Subject: Disrupted

In the Fajront section, we bring you texts in collaboration with the literary platform Medziriadky. This initiative informally educates and promotes authors under twenty-six years old. At the same time, it promotes their work throughout the year through author readings and publishing their texts in various periodicals.

Photos by Libuše Jarcovjáková – WESTERN BERLIN.

I bought a coat in the sale, do you like it?

I know, you don't, I don't appeal to you.

No, but she was right about the film “I'm Not Everything I Want to Be.”

We're looking at sketches of a shell-maker, I want to kill myself.

Want to kill myself?

Lady Lazarus – Sylvia Plath.

I turn and burn.

Lana del Rey will learn.

I turn, but I learn.

Dobrakovová says that Bellevue has not left her, and it never will.

Let's argue, shout at each other.

Blood will flow.

I'll try to hit you, you'll slap me, I have a big red scar on my forearm.

Are you angry again?

(sigh, sigh, sigh)

I'll hit you in the stomach!

A low blow, you didn't expect that, did you?

Then kill yourself if you want so badly.

Excuse me?

That you should kill yourself when no one likes you and life no longer gives you what you want.

I won't listen to this, I slam the door, I walk around.

---

After a few hours, when you want to call me, I appear at the door.

Before you can ask anything, I answer.

We should take a break.

Are you really offended?

No.

I need to be alone for a while.

So bye, black suitcase – reminds me of the one you used every week when changing households, a new coat, I don't even know what to take, I'm confused, I grab whatever comes to hand, and finally a kiss goodbye!

---

I end up on a bench, neighboring housing estate, I cut through the density of space filled with the smell of Sunday schnitzels, shouts, cigarette smoke from the second floor; all signs of human presence, which, however, remains absent in the estate.

Only for me.

I become an outsider to the whole surroundings, I am an exception, an anomaly in the biorhythm.

The feeling of rebellion intensifies – I must do something!

To kill myself would be hypocritical now, but not without reason.

The mind tries to process, regulate new stimuli, connect everything I thought of with the ecstasy of the present; it’s waiting for an explosion.

It's that smoke from the twelfth, a quarrel in his apartment, anorectic dog wandering by chance around.

The mind tries to process, Berlin, children of postmodernism:

Join us!

Wine on the T-shirt,

In the club, throw the stick.

We only perceive art.

And we enjoy life.

Jarcovjáková would be proud of me, throwing myself into difficult life situations just for my own pleasure, the need for constant self-sabotage, is also a form of self-harm – only it leaves no visible marks on the body.

I would send a postcard, a nice German boy and me. As revenge, good. But you know he was good to you, always, and you don't deserve this.

You know.

This is only in your head.

Before I figure out what to do, I should at least find a place to sleep. I take out my phone. I know who won't reject me, who I can afford to sneak into. I call Monika. Nostalgic friendly call turns into crying confessions and temporary roommates. When I hang up, I board a tram heading to the new city district.

---

Two-room apartment on Palisády. The building is hidden under vines. Until I recover, I can stay with her, she knows how sensitive I am, so she doesn't want to burden me with worries about earning money, she offers me a place in her café, now without income from another person, unfortunately, I can't earn only from literary experiments, work with people, for people, I can start from Monday. A new environment and new work will help me find a refuge where I won't feel permanent emptiness. I believe in my words, which I give direction to on the balcony, a deeper meaning. Monika, with a supportive nod, convicts me in a monologue. She exhales cigarette smoke, I look into the distance, ready to merge with this environment, become an inseparable part of it, flowing only from such ordinary things: waiting for the trolleybus, cursing neglected underpasses, evaluating companies, afternoon walks, reading on this balcony, innocent home drinking, friends' birthday parties, maybe finding a friend.

Just such ordinary things – I take a deep breath.

Once again, I scan the surroundings with my gaze.

Hunger.

