As dinner drew to a close, Lily, as usual, asked Jerome to help with the dishes. He looked at her without showing the slightest sign of displeasure. On the contrary, Jerome was ready to put all his energy into this task so that no one would suspect that he had already begun to make plans. After all, all he had to do now was look like an obedient and caring son. He climbed the steps to the sink confident that no one would suspect what plans he had brewing for tomorrow.
"Of course, Mom," he said, smiling. "I'll do everything now."
Lily, sitting in the kitchen, preparing to dry the dishes, did not pay much attention to his words. Jerome washed the plates with such persistence, as if it was the only thing he could think about. He washed each plate carefully, then placed it on the shelf, pretending to be completely absorbed in his household duties. Lily's attention was focused on her thoughts, she was in her element, lulling herself into her usual concerns, and did not notice how Jerome easily continued his evening ritual.
After the plates were cleared, he moved on to the cutlery and the process continued. The boy tried to work quickly, but without rushing, so as not to arouse suspicion. He carefully polished the forks and spoons, making sure that each item was as good as new. His mother sat on a chair with a cup of tea, stirring the spoon and glancing at the television. Sometimes she would talk to him briefly, but Jerome did not pay much attention to her questions. All that occupied him was how to make sure that she did not notice his plans.
"Jerome, are you completely tired?" Lily suddenly asked, looking up.
The boy handed her another plate, with a slight smile and a sigh, as if he was tired, but had no intention of stopping.
"No, Mom, everything's fine," he replied, wiping his hands on a towel. "I was just concentrating."
Lily seemed to calm down. She turned back to the television and went back to watching another cooking show that Jerome had never been very interested in. He knew this was the perfect moment-her attention was elsewhere, and his hands were working automatically. He finished washing the dishes and put them away, but his mind was already on the next step.
When he had finished everything that was necessary, Jerome wiped his hands on a towel and, as if by chance, said:
"That's it, Mom, I'm ready to go to bed."
Lily nodded, not too bothered by the fact that he had gone to his room a little earlier than usual. She knew that her son was not yet an adult, but he was already quite independent. Her eyes went back to the TV screen, and Jerome, leaving for his room, felt the tension inside him growing. Tomorrow everything would go according to his plan.
When Jerome entered his room, his first thought was to look at his wristwatch. He always carried it with him, and it had become something important to him, a symbol of adulthood and independence. But as soon as he opened the desk drawer where the watch usually lay, his hand froze. A memory from kindergarten came to mind, when Delia, with a sly look and a cheerful laugh, simply took the watch from him.
When Jerome remembered it in his room, he realized that it was not just a game. He smiled, thinking that Delia was not only a clever girl, but also a cunning one. She could captivate anyone without even noticing how she was drawing them into her game. And although he knew that it was not just an accident, he could not help but feel that it was only a prelude to something more - maybe she had stolen not only his watch, but his heart as well.
Looking thoughtfully at the empty space on his wrist, Jerome seemed to understand: he was no longer just a boy who had to return his watch. He felt himself becoming more and more immersed in this world of mysteries and risks that his meeting with Delia brought him. And despite all the little pranks she had played, he felt that this game was only just beginning.
Jerome sat by the window of his room, framed by old wooden frames through which the evening light streamed. On the table in front of him was his cassette recorder, and he turned on his favorite recording, which had long been his musical companion. The sound of the old cassette began to fill the room - it was one of those melodies that get into the soul and stay with you for a long time. Melancholic, a little sad, but at the same time enchanting music contributed to Jerome's special, peaceful state.
He didn't bother trying to find out what time it was - time seemed to slow down, dissolving in the sounds reflected from the glass surface of the window. Jerome looked down at the alley, along which people walked lazily and cars drove by. The leaves on the trees swayed slightly in the wind, creating a whimsical shadow on the asphalt. At this moment, he felt like a part of something big and quiet, as if every moment was significant, and he himself was not just a boy, but a person who observes the world, trying to understand it.
He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. His mind was spinning with thoughts of how the day had gone, how he still couldn't forget about one important thing: Delia. Today, while sitting at dinner, he remembered how she had looked at him mysteriously when they were in the garden. He wasn't even sure what it was: mockery, interest, or something more. But that moment left a persistent feeling in his mind, as if he had missed something important. Sometimes she was too unpredictable, and it worried him.
