My town, my own...nr1

Anotace: kdysi jsem to psala jako jazykovy pokus...

It was a day like any other. The first morning train arrived and left on time. Perhaps it simply wanted to confirm the scheduled manner of this day. Children got up, cleaned their teeth, dressed up and opened their eyes in this very order. Today, any extra movement had the power to destroy a fragile balance set up by the spring equinox. Parents went to work as they always did, and the town got its moment of desired rest. Those who could had already fled to the city and would return in the afternoon…But wait a minute! There was something wrong about the order of the day. The town felt some soft commotion in its guts. Someone had not left home yet.
It was still dark outside, the most courageous sunbeams were trying to penetrate the foggy sky and cast away all remains of the night, the night which was not nice to anybody, especially not to Petr. He got up sweating early this morning. Why? Was it a bad dream, a guilty conscience that woke him up and forced him to forsake the warmth of his bed? Or was it, perhaps more probably, just his bladder that led him nowhere else but into the bathroom? The answer was somewhere in between.
It was the first night after his father`s arrival. They had not seen each other for at least ten years and yesterday, out of the blue , father rang at Peter`s door. What did he want there? Last time they met he got drunk. No, not drunk, he got sozzled and beat Petr down, as if his own child was a nameless Egyptian slave, nothing more. So such kind of a man was ringing at the doorbell last night. If you had opened the door you would have seen an old, wrinkled body bent down like a rotten willow, if you had opened the damn door you could have watched this heartbreaking parody of a superman. Peter, the only one who could have opened it for us, was waiting, listening, peering through the keyhole, fighting the tremor attacking his whole self and trying hard to tame his thoughts.
There was a tormentor, an alcoholic giant standing on the door pad of Peter`s own house, aching like a poor beast. A personified weeping willow you would have said if you had not known him. But you had. Peter`s father used to be a butcher by trade and a butcher by character. Now he was dying of cancer, pleading in front of his beaten son`s door, begging for mercy...