache like an old wound. The imaginary room cracked with the sound of tearing cardboard. A wave of deep sorrow swept me up and carried me away, as far as possible from that memory and Phili. Around me, like in a Picasso painting, clocks began to melt. Not with faces, but digital ones. They liquefied and smeared me with numbers. 12:13... 12:14... 12:15... At 12:16, a bell chimed.

I opened my eyes and immediately shielded my face from the scorching light. My own loud, heavy breathing made me think the hunt had abruptly ended. But around me wasn’t the Company’s office, but a blooming garden. Heat pressed on my shoulders, and the birdsong was deafening. I was completely unprepared for the fact that the mind of this dim-witted guy would prove so rich and profound.

Like light jazz music, a sweet feminine laugh reached me. At first, I thought it was my wife’s giggle, but then I heard a tender “Phili!”

“Did you make this yourself?” asked the blonde girl in a cute apron. I saw her when I finally crawled into the shade of one of the nearest trees. Sweat flooded my face so much that even the red numbers dripped onto the bright green lawn. Nevertheless, the beauty seemed fresh, light, and blooming, as if the midday sun didn’t touch her.

—“Yeah,” Phili replied, handing her some ridiculous trinket. That’s when I realized that “no special talents” in his file was the pure truth.

—“Thank you, thank you,” the girl—judging by the notes lingering in the air, named Penelope—pressed the incomprehensible bundle to her heart and smiled tenderly. I got even hotter. To the point of nausea, my heart pounding like after a marathon. Suddenly, for a split second, the whole world went quiet. The birds stopped singing, and even the summer heat receded. I looked closer at what was happening—little Penelope, in gratitude, kissed Phili on the cheek. And like a little boy, twenty-two-year-old Phili, stared at the ground. A light, refreshing breeze blew. I finally managed to breathe properly and at least get up from the grass.

“Next time, I’ll buy you a real gift,” Phili mumbled.

Penelope sweetly covered her plump lips with her palm. It seemed she said something like “I’ll be waiting.”

The air lightened, scented with summer evening and lilacs. I breathed it in deeply, still trying to recover from the sunstroke, and immediately got drunk on it like after a glass of fine whiskey. Phili is in love with Penelope like even Shakespeare never wrote about.

And that finished me off completely. Because on some intuitive level, I understood: Penelope was just being polite to Phili. She didn’t need this clumsy, mentally challenged, unemployed guy who gave her silly clay-and-foil trinkets. For all her bright nature, she couldn’t feel what he felt. What I felt.

And in that moment, it hit me in the gut: Phili and I were one and the same.

We breathed in the same rhythm. Our hearts beat equally loud and equally hopelessly. Under this scorching sun, in a love that would never be mutual, and in the sharp, unbearable realization of our own worthlessness—we were one person. I shouted at him, not recognizing my own voice:

“Get the hell out of here, Phili! And find a better woman!” Tears streamed down my cheeks.

He stared at me, confused, childlike, unsure whether to run or approach.

“Screw them all!” I continued. “The street scum, your mom, Penelope! Screw them all, you hear?!”

Tears began eating away at my flesh, each breath scorching my lungs. Gradually, I started forgetting which colleague I’d chatted with that morning, what else was in Phili’s file, what I’d planned after work. My mind filled with thoughts that burst like soap bubbles.

“Find the child inside yourself, Phili!” my voice began fading. “And take care of him! No one else will... or ones like me will come for him!”

That was the last thing I told him.

Then I ended up here. Decaying into mold and linden honey, I crawled to this... strange, beautiful place. And decided to record something.

When that moment comes... the moment of touching someone else’s pain, there’s no way back. We just don’t know how to connect without breaking.

I understood why Phili became a victim. And now that understanding quietly, mercilessly crumbles me from within.

Even after waking, I’ll remain in him. He’ll probably never remember me. But my scream and my last words will come to him in dreams and sudden bouts of longing he can’t hide from.

So, I don’t tremble or whine.

For the first time in my life, I did something truly worthwhile.

Even if it’s just for one person.

For Phili.