Whatever the case, Jerome couldn't help but think that there was something special between them. She was so different from all the other children - and sometimes it gave him a strange feeling that she was playing some complicated game with him, one in which he didn't quite understand the rules. But something inside told him that this game could be something important for him.
As the last note of the music faded, Jerome switched off the tape recorder, moving his hand from the button as if this moment marked the end of something important. He rose slowly from the table, feeling the weight of fatigue. A long day of uncertain steps and unexpectedly vivid impressions was ending, and the tension was beginning to leave him. The room grew quieter, only the rustle of his pajamas as he began to change disturbed the peace.
However, as he was trying to pull on his pajama top, his thought suddenly stopped. He stopped, standing in front of the mirror, and thought about something that had never even occurred to him before. He closed his eyes and tried to understand what was happening to him now. Why did he suddenly feel so strange? Why did this thought flash through his head, as if blown away by the wind, like a bolt from the blue?
"What if..." he began mentally, but then stopped short.
He couldn't believe it, but the thought had already occurred to him.
"What if, in fact, none of this is real? What if this whole life is just some kind of dream? What if everyone around me - Mom, Dad, and even Delia - are just characters that I made up myself, and they only exist in my head?"
His heart began to beat faster. Fear slowly, like a fog, crept into his consciousness. He imagined how strange it would be if suddenly everything he saw turned out to be an illusion, and the only thing that really existed was himself. His thoughts lost their clear contours, like a wavering reflected shadow.
"Then what?" Jerome paused again.
The idea was becoming too incredible. Too unimaginable to take seriously. But he still couldn't shake the feeling. What if it was true? What if his life was just an illusion? He glanced to the side and saw his reflection in the mirror, the same as always, but suddenly it seemed alien. Like the guy in the mirror wasn't him, but someone else. He felt a slight dizziness that made him tilt his head, trying to shake off the uninvited thought.
But then, as always, reality came rushing in-he heard voices coming from the kitchen. Mom and Dad were talking. The noise of the TV, the music in the background. The sound of his own breathing. It all brought him back to where he belonged.
"Jerome, where are you?" his mother's voice sounded, interrupting his thoughts.
"I'm here," he answered quietly, taking up his pajamas, deciding not to dwell on these thoughts.
His mind was back on track. Suddenly the strange questions didn't seem as important as what was happening here and now. His family, his home, all of it was tangible and real. Or so he liked to think.
Jerome changed into his pajamas, lay down on the bed and remained motionless, staring at the ceiling. The dim light of the nightlight, barely illuminating the room, created darkness in the corners, and the air became a little heavier, as if the night itself was trying to hide some secrets. He felt strange. All the events of the day, conversations, people, thoughts... they were starting to get confused in his head. He couldn't figure out what was real and what wasn't. Maybe all this was just a fantasy? Or a figment of his imagination? Too many strange moments that didn't fit together in his world.
He lay motionless, trying to concentrate on one thought, but everything that came to his mind seemed absurd. He tried to gather a picture of what was happening in his head, trying to understand what was really happening around him. But it turned out to be so absurd that he even felt uncomfortable thinking about such things seriously.
And then, as his thoughts began to slide into the darkest corners of his mind, a joke that an old man had once told him on a bench near the park suddenly came to his mind. He had always laughed at this joke, although he knew that hardly anyone else would laugh with him. But for some reason, this joke now surfaced in his memory as something important, as if it were trying to distract him from difficult thoughts.
"A Jew with two suitcases on wheels," Jerome thought with a strange grin, as if answering himself to some unresolved questions.
He even repeated the words to himself a few times. Maybe it had something to do with how he felt right now - too many suitcases, too much stuff to haul, but so little space to fit it all in.
The joke was about a man who, despite being thin and clumsy, was always prepared for the most difficult situations. He was carrying two suitcases, rolling them alternately on their wheels, as if there was something important in his life that he had to carry - despite all the circumstances, despite the fact that he looked like a man who couldn't handle something as simple as walking with suitcases.