---

“You stand on Kamenne Square, bells ring into the cold sky, it's ten. You wonder what people die of in Bratislava. You can't imagine that a car would hit someone here, a tram would catch someone, or that someone would have a heart attack; everything flows too slowly, the city has thick blood, the city is a lazy animal at the bottom of a very shallow pit.”

In Horsky Park, I read Rosová and know that this book will now be my survival guide.

I count how many channels there are here, I will still go to Tesco for another wine, at the checkout they will laugh that my legs will fall off in a moment if I don't stop running around so recklessly.

I think about how it would be – without legs. I wouldn't walk along the promenades of this city, wouldn't count how many channels there are here. My mother always told me; watch out, a channel, don't step on it, because you'll end up in it.

Since I moved here, I count channels and feel their importance.

Raging water, but also calm water finds its home here, mostly doesn't know what to do with itself, currents flowing down are explicitly forced to attach to the local sewage system.

I also feel like rainwater, looking into a round space and hoping for transformation into liquid. My wandering would then gain meaning, which I desperately seek.

---

Spiral movement, ending in an arc.

You carry the creation to the table.

Capuccino is ready.

I will repeat this process until it becomes my natural reflex.

And then order and amoral coordination among people.

I put on an apron.

My personality is forming, along with the style of waiter communication.

It all sounds complicated. Analytically and mechanically.

When I hand over my first cash-rated solution, my hands sweat, I fear they will slip.

In my pockets, I wait for the correctness of my rocket science calculations.

And then it just flies out and everything starts over, at least until it becomes my natural reflex.

At night, I can't fall asleep. I gulp pages at an open window, from which I can always hear the city's hustle; it sounds as if it's on some good trip, probably LSD, the only thing drowning out the fun is the braking of motorcycles.

When everything quiets down, except for that one bar across the street, I close the book, let it enter my body in the dark.

---

“You rush along the riverbank; once, a person would normally drown here, today they run past, muttering and thinking that this is a crisis. Once, a person would love, today they dip the crown of their heart, nothing at all, and talk about love. We live sluggishly, love sluggishly, and die sluggishly. Is it out of fear? And finally, what's really different – those childish fragile hands of his and yours bony ones, you just scratch someone, you fiercely fabricate for a while, and finally let go.”

And again I seek something eternal. In impermanence. In art.

At the exhibition, Zámocká Street, a few still lifes. In a weaker moment, I burst into tears like a child in front of a tapestry. Beaded shells and shades of blue, view from the window, Slovak village, fate of nations, passivity, generational trauma.

I say I call it home, but he doesn't come, and I still sob desperately, open mouth wide, I howl in front of the elderly guide, I would never bother the elderly, she has black clothes, quite elegant, I just got confused, I apologize, I go right, up, I have to keep walking.

The need to empty myself leads me to the bathroom. When I wash my hands, I notice their wrinkled roses. Indulona by the sink. I can't go on.

Today I won't wash, won't clean the dirt accumulated during the day, I want to carry the city’s smell on me. Not to forget to orient myself in this space, find a place where I can be alone with myself.

---

The yellowed nails of customers, as you say, the dark and gloomy atmosphere of the establishment doesn't do you good.

That you're again wrapping yourself in a blanket and hiding under the mattress only speaks of your dissatisfaction at work.

And, last but not least, your departure from a relationship you don't even want to discuss here. It's right that you ended it before it could leave you?

In the tram, I start crying.

I bite the skin between my teeth.

Before I get home, I have a series of bites on my left palm.

Suddenly, I find myself enclosed by four walls, I don't even know how, I am lying on the ground.

I can only move my hand; gentle clenching of the palm and attempts to lift.

Finally, I shoot that uninjured hand into the void, hanging like a cry for help.

It blows from the north wind from Zochova.

It merges with the curtains on the window.

When it blows a little more, the curtains cover the reflection in the window, which I can see from my position; white, Zochova.

On the musty linoleum of the panel apartment and in the draft sweeping hair onto my face, I again realize my helplessness.

Monika will come in the evening.

She will find me in the same place. She will sit me down. She will make tea.

