Vulturius

When you are young, you are not yet aware of how it works. The boy, too, only began the bitter learning process when he was alone in a cold, underground room.

Handcuffing his hand behind his back, as a dangerous offender would, he hunched slightly over the table. He looked tired and desperate, not surprising after hours of agony.

The interrogator was a man in his fifties, who walked confidently up and down the room like a sergeant in a squad room. He felt at home in this environment and watched his victim with a piercing eye, like a predator, circling around him as if looking for a weak spot to bite.

The interrogation room was not over-furnished, with only one bright lamp illuminating the bare walls, apart from the chair and table. The suspicious brownish stains on the table may originally have been red and deliberately not washed off. If someone had had the courage to look carefully while they were here, they might have spotted more of these stains on the floor, the walls and even the door. That is why cruel interrogators have nicknamed this cold cavity the ladybug room, because of these spots.

The man circled the table for a while, then thought for a moment, stopped and took the handcuffs off the boy's wrists, and even squeezed out a smile.

"All right, little buddy. It is time to tell me a story," he said in a friendlier tone, and though his Hungarian was impeccable, he did have a Russian accent that came out in a few words. "I understand they found a medicine named Parkan at your place."

"Please... please...," the boy muttered. His stomach suddenly clenched with fear. He was sure that if he did not answer correctly, he would never see the light of day again. He began to tremble. No wonder, since he had heard many stories from friends and relatives about the interrogations that took place in such places.

"Do you use it yourself or sell it to your friends?"

What should you answer? Tell him it is not his medicine; it was just smuggled into his bag? It would not be plausible. The doctor got some money to prescribe this drug for her mother, even though she did not have Parkinson's disease.

The boy tried Parkan once. After taking two or three tablets, he felt himself quite well as if he was walking on soft clouds and he felt light and dizzy. He did not know why he had taken it. Maybe it was because everyone was doing it, because it had become fashionable and now he was here because of it. He answered stuttering:

"Please, I did not... I just got these for my mom at the pharmacy."

The man lit another cigarette, then leaned close to the boy and blew the smoke in his face.

"Ah, for your mother. You are a good boy. You have been to not one, but several pharmacies. It must have been exhausting walking around. We confiscated five boxes in your bag. Your mother must be very ill to need so many."

"The doctor prescribed a few months in advance..."

"We will take care of him. Whom were you going to pass it? To the gang or were you going to use them all yourself? It is not enough to drink, little buddy, you need the medicine? What, you sniffle Technokol?"

Well, yes. He tried the glue earlier. Someone told him to sniffle it at home. He did not know why, but something was missing, he just wanted to feel himself good. It seemed like a good idea for a while...

"I do not sniffle anything, please."

The man stepped closer again and blew cigarette smoke into the boy's face, which made him cough.

"So you have a sensitive nose. In the pub, the smoke does not bother you while the crazy beat music is blaring. It does not matter if you choke just listen to western music. I do not know why you are sniffling. Do you dare face life? Is this the socialist youth? I grew up in the war, we were miserable, we suffered, we heated with cow shit, and yet I grew up. However, you? You run off into a stupor like decadent capitalist creeps with only the pursuit of money as their goal in life. Because it is the fashion? You suck in the Western propaganda and cultural filth."

The boy's face reflected despair. He thought he was being cautious, but he was wrong. He had always gotten the material secretly. At the concerts, everyone was busy with themselves, their own intoxication, or own pleasure. They did not ask where he was getting his drugs from they just paid. It was good money to have on top of your mother's pension. When he sniffled, he got a thrill out of doing something secret. Not the silly, ordinary, everyday wheel of fun. Not the terrible, real life.

Shivers, excitement, mystery. Those what he was looking for and this was the end of it. This basement, this cold room.

"I am not like that, please. I have also been awarded the distinguished pioneer badge and as a HYCL member, I attend all the meetings of the grassroots organization. I believe in the victory of the proletariat."

The man started laughing. His teeth yellowed from smoking, flashed out and gave him a devilish smile.

"Good talk. All right, little buddy, but enough of your bullshit. It is not just drinking coke with red wine, little buddy, it is a felony."

"There must be some mistake, please, because I have never done drugs!"

"Bullshit, little buddy!" the man shouted. His voice and attitude changed. He had had enough of nice words, approached the boy and hit him hard on the kidney. The boy fell off the chair, barely breathing from shock and pain. It was as if a cannonball had hit him in the waist and lodged itself in his kidney, bluntly straining and pulling him down. At first, he could barely breathe and the cannonball lingered stubbornly in his waist. My God! What about his kidney? Is this idiot going to beat him to death?

The man stood over him like a wolf contemplating how big a mouthful of live flesh to tear. Then he continued.

"If that is your attitude, I will tell you what is going to happen. Your mother is going to the women's prison, where she will not live long if she is sick, and if she is not, we will make sure she is. You will be lucky if you just go to prison. There will be no sniffling in there. Faggots like to fondle the nice, young, nylon skin."

The boy started crying. His soul filled with fear, and the tears escaped like moisture wrung from a wet handkerchief. His interrogator pulled him off the ground and sat him on the chair.

The man lit another cigarette and sat back in the chair opposite the boy, shining the bright lamp in his eyes.

"Stop crying like a shitty girl! Shut up or I will beat you to death right here!"

The boy looked up. His eyes filled with tears and through them, the man's face looked strangely human. He said with a squeak.

"I... I just... I brought it for my friends... For the first time. I just bailed them out. My mother, please do not hurt..."

The man changed his tone again. Not out of pity, out of tactics.

"All right, little buddy. You see, this is the attitude of a socialist young man. It is good that you confessed, but I do not give a damn."

He turned the lamp away from the boy. The light settled on a few old bloodstains on the table. The bloodstains seemed to move. They looked like lurking, malevolent bugs. Whose blood could it be? Still alive or already dead?

The boy stared with teary eyes. He fixed his gaze on a faded bloodstain and tried not to cry.

"You can get away with all that shit... I do not care about the drugs. You hear me, little buddy. All I want from you is information and cooperation. Every other Monday night around eight o'clock, you will report to me."

She put a map in front of the boy, where she marked a park.

"Do you know this place?"

The boy nodded.

"There is a rickety bench in front of the electric transformer box, and no one ever sits on it because it is uncomfortable. Hide your report between the cracked boards. Am I understood?"

The boy nodded again.

"Report under a pseudonym. Give me a pseudonym."

What to say? He did not dare to resist, because he would be comforted. A pseudonym? Somehow, he could not think of anything other than a toy.

"Spinner Snail... What do I have to report?

"Your mates, the rock band. Whatever you can think of. For example, what has happened since the last report, who you have talked to, who the others have met? Anything you learn, write it down. Remember, your case is on ice for now, and if you turn me in, it will all come back to life and you will go to jail," he finished.

The boy nodded, then lowered his head and continued to cry silently. He vowed never to try Parkan or anyone else again. It was not worth it. Of course, now it was too late...

The man stamped his cigarette on the wall and left the interrogation room without a word.