"Here I am," Jerome thought with a sad smile, touching his thought again, "I'm like this man with suitcases, carrying all this nonsense on wheels. All these strange thoughts, all these events... And you can't take them anywhere, you just roll them along with you."
He chuckled in the darkness, but something stirred deep inside. Everything became clearer. Perhaps this whole day and this whole world with its events, dialogues, oddities and childhood grievances was not something he had to find meaning for, but on the contrary, something he had to live through, like dragging suitcases with wheels without trying to figure out what was inside them.
Suddenly he felt better. He closed his eyes and felt the storm of thoughts in his head calm down. Problems, people, events - all of this now seemed part of one game, part of the path he was walking, not knowing what would happen next. And perhaps it was not his anxiety that was important, but simply the ability to not dwell on what could not be explained.
Eventually, Jerome fell asleep, and in his dreams there were no suitcases, no questions about reality. But there was a jousting field. He sat on his horse, in full knightly regalia, his armor glittering in the sun, his lance clutched tightly in his hands. Around him, the crowd roared, people in bright clothes shouting and applauding. Spectators sat on high seats, some waving flags, others holding shields and banners.
But the most important thing that caught Jerome's attention was the throne, standing in the very center of the stage, under a canopy of gold brocade. The throne was majestic, with high backs and curved legs, covered with velvet cushions. And on this throne sat she - Delia. She was dressed as a princess, with a crown on her head and a long golden dress that flowed softly around her. She smiled at him, her eyes were shining, and it seemed as if she were not just a part of this world, but its very essence.
Jerome felt his heart beat faster. He wanted to go to her, to hold out his hand, to say something important – but he couldn't. Somehow it was impossible. He couldn't just walk up to her like he had in his dreams and confess his feelings. He had to win.
On the opposite side of the arena stood another knight, also a boy, clad in heavy plate armor. His horse was dark, his lance glittering and dangerous. He sat with his head held high, looking at Jerome with cold confidence. This was his rival, the one who had stopped him from approaching Delia.
Jerome felt his horse tensely shifting in place, preparing for battle. This was his moment. He could not be distracted, could not think of anything other than winning. He gripped his spear tighter, prepared to attack, feeling the air around him grow thick with tension. He remembered reading about knightly duels in a book with the sonorous title of Ivanhoe, and now, in this dream, he fought exactly according to the rules he remembered from its text, overloaded with ornateness by modern standards.
He stood in the center of the arena, leaning on his spear, under which his horse stood steady, ready for battle. It was dark around, but the spectators, hidden behind the canopy, were quietly talking, anticipating the fight. Everything was like in a book - this tournament was a real test for knights, and Jerome felt that he had to defeat not only his opponent, but himself.
Before him stood his opponent, also a boy, with dark eyes hidden under a helmet, a powerful figure in armor. He was exactly how Jerome imagined the ideal opponent. This knight was strong and confident, with a cold gaze, but Jerome knew that he should not be afraid. He knew that a real knight does not get lost, does not let himself be led astray.
"Everything is according to the rules," Jerome repeated to himself mentally, checking how firmly he held the spear.
He watched his opponent's every move carefully. He was an experienced fighter, his movements precise, confident. He took aim, calculating the moment. But Jerome was ready. He remembered how in Ivanhoe the knights always waited for the perfect moment to attack.
"Let him move first," Jerome thought, bracing himself.
And so, as soon as the opponent raised his spear, Jerome led his horse, directing it towards the enemy. He again mentally recalled the pages of the book, which described the moment of the fight:
"And when the opponent raises his spear, the knight must parry the blow and immediately deliver his own."
The opponent suddenly lunged forward, and Jerome's spear met his. The sound of the impact was deafening, but Jerome was not distracted. He felt his body tense from the force of the blow, but despite this, he kept his balance.
In his imagination, everything happened as in reality. He knew that he had to act like a true knight - with honor, with dignity, but also with determination. He, like in the book, knocked his opponent down, forcing him to give in.
"This is my moment," Jerome thought, his spear now pointed towards his opponent.
He felt victory in the air, as if it had come to him itself, ready to be his.