You don't have depression.

Dry hands in autumn everyone has.

Indulona by the sink catches my eye. Every time I look at it, I have roses from wrinkles on my hands.

Monika says I should take a few days off. But I immediately refuse; the idea of loneliness shocks me so much that I convince Monika of my responsibility and competence. A short-term fluctuation is just an isolated event. Otherwise, I am completely normal.

End of diplomatic interlude.

The diverse mix in my head begins to bubble. By the end of this night, I will see my blood.
We are no longer children and we are not afraid of the dark.

---

This answer, this is not my long, but it doesn't surprise me.

At the table, I carry cold full-fat milk and burnt preserves.

I can only focus on one point, yellowed nails holding red cups, creating a colorful contrast that will etch into my memory.

Crack.

Crumbs from apple pie caught on painted lips.

Unfortunate expressions; frowning eyes and muttering sighs.

The end of the shift cannot be recognized by the light. The café has no windows and the whole day it looks like it's night.

I recognize the end of the shift by Monika's admonitions.

At home, collapse, blood, and tea await.

---

At the end of the month, when Monika manages the takings, we go out into the night streets.

We climb past ruined buildings, watching the state of the city.

Wine on the way to the castle.

A view of starry houses, starry people; Bratislava.

There we will anchor and remember how we spent evenings when we had nothing to do. When we didn't have rent payments, work obligations, or finishing university.

We want to forget for a moment, focus only on the cold November and the warming alcohol in our bodies. The rustling of leaves and street lamps mimicking it. Hiding in its shadow, holding a bottle and cork between two fingers, I will rediscover you.

Surprisingly, I won't throw her about you.

We are calm. It's quite nice to know I didn't see you here, among the many forgetful people. At least I know I still don't think about you. I'll tell you that too. You laugh. Of course, you laugh. I missed you, you say. Without you, everything is just too peaceful, you say. And I know it.

I am the wine in the bottle that will now fall into the grass. I will warm you when you're cold, you can catch me with two fingers, it won't bother me, I sometimes mumble, but then, when I am truly with you, I find some balance, lying horizontally in a ditch. And you still kiss me.

But you don't know yet that I can spill out.

We will move the kissing to Monika. I show you the bed, under which I hide the mattress. I hide from my thoughts, from myself. I think that if I bring you into it, I will manage to forget.

That's why we are here. That's why in the morning, instead of coffee, I drink my blood. I will tell myself; what did I do again. But now I want to bury my thoughts. I want to forget. I succumb to wine, to you, and to my disturbed mind.

---

I go to bed late. I fall asleep at dawn. Monika pulls me out of bed. It takes her about an hour. The slow process disrupts the natural pace of wounds; we are running out of time.

Blow off the weekend dust from the eyes.

Is it time for coffee?

Burnt tongue, poppy seed eyes in the plate watching my silence.

---

From table to table, my bones shake with pleasure of consumption.

Eat, load up on caffeine. Fill yourself, fill your insides.

Fucking materialist society.

Cakes and whipped cream desserts.

Add them to the story, tag the sitting persons at the table.

Three blue glowing blocks respond to my offer of lemonades.

Nothing more connects these women.

In sweatpants and a hoodie with a loud hood.

Teeth click, crushing words in the mouth.

Children, divorce, bitch, social services, fake rental contract, Fero tried, they'll put me in jail, divorce, bitch, social services, I think that little one is probably gay, he always cries when I start yelling at him.

I'm afraid to ask what your teeth want. I'm afraid for the little one, who might be gay, because something tells me he'll end up in shared custody.

The forming second chin at the level of the mobile so she can also see what's new in the world, what pink bag she has, and what funny thing the man dressed as a woman did.

Snarl, insert a Linzer cookie into the esophagus, drink it with burnt pres.

