Revenge of the Plate

My new psychological thriller is currently being written for you.

It is a work of fiction, however…inspired by real-life events of domestic violence.

(A raw, unedited version)


Thank you to my abusers for being the biggest inspiration of my life yet



Not the nicest word in the world. It has low, heavy energy. It is depressing and can cause anxiety. We often think of it in terms of crimes. Where a serial killer driven by the insanity of revenging on someone they hate commits violent acts of atrocity. But we rarely think of it in terms of family relationships. Why would we? After all, families are supposed to help and support each other. Why would they revenge on anyone? Family should be safeguarding you from the rest of the world, giving you love, care and protection. But how many of these so-called loving families, looking quite normal on the surface, polite to the neighbours, shop assistants, and friends are actually dysfunctional in the four walls of their homes? How many are not really ‘normal’ by any standards? Revenge can be a result of many things. But the most important reason is that finally, the dynamic of the situation changes. A person who has been abused and suffered some kind of emotional or physical pain says Enough! A person of domestic violence says: I cannot do it anymore. Help me. We all say that nobody should be subject to domestic violence. We often hear other women saying to a woman- if it was me, I would not let my husband treat me this way. I would sort him out immediately. Or they say; I would call the police a long time ago, so he learns his lesson. Or; Best you leave then, move out.

All these people around sound to the victim of domestic violence like a broken tape, repeating what is best for anyone to do according to the ‘society standards’. What they fail to understand that for a victim of domestic violence it seems like a distant dream that will never happen, that they will never be free from their oppressor because of many reasons. One reason is that after many years it seems to them that the situation they are in, the way they are treated with contempt, lack of respect, aggression, violent shouting, and insults is the only way to live. Call it Stockholm syndrome if you wish…when the victim thinks the oppressor is the way he is because she did something wrong and the only way to calm him down is to serve him the best she can so that he is happy. The only problem is that it never makes him happy. He can see full control of the victim and uses it more and more against her so that she becomes his slave, his servant, and completely dependent on him. Also, financially. How many women live in relationships like this for years and years? Bravely putting up a smiley face to the rest of the world, despite just being called ‘a piece of shit’ for not putting enough salt in the soup? How many of such women are afraid to ask for professional help from psychologists, or police? How many know it would mean certain ‘death’ to them… death to the status quo in her own home and a potentially even bigger nightmare from her oppressor? How many would find the strength to finally do it and try to stop their suffering? Poland is a modern and civilized country. You would like to think that domestic violence is taken seriously and women (or men of course) subject to any type of abuse at home would get proper help, making it easier for them to make that transition of freeing themselves from the home aggressor. You would like to think. In one way- it is true. As soon as domestic violence is reported when it involves physical abuse-they separate him with a restraining order, and tell him to move out. In another way-reporting mental, emotional, and psychological abuse is almost pointless. In a country where men still think they are superior to women due to the brainwashing of the church and far-right government, where the main message is that a woman is stillborn for the traditional role of serving her husband, it’s almost impossible for a woman to prove such psychological abuse. There is no scratch on her face, no bruise. No visible evidence of her suffering. When she is brave enough to talk about her experiences at home, she is almost immediately questioned; So what did YOU do to make him so angry? Why did you do this for him to say ….that? Why didn’t you defend yourself after such a comment? In a system where the majority of police, and prosecutors are… men, it is not easy for a woman to explain why things ‘they’ say are wrong. Why? Maybe because so many of these also talk to their wives, daughters, and sisters behind closed doors? Maybe because they think ‘oh it’s nothing really’ ‘he didn’t mean that’ ‘ it’s not a crime really’. It is shocking to realise that in modern Poland there is no such thing as ‘psychological’ abuse. Only physical. And the system almost cannot see the most obvious thing, that is; no physical abuse can happen without psychological abuse. These two things go hand in hand. One cannot be a truly loving and caring husband, carrying his wife in his arms, and at the same time punching her in the head. It’s impossible, yet the people who are supposed to safeguard the victims, fail to see it. They even dare to say when a husband hits his wife-he doesn’t abuse her psychologically. Yes, it may seem impossible, yet the experience shows this sad reality. This is why it’s so hard for the victim to prove anything, especially when the whole system has this attitude and no matter what she says-they don’t believe it. Believing in her side of the story is one too. As soon as the abuser says his- or lies his as the only way to defend himself-big doubts show on their faces. Of course, he must be saying some truth, or maybe most of the truth, why would he lie about her? They don’t even realise how much a person can lie to defend themselves, and they are incapable of catching those lies. They don’t even care about catching those lies and connecting the dots. Furthermore, they are also incapable of seeing how much revenge can come from the abuser, who sets off on a mission to make hell from the victim’s life. The Polish justice system seems oblivious to many acts of the one who committed the crime, even after the crime was proven. They try to justify every act of next abuse and don’t take the one responsible into account anymore. Because in the Polish justice system there is no such word as ‘revenge’. For them, revenge is a made-up story because everything can be explained in ‘normal terms’. They fail to understand that every following act is an act of revenge and that revenge is the main driving factor of it all. Because revenge can take over your whole life, it makes you breathe it from the morning till night, your only mission in life is to make it happen, to cause even more pain, and suffering to the one you no longer have any control of. Revenge is real and can destroy your life. Sometimes the only way to stop it is to do it yourself.