Suddenly his gaze fell on Delia, sitting on the throne. She was wearing the same golden dress as before, with the crown on her head, but now her gaze was more serious, more focused, as if she was not just watching the fight, but was a part of it, an inspiration to it.
"You can do it!" her eyes seemed to say.
Jerome realized that he had no right to lose now. He shrank in the saddle and, overcoming his fear, moved forward again, fighting according to all the rules. At the most crucial moment, when Jerome was ready to deliver the decisive blow, his opponent - the boy knight with whom he fought in the tournament - suddenly sharply raised the visor of his helmet. Jerome froze, unable to believe his eyes.
Under the helmet was a boy he knew. It was Damien Thorn, the same boy his father, Morris, had once told him about. Jerome remembered how his father, sitting at dinner, suddenly began talking about Thorn and his family, and how he anxiously told him about a tragic story that had happened many years ago. At that time, Morris had mentioned that this gentleman, despite his brilliant political potential, had been involved in a terrible deed as a child - he had driven his father, Robert Thorn, to death in a church, and it was this event that served as an impetus for his further career in politics.
Fragments of memories flashed through Jerome's mind. But in the moment of his surprise and confusion, Damien Thorn, as if reading his thoughts, laughed, breaking the silence of the arena with his cold laughter.
"Are you surprised?" he asked, his voice strangely familiar and ominous at the same time. "You think this is all an accident? I'm here to win. And you, boy, are just a step along the way.
Jerome couldn't look away. There was no human warmth in Damien's eyes. They were eyes filled with cold, ambition, and dark power. His face, which seemed so young and harmless, was like a mask at this moment, hiding his true character. Jerome felt his heart squeeze in his chest.
"This is not a dream," he thought. "This is all real."
Damien continued, his words sounding like a sentence.
"You can't defeat me, Jerome," he said, not hiding his contempt. "You don't have the strength I have. You're too naive."
Jerome raised his spear and took a step forward, determined not to give in, but he felt strangely confused. Bits of his father's conversations floated into his mind, when he spoke of Damien as a man with an inhuman shadow in his past.
"You are not a true knight, Damien!" Jerome cried, clutching his spear.
"Do you still believe in that?" Damien chuckled. "In chivalry, in honor, in the fight for good?" His voice was becoming more and more ironic. "I learned a long time ago that winning is not what really matters. It's power, it's control. All you need is grip."
The boy in armor moved forward slightly, his figure becoming threatening.
Jerome felt himself freeze in mid-air, realizing that this wasn't just an ordinary boy standing in his way, but someone who truly believed in himself and was willing to do anything to achieve his goals. There was no fear in his eyes, only purpose.
Suddenly, Delia's voice was heard from the arena. There was something strange in her eyes too, but instead of supporting him, she just looked at Jerome with a mysterious smile. He couldn't understand what exactly she meant.
"What does this mean?" he thought, looking down at Damien again. "Does she also know something I don't understand?"
And then, as if in answer to his doubts, Damien, as if anticipating his next thought, said:
"Do you think she will help you? Do you think you can defeat me if you are a good boy? You will not. You are only avoiding what it takes to become truly strong."
Jerome felt himself wavering. Everything he knew, everything he had been taught, did not apply to this moment. He did not know what would happen next. His inner world, which had seemed so solid, suddenly began to crumble. His faith in knightly ideals, in honesty and justice, seemed incompatible with the cruel reality of this tournament, this world.
But at the last moment, when he was about to lose his resolve, his gaze met Delia's again. This time, she was not just watching. There was something in her gaze that made Jerome feel that he was not alone after all. And suddenly, an unimaginable idea filled his mind. He did not want to be part of this brutal battle anymore, did not want to continue to follow the old rules that were being hammered into his head no matter what. In this moment, which seemed decisive, he did something completely insane.
He urged his horse so close to Damien's that there was almost no distance between them. At that moment, everything he knew and had been taught to be right suddenly became unimportant. Jerome leaned over his horse's rump and, without thinking about the consequences, embraced Damien.
Damien froze. Everything around him was silent for a moment. His eyes reflected bewilderment, he had not expected such a turn of events. This gesture was a complete violation of the rules, a complete rejection of the brutal logic of the tournament. Jerome did not think about what could happen, he simply felt that he had to do it, that only in this way could he destroy all the barriers that stood between him and what he truly felt.
