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My gaze fell on the table, where the letter from "Grandma" still lay. Those lines in Polish… What the hell? This can’t be happening… I’ve never spoken that language! – My thoughts darted around like they were in agony. I grabbed the folder on the table and tried to skim through the English text.
The text, which had just felt familiar and natural, suddenly looked foreign. Each word now demanded effort, as if I were reading it through a thick lens that distorted everything. I felt panic beginning to rise inside me.
– Co się, do cholery, dzieje?! (What the hell is going on?!) – burst out of my mouth before I could even realize it.
I froze. What the hell was that?!
My eyes widened in horror. Those words... they slipped out so easily, as if I’d been speaking Polish my whole life. I clapped a hand over my mouth, feeling cold sweat trickle down my spine. This can’t be… it’s impossible! I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to focus. Say something, anything in English, just to prove to myself that I still could.
– Co do cholery?! (What the fuck?!) – I cursed in panic. The voice, that damn voice again – high, ringing, almost sing-song – sounded so alien. But the worst part was that I’d just cursed... in Polish.
I clenched my fingers in my hair, feeling the long strands tickle my face, and closed my eyes. The panic was becoming almost tangible. What have they done to me?!
A stream of thoughts rushed through my mind. I tried to focus, took a deep breath, and attempted once more to speak in English. It now felt like a foreign language, but I managed to force out:
– My name is Mike… I… am not Apolonia, – I whispered, making myself push the words out. But it sounded like I was learning a language I’d never used before.
My breathing turned ragged. I opened my eyes and looked at the passport again, at the lines that clearly stated I was Apolonia Kowalska, a cleaner and a wife. My gaze drifted back to the letter in Polish. Now it became absolutely clear: these words felt natural. So natural that I could not only read them but also think in this language.
I ran a hand over my face instinctively. It still felt like mine. My face – with slightly plump lips and barely noticeable changes – stared back at me from the mirror. But inside, I was no longer myself.
– This is just a dream, – I whispered, gripping the edge of the table. Polish kept slipping from my mouth, as it was easier for me to speak in it. – This is all... some kind of madness...
My gaze fell again on the instructions lying on the table, and I reluctantly picked them up, gritting my teeth. On the back was the recipe I was supposed to prepare for my "husband." The recipe was written in two languages – English and Polish. I didn’t even realize at first that my eyes instinctively locked onto the Polish text. The recipe itself was broken down step by step, from prepping the vegetables to serving the dish. Everything seemed so mundane it made me sick.
I exhaled heavily, recalling the fine they mentioned, and realizing I was screwed. Resistance wouldn’t change anything. At least not immediately. This "game" was planned down to the smallest details, and those damn curators knew exactly how to make me comply. Cameras, an enormous debt, a confined space – it all created the feeling of being trapped, where every move was under surveillance.
The curator’s words echoed in my head: "Your husband will arrive soon." They sounded like a warning. I quickly glanced around the room. The apartment was clean but overly feminine – lace curtains everywhere, vases with flowers, photos that seemed to scream that this life was real.
I exhaled shakily, put the paper back on the table, and wandered over to the kitchen counter, almost unconsciously checking the drawers. Pots, pans, knives, spoons – everything was perfectly arranged and spotless, as if it had never been used. The fridge was stocked with ingredients perfectly suited for the recipe. They had truly prepared everything to force me… to adapt.
– Perfect, – I muttered sarcastically, feeling anger and despair churn into a thick knot inside me. – I’m not just Apolonia now, but a fucking housewife too.
Cutting through the panic, a stubborn voice of reason emerged. If I was going to meet this "Marek," I’d better be ready. After all, I had no idea what kind of person he was. That meant I had to play by the "rules of the game" just to buy some time and figure out how to escape this hell.
I rolled up the sleeves of the robe, which was already driving me insane, grabbed a knife, and began chopping vegetables according to the recipe. My movements were clumsy, as if my body itself didn’t understand how to handle this. It felt like my fingers – thin and delicate – just weren’t made for such coarse tasks. My frustration grew, but I kept slicing onions, carrots, and something green, not even noticing how my thoughts began to drift.
– "They’re watching me," – flashed through my mind. Somewhere in the corner of the kitchen, a camera clicked, reminding me of its presence. The feeling of being watched – intensely, mercilessly – pressed down harder than the weight of the bra straps on my shoulders.
I glanced at the clock to check the time. The cooking was nearly done, and the hands on the dial crept closer to 6:30 PM – the time listed in the instructions as "the husband’s arrival." I quickly wiped my hands on the edge of a towel and picked up the list from the kitchen table again.
On the sheet, beneath the recipe steps, there was a note I hadn’t noticed before:
"Important: A smile and a cheerful attitude are key to a successful adaptation. Be an open and caring wife."
– A smile? A caring wife? – I almost hissed, feeling the urge to tear the damn paper into tiny shreds. But I stopped myself. The cameras. Always the cameras. I took a deep breath, forced myself to calm down, and put the paper back on the table.
My eyes drifted to the plate of food – a thick stew with meat and vegetables. It smelled good, strangely comforting. My body reacted differently than my mind. In my head, there was anger, disgust, and despair, but deep inside, something seemed to whisper: "You did well, Apolonia." Apolonia! I’m not Apolonia, damn it!
The door lock clicked. I flinched, turning toward the entryway. My heart skipped a beat, and my thoughts raced in panic. My gaze instinctively dropped, and I realized I was still wearing the robe, with a lacy bra and panties peeking through underneath. It looked way too revealing, especially for me. Damn it, I’m still a guy! And now this "husband" is going to see me like this?! Horror engulfed me, making my heart pound like crazy.