Chapter One – Broken Plate

Have you ever thought that a broken plate can change your life forever?
Well, read this story and next time you break it, beware.
Your life may turn into a nightmare that you will not be able to wake up from
because that plate will revenge on you in the most cruel way.

‘Halo! Halo! My husband has just hit me and threatened to kill me! Please hurry! I am scared! – I said with a trembling voice calling an emergency number.
‘What’s your address? Please stay somewhere safe. The police patrol is on its way’ replied a calm voice of a female operator.
I ran quickly to lock the dog, a german shepherd called Dino, so that the police could come through two gates of the property and into the house. I then walked along the long friveway towards the road and waited. After about ten minutes, the police car pulled over. When a tall young policeman came out of it and a policewoman, he looked at me with a visible worry on his face.
‘What happened?’ he asked walking alongside me and the policewoman.
‘He got really violent and started punching and strangling me. I am scared, please make him stop,’ I replied with a shaking begging voice.
‘Does he take any drugs’ he continued.
‘No’ I replied.
‘Is he under an influence of an alcohol?
‘It’s just past one o’clock lunchtime on Sunday. Has he done this before?’
‘No, it’s first time he hit me’
‘Has he done this to you?’ asked a visibly worried policewoman pointing at my bandages on left hand fingers and wrist of the right one.
‘No, I have recently had an accident when a cyclist drove into me and broke my bones in both hands, that’s why I couldn’t really defend myself.’
As soon as we entered the house, the policeman stood in the hallway as if stunned. He was looking at the sea of broken glass on the corridor floor leading up to the kitchen. He then slowly walked up to it.
‘Hello, sir’ he said confidently, ‘We have been called in because the lady said you hit her,’ he continued.
‘I didn’t do anything to her. She is lying. And she made me do this,’ my husband replied loudly with agression in his voice whilst quickly swiping a pile of broken plates.
‘Your wife told you to break these plates?’
‘Yes, she did. Now I have to clean up. She is mentally ill. Take her to a pycho ward’ my husband shouted.
‘Ok, sir, I will need your ID please,’ the policeman said and followed my husband to the living room.
‘Do you undertake any psychiatric treatment?’
‘No! I am not mentally ill! Maybe you are!’ he shouted.
‘Sir, please don’t insult the police,’