Dependence on the euphoric feeling after swallowing everything I bring. No respect for the person, let alone for the food, which is supposed to serve as a source of nourishment; to eat well, to pat the belly so we are sure we are full, so we are sure we won't think. That would defeat us on the spot, dealing with feelings of failure, dissatisfaction with the body, guilt, all of which would be childish, stupidly funny. We never bang our heads against the wall, cut our forearms, never hide under mattresses, never went two weeks without washing or, fully conscious, decided to leave this fucking world.

Table, with cards on it.

Half divided into blue, the other is red.

Fidgeting fingers bend the dried edges of the card, a child speaks, can't keep a steady position.

A booster seat sticks out from under the ass, which will fall when the woman in a purple coat asks:

And what about the father?

The child freezes. Sits down, they continue playing, while he answers. Scraping hot chocolate from the bottom of the glass.

Half of the cards are already turned over.

The woman still doesn't know anything, begins to lose patience.

She pounds the table with her fist but immediately realizes what she did, drinks flow over the surface, the kid starts to scream.

And you stand there like a complete idiot.

Your hands are trembling, you've long had to put that coffee on the table, if you didn't stand so much, you wouldn't have to watch. You can blame yourself.

Half of the cards are turned over. Two households. Your switching. Half of the cards turned over, the other face up. Your switching of personalities. Just to please everyone, to tell everyone what they want to hear. You are cut like all gluten-free cakes – in half. Your style, quickly attaching to someone and then wondering about disappointment, rejection, which you either create in your head or it comes as expected, your mother knew well why she did it, because she can't stand you, you're unbearable. That's why he left you too. The reason for all your unhappiness and disturbance was and is your double life; you have no refuge, you're homeless, because one wants dirt and nostalgic memory of the other, and the other the same. And you are confused. Blue cards, red cards. You want to reverse it, you have an obsessive need to cancel your curse.

Suddenly I run to the table. The couple thinks I'm going to clean up their mess. I take the cards in my hands, lift them above my head, release a fireworks of cards. Vortexes. The whole scene is supposed to be so cathartic that it can't happen.

I stand on the table in a dark, secluded café, all eyes are on me, shouting with hatred I am used to, but this one touches me directly, it doesn't just happen in my mind, it's like a fresh wound, I feel it as dew on my feet, cards fall, fall to the ground.

I run to the bathroom.

---

You look at the body.

You don't know if it's yours.

Your jaw begins to move uncontrollably, you pout your lips, smile wide open, spitting, biting.

Eyes stop, start to enlarge, create a hole, an opening into the body.

I get scared. With tears, I start feeling the tiles and white walls. I rub my hands. Scrape off the plaster. I want to see my blood, I won't calm down until I do.

I don't know what's happening, I can't distinguish reality from what's in my head.

I am a dragon, I am a beast, I want to kill myself, no one loves me.

A shard from a broken cup.

One move and I am back in the game.

Under the white shirt is the Danube.

A look into the mirror, I am a constant mass, I am in order.

The door swings on its hinges, I go out.

The process is undisturbed. Synthesis flows slowly but completely naturally, as if nothing happened.

Could it really be that nothing happened?

Could it all just be a figment of my mind?

I look at my hand, I am bleeding.

So what is really happening then?

Have I perhaps achieved complete disintegration?

Irreversible decomposition?

People talk, objects make sounds, I must get out of here immediately.

The city calls me.

It wants to be with me.

It knows it is my salvation.

It will truly be close to me.

It will free me.

I have lost everything, now they will throw me out, Monika will evict me, he won't answer anymore.

Rebirth awaits me only in the city center.

I will get lost in its alleys, create circles of busy movement, vertigo somewhere at the corner, I will sneak into open courtyards and be everywhere.

I will become an inseparable part of it. I will dissolve into its smells, its materials, its noise.

I throw away the apron with poor-quality printing, I move into the outdoors.

Jerguš Pribula (*2009) studies at a bilingual high school in Bratislava. Besides literature, he is involved in photography and theater. At AMFO 2026, he exhibited his photographic zine titled Machines whose names I don't know. He listens to the band The Breeders and admires the direction of Júlia Rázusová.