I was standing outside the door listening and showing the policewoman the scratches and bruises on my neck that I could feel burning like coal.
‘I didn’t hit her, I didn’t do anything to her!’ my husband kept saying loudly.
‘I can see that you did, the bruises and scratches’ replied the policewoman leaning through the open living room door.
‘You stay quiet. Women don’t have grey cells’
‘Excuse me? Please stop insulting the police,’ she replied.
‘Ok, Sir, please take your medications if you take any and we will go to the police station now,’ said the policeman as soon as my husband packed his medications, he put handcuffs on his hands and they walked out the living room door.
‘Please follow us to report on the incident now,’ the lady policewoman said.
‘Ok, I will,’ I replied and had taken my bag, I followed them into my car.
Seeing my husband taken to the police van with his handcuffed hands at the back was a surreal vision to me. On the one hand, I felt as if I had waited for this moment for most of my married life. On the other hand, I was petrified. I was feeling huge anxiety about whether I had done the right thing. I had a feeling that my life would never be the same. I had a feeling that there is no turning back now. It’s done. I finally called the police. I had never ever done it before in my life. I had never thought of doing it either. All my suffering all over the years was mine and mine only. I was too ashamed to tell anyone about it. Only a little bit to my sister and my daughters. But other than that I had never complained or sought help. Until now. This was the breaking point for me. Literally and figuratively. It had finally happened. Something had finally happened in me. For the first time in my life I finally said to him ‘No!’ and now it was over. All my pain and tears and worries were finally over. I was free. Free of him. My husband.
‘Please tell me what has just happened?’ asked a policeman at the police station as soon as I went into it. Walking along the corridor I saw my husband in one of the rooms sitting handcuffed, looking at me in the presence of three police officers standing. Even though he only had one eye, the other one he lost to an illness, it was petrifying, and the expression on his face sent shivers down my spine. ‘What if he ran towards me now and punch me in the head with his’ I thought in fear.
‘Please sit down’ said the police officer when we entered his room two floors above, ‘Would you like some water?’
‘Yes, please I replied with a shaky voice as if I was living a parallel reality that I never knew would be possible.
‘Has he done this to you?’ he asked pointing at my bandages.
‘No, it was an accident with a cyclist, he rode into me, I fell on the ground, broke my bones and he ran away,’
‘Oh, have you seen who he was’
‘No, I haven’t, it was almost dark,’
‘So what happened with your husband this afternoon? Has he hit you?’
Yes, he hit me a few times in the head and tried to strangle me. He shouted; ‘I will kill you like a dog before I die! I was petrified, I tried to defend myself but I couldn’t because of my broken hands, you see? I pointed at the bandages and continued ‘ I shouted to leave me alone but he wouldn’t. Our dog, the german shepherd Dino, was scared at first to come because of the broken glass on the floor but when I shouted really loudly, he jumped from the corridor towards me and separated my husband from me. It was then, he stood back and I could slowly leave the kitchen trying not to cut my feet to blood because of all the broken plates I called the police
‘Broken plates? What do you mean?’
‘Yes, he had a fury attack and broke all the plates in the kitchen cupboard. He started throwing them in pairs, or three at a time on the kitchen floor and towards the corridor.
And what did you do?
‘I was just sitting there at the kitchen table. Unable to move, I just knew I would not move. I could die and I would not move.
Why didn’t you want to move?
‘Because he had told me to leave the kitchen. He said this kitchen is his and that I should fuck off from it and go to my room. I said ‘No!’ and he went furious. I refused to do it.
‘But why did he want you to leave the kitchen?’
‘Well at first I was watching my favourite soap opera on tv, locked in my room. He started banging on it so I wasn’t sure at first if I should open it but I knew if I didn’t, he would get even madder. He said I should go to the kitchen to cook food for the dog. I went to the kitchen even though I had a bad feeling about it all. I normally cooked fresh food for Dino around five each day and it was only lunchtime. When I got to the kitchen, he opened the cupboard and asked me; Where is my soup plate?’ something I was dreading for a while.
‘Why, did he have a special soup plate for himself?
Yes, it was his favourite plate for years, it was old, scratched but he always had soup on it. I noticed he was cooking tripe soup for himself, a ready one, from a jar.
‘And what happened then?
‘I said to him that his plate was broken, it fell when I was washing the dishes, just slipped from the dryer. It’s because I am a bit clumsy now with my broken fingers.’
‘Ok, so what happened then?’
‘Then, he started shouting at me that I did it on purpose and that I will pay for it. I replied that I didn’t do it on purpose and it just happened, I also said I would buy him a new one, the same one in a shop but he shouted that he didn’t want a new one. He closed the cupboard and with hatred told me to leave the kitchen or ‘fuck off from the kitchen’ to be precise. I said I would not because it’s also my kitchen and I have the right to be in it as much as he did. He said that the house belongs to his son and it was not mine, so if he comes from Spain, he would beat me up. I replied that I wasn’t afraid of his son and that I have served him like a servant for over forty years in this kitchen, cooking for him, breakfast, lunch, and dinners, and washing up after him, that I had every right to be there. I just couldn’t take it anymore, this constant throwing out and hiding in my room to cry in solitude. I sat on that chair by the kitchen table and I didn’t move.
‘So what that’s when he started hitting you?
‘After he broke all the plates in the cupboard I looked at him and said; ‘Why did you break the plates? They are also my plates, I have worked hard for everything in this kitchen and you just break it all? He shouted; ‘They are not your plates! Shut up or I will beat you up’ I replied; Try!’ and that’s when he did it. I truly thought he would kill me.
‘Is it the first time he did it?’
‘Has he hit you before?’
‘No, well he tried many times, once with a vacuum pipe because he accused me that I hid a vacuum brush from him on purpose. He also tried to hit my daughter, she isn’t his daughter, many times before. He was always verbally abusive towards me and her. All our life we heard; Fuck off from this house because it’s not yours’ He always started violent arguments for no reason, because I left the breadcrumbs on the kitchen table or that the potatoes were too hard on purpose. He insulted me and my daughter calling us rags, idiots, mentally ill, ugly, and worthless shite.
‘So the mental abuse has lasted for years, it’s the first time he hit you?
‘Yes, that’s right, so what will happen now, I am really scared I must say.
‘Now we will arrest him for 24-48 hours and the prosecutor will decide what to do next. I am guessing he will get a restraining order and he will come back with the police to pack his stuff and leave the house. We do that so that the victim doesn’t feel threatened anymore.’ he replied and picked up the phone, said it was all done and moments later I could hear a petrifying voice echoing throughout the whole building.
He was shouting like a lunatic, I couldn’t understand a word but felt not only embarrassed about the whole thing but scared of what would happen next. It’s hard to say what I felt. A relief that for the first time in my life I could tell someone, a complete stranger about the pain I had to live with all those years in my home. But also anxiety, about what would happen next and how the Polish police would help me now. Would they protect me? After all, I knew what my husband was like. He was completely unpredictable. He would shout at me with hatred and aggression and half an hour later he would come to me asking; What’s for dinner darling?’ as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t made me feel like a worthless piece of carpet. I also knew that he was the most revengeful man I have ever known. His whole family was. He would do anything to destroy people who disagreed with him n any topic, especially political and religious. He was such an unlikeable man that we hardly had any visitors at home, most people avoided our house as if it was on plague alert. I hardly had any neighbours coming to visit over the years. I didn’t talk to anyone about the hell I had all those years. I suffered in silence. I suffered alone. But it was now over. It was now out in the daylight. I spoke the truth about what had happened and I had to trust that the Polish system would help me, a victim of domestic violence, and I would be free from my husband’s abuse forever.
‘How old is he? The policeman asked before I left his room.
‘He is ninety’
‘Yes, he is 20 years older than me. You would never think a ninety-year-old man is capable of hitting his wife after 40 years of marriage, would you?’
‘No, I wouldn’t. I imagine him drinking hot chocolate in his slippers, forgetting what he was watching on TV a minute ago. But not to punch his wife because of a broken plate. Don’t worry, we will take care of him. Just go home now, you are safe.; he replied.
‘I walked out the huge old squeaky door of the police station. I deeply inhaled the fresh May air. I walked back home unable to still believe what had just happened.
‘I am finally free, I am finally safe,’ I sighed with relief.

Little did I know that my nightmare had only just begun and that the old, broken plate would revenge on me more than I could ever imagine. …..TBC



I spent the night staring at the ceiling, locked in my bedroom as usual.

I went out to the garden to get fresh air with Dino and when I got back the phone rang. I didn’t see the number so I thought it was possibly the police station.
‘ Listen to me carefully. If my brother doesn’t come back home by eight p.m. I will come and throw you out in the street. Do you understand me?!’ said the most gruesome voice which always made me wonder if I was talking to my husband or his twin brother.
I didn’t get the chance to reply- I was petrified and I was shocked. I had not expected my husband’s twin brother to turn into…. This. How could I have made sure my husband would be back home by 8 p.m. tonight? How? He was stopped by the police for 24/48 hours and there was nothing I could do about it. Why was he threatening me that h would throw me out? After living in this house for forty years and looking after my husband? True, he didn’t make me the owner of the house but his twin brother. He made sure, quickly after the wedding that the house is his, so that I don’t have any rights to it and the only thing he did do- was he allowed me to live there with him for free till I die. He did it behind my back, I didn’t know he went with him to the solicitor and planned all this. He only informed me when he returned. He said it was for my own good. My safety. For him, it was an act of love for me. To make sure I don’t get anything of the house I built with him from the very beginning. I was sad and disappointed but there was nothing I could do. I put on my brave face as always, lit a cigarette, and said nothing leaving the kitchen. I knew that the law in Poland allowed it, anything that he bought before the wedding, even though it was just a tiny hut that we built upon, belonged to him and it was not mutual martial wealth. Almost twenty years ago, he made sure I could never leave him, trapped me in this house with a gift like this, yet expected that I would be happy. I tried to be happy and still serve him as a loyal wife would. I cooked all meals for him, I put the plates with food in front of him when he was watching tv, and took dirty plates back to wash them. I would clean the whole house while he was just watching and I would do the laundry and take it to dry outside. I would do the shopping while he would wait for me in the car reading a newspaper, struggling sometimes to drag them with heavy milk bottles yet he never offered to help me. When he did help me, he would make me so embarrassed and ashamed of him, he would shout at women in supermarkets, and he would call them; ‘Watch out you dirty rag where you are going!’ He would explode with the usual aggression he had at home for me, only on a smaller scale. When he walked into the shop women would say; ‘Zombie is coming’ and I would quickly move to the next aisle looking for eggs. Hence, if I had the choice of the two, I would prefer to carry heavy bags to the car myself, glad the world, or mainly women whom he seemed to hate, would not. As soon as he started driving, he would speed up seeing a woman crossing the road and shouting; ‘ Get out of my way you lazy, fat cow!’ I often wondered when he would finally kill one. I always tried to calm him down but it only backfired and he shouted angrily at me; ‘Shut the f..k up! You are like them!’ so I sometimes preferred to stay quiet and pray for a safe journey back home, especially since in later years he lost one eye and he couldn’t see very well, driving the car dangerously, over the curbs, often pulling on the left side of the road. No matter how many times I told him to be careful he just got angry and told me I was an idiot and shut up. So I prayed he would not kill me on the way from the shops each day getting into the car not knowing if would get out of it.
This phone call from his brother Marcin was a surprise to me and completely unexpected. Marcin lived in Denmark for many years with his wife who dreamt of becoming an opera singer, she never made it, having to do jobs she hated till old age. During their visits in previous years, she would stand on the balcony, get a broomstick, and sing to it pretending it was her lover, making such a noise that Dino would howl next to her, probably trying to make her squeaky voice less annoying for the neighbours who would shut the windows as soon as she started, screaming at her; ‘Shut up with your broomstick for God’s sake!’ She was never bothered by it though and continued because Romek and my husband (being a bit deaf in their 90s) would praise her for the talent. Romek always seemed polite when he used to come to visit us. I would never have thought he would be capable of such a phone call. Threatening me… after all, I had called him a few days before the tragedy. I told him about the behaviour of Zenek, that he started acting really weird, locking everything up, he would sit in the living room glued to the tv, staring at it, I would serve him food as usual but he would bring it back to the kitchen untouched, shoving the plate to me and saying with contempt; ‘Potatoes are too hard!’ or ‘Not enough salt.’ or.. saying absolutely nothing but looking at me with evil eyes as if he wanted to…kill me. I never said anything back because I knew what it would mean. An hour of angry shouting, insults that I was an idiot, a tzaress, a piece of rag that needs to learn because I don’t know anything about life. So I preferred to just look at him and continue with my dinner which I preferred to eat at the kitchen table in peace without the loud noise of tv with political channels from morning till the evening. In weeks before the tragedy, he would strangely avoid contact with me. He slept in his bedroom upstairs so I often fell asleep on my sofa downstairs, after I locked the door. I started locking the door sometime before- sometimes because of the naughty young german shepherd who would barge into the rooms and out knowing how to open them by jumping on the handles. I locked the door later also because it gave me a feeling of safety, a moment of peace from him… He also couldn’t just barge into the room, he would bang on them aggressively- he would wake the dead with it- and I would have to get up and open it. At night, I also felt safer with my room locked, especially after he started to lose his mind in nastiness, he would do something to my car and when I asked him whether the car is broken because I wanted to go into town to buy some groceries, he shouted at me angrily; Fu…g go on a bike or on foot then!’. He then went to it and did something to make it work again- meaning connected the battery. He started acting stranger and even more aggressive over the years, I avoided him as if he was Devil himself, he told me I would not need to cook for him anymore and he would not give me any more money for food. Despite being married to him for twenty years, we had separate accounts and he only gave me what he wanted so I would do the shopping for us, other than that, he kept his pension for himself even though it was three times bigger than mine and I spent all of mine on daily living costs. He had been acting so strange that I called Romek and told him I was worried and scared of him to which his ‘singer’ wife replied to me; If it as me, I would not let a man treat me like this and Romek added; ‘If he does something dangerous just call the police’. That was why I was even more surprised to hear that blackmail from him. It was him to call the police if something dangerous happened. For me breaking all the plates in the kitchen and punching me in rage in the head while I had both of my hands broken from an accident was a dangerous situation. Why would he now be angry with me in that phone call? I was afraid he would come and throw me out of the house despite the legal document that I could live here forever, I was afraid he would come tomorrow or the day after. He could drive from Denmark any time and just show up at my doorstep. But did he really mean it? How could I make sure his brother comes back from the police by eight p.m.? I couldn’t just call the police and.. threaten them to let him out just like his brother did to me. I knew I could do nothing now but spend every minute of my life now feeling scared. What will happen now? Will my husband come back by eight? And even if he does? How will I live in this house? I knew he would absolutely destroy me for calling the police. I knew his rage would mean I would not leave my room at all, locked in it forever. I knew I would be in hell that I never wanted, possibly an even bigger hell than all those years before. I was scared to even look at him, not to mention living with him under the same roof. The policeman told me during the interrogation that most likely my husband shall get a restraining order for a period of time from the prosecutor and that I would be safe because the police would come with him to the house and let him pack his belongings so that I would not be in danger. He told me not to worry and that they would take care of everything. When I told him I was really scared now because I knew my husband and I knew he would get furious with me he replied;
‘ Don’t worry, we will take care of everything.’
‘Are you sure I will be safe?’
‘Yes, I am sure, the police will come with him. Now go home and try to calm down. ‘
After such an assurance, I was a little bit calmer knowing that things would be fine after all, I was scared of facing my husband alone in the house but knowing that I would not be and that he would have to move out for a while at least was a huge relief. I knew I would not handle his anger and aggression, especially after hearing that he would kill me like a dog before he dies. These words were ringing in my head for the first time in my life I started to worry about my life. I knew that because he was in his nineties with quite a few illnesses, he would really not care if he would kill me. He didn’t have much to lose. He was capable of anything.
I now was waiting alone locked in my room who would come first; my husband or his twin brother? Either way, I needed to take tablets to calm down. I was now petrified for my life.
‘Why did I call the police? I now unleashed hell which can be even bigger than before. What will happen to me now?’ I thought to my horror and lay on the sofa trying to calm my loudly beating heart.



Around four o’clock the next day I looked through the window and my heart froze. My husband was walking down the path with his cousin Klara next to him.

‘Oh my God! What is happening? Did the police let him out? Just like that? Back into the house so that I am in danger again? Don’t they know what they did to me now? I cannot see the police anywhere. Just a car that belongs to Klara on the road. Will she let him back in the house? If so, where am I going to go? Just stay locked in my room day and night, afraid to come out?’ I thought.

Zenek opened the front door and I could hear him say goodbye to Klara. He then got into the living room and closed the door.

‘What is happening? Is he not going to move out? I thought I could trust the policeman yesterday who said they will bring him so he can pack his belongings and move out’ I thought sitting quietly in my locked room, wondering how I would go to the bathroom now, scared I could meet him in the corridor. ‘What would happen then? If I saw him in the kitchen or the bathroom? What would I say? What would he say? Would he say anything about what happened? Would he get furious I called the police and they stopped him for almost two days? What about his brother who threatened me on the phone? Would he come now too?’ My mind was spinning in circles from the immense stress and the only thing that saved me was one cigarette after another, opening the window and cuddling Dino. The very thought of meeting him, alone in the house petrified me and made me sick from anxiety. My heart was pounding like a big bell in a church tower, just not for a minute or two but constantly.

I couldn’t hear him walking around the house. I gently unlocked my door and I listened. It was quiet and the living room was locked too. I decided to venture out to the bathroom because I was desperate by now. I locked the bathroom door and did a big sigh of relief. I made it. But what if he waits for me when I come out? What if he is standing there and start yelling at me for causing so much trouble to him? I walked from one end of the bathroom to another, desperate for something to eat and drink, scared to open the door and go to the kitchen. I finally did it though. I opened the door in the slowest and quietest way hoping he would not hear me. I then sneaked into the kitchen and quickly grabbed some water and made a cheese sandwich. I tried to be as quiet as possible. ‘Maybe he is sleeping to tv and won’t come out when I am out’ I thought in hope. As soon as I got to my room, I heard the living room door unlocking. ‘Oh no, he is coming out!’ I thought in horror and quickly locked the door.

‘Thank God’ I thought and started eating my sandwich.

That night I sneaked into the bathroom once more, seeing tv lights in the living room, knowing he was probably asleep. I took a large plastic bowl with me to the bedroom, hoping to use it at night, wee into it, so that I would not have to confront him in the darkness of the night. I could now fall asleep, knowing I was locked, had something to drink and… I could wee into the bowl.

NEW!!! Nowy thriller/horror o parze sprzątaczy okradających nie tylko groby, ale także domy starszych ludzi jest właśnie dla was pisana. Czy policji uda się złapać złoczyńców? Czy będzie ktoś jeszcze pomóc policji? Czy karma dosięgnie ich wreszcie i zapłacą za wyrządzoną krzywdę? Na pewno nie oderwiecie się od lektury…

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