But as soon as his arms closed around Damien, as soon as his soul tried to overcome this absurd conflict, everything disappeared. Suddenly, Jerome felt a strange heaviness envelop his body. A moment later, he was not at the tournament, but in his room. He was clutching the pillow tightly, his breathing was heavy, and his face reflected surprise.
The sunbeams filtered through the curtains and fell on his face, warming his skin. Jerome opened his eyes and saw the familiar ceiling. He was lying on his bed, his body in the same position in which he always fell asleep. The sword, spear and plate armor were gone, as was the tournament itself. It was all just a dream.
He stared at the ceiling, confused, trying to comprehend what had just happened. Damien's words were still ringing in his head, his mocking and cold voice, which now seemed distant, like an echo, muffled. He tried to remember what was real and what was not.
Clutching his pillow even tighter, Jerome slowly got out of bed and walked to the window. He opened the curtain and looked out at the world. The sunlight was bright and warm, and the street outside the window was quietly noisy. People walked by, and cars drove along familiar routes. Everything was as usual.
But in his soul there was still a trace of the dream, of this world in which he encountered Damien, fought for his honor and for ideals. Jerome felt that at some point he made a decision that changed his perception of everything that was around him.
He stepped away from the window and returned to his bed. Sitting on the edge, Jerome thought. What was that? Why did he suddenly have this strange thought that his life was just a dream? Was the whole world just an illusion?
"Maybe it's not that important," he thought, looking at his hands. "What matters is how I feel now, and what I decide to do next. After all, this is reality. My reality."
His thoughts were once again consumed by worries and questions, but now he knew one thing: he had to go through all of this, no matter what. And even if everything that was happening was just a dream, it didn't change the fact that he had to move forward.
He looked around his room, exhaled, and returned to the window again. The rays of the morning sun softly illuminated the houses and trees, and the air was filled with silence, broken only by the occasional footsteps of passersby and the sounds of cars driving along the road. He smiled involuntarily, because everything that seemed important and exciting to him seemed to be within arm's reach.
He remembered his plan - as soon as breakfast was over, he would leave the house, pretend to go to kindergarten, but in reality... he would slip away, directing his steps towards Delia's house. No matter how it sounded, but she was his main reference point. He dreamed of spending the day with her, although it was an easy decision for a boy who was not yet accustomed to such decisive steps.
However, after a few seconds, he realized that it was not as simple as he imagined. The plan was good, but now that he was running it through his head, doubts arose. Jerome remembered how often his mother asked him questions, even when he simply went out into the yard. She was always too attentive, and if she knew about his intentions, she would probably start to understand his actions.
"What if she immediately notices that I'm not going to kindergarten?" thought Jerome, stopping at the window.
Mom and Dad were always on guard, especially lately. Dad, of course, was always busy with his own affairs, but Mom... Mom could notice the slightest detail that would be out of the usual rhythm of their life.
"And what will happen if I do go out and get caught?" Jerome continued to think.
Suddenly, in his mind, he saw his mother looking at him with an expression on her face, as if he had done something unacceptable. He did not want to be caught. He felt that he was facing some important choice, and even though he did not yet know how it would end, he wanted to act wisely.
He moved away from the window and sat down on his bed, thinking about how he could adjust his plan to avoid any awkward questions. Jerome knew his parents were always on guard, and he couldn't count on his attempts to escape going unnoticed. But if he could do it without anyone noticing that he was up to something, his plan might work.
"We need to wait a little," he decided and quietly got out of bed and began to change his clothes.
Breakfast was already approaching, and his plan required careful preparation. First, he would have to calmly pass by his parents, without hinting at anything, and then, after eating, pretend that he was heading to kindergarten. But how to do this so as not to arouse suspicion?
While Jerome was collecting his thoughts, his mother knocked on the door of his room.
"Jerome, are you awake? Breakfast is ready!" she called through the door.
The boy quickly got out of bed, trying to hide his excitement. He opened the door and smiled.
"Yes, Mom, I'm already awake!" he said, trying to keep the doubt out of his voice.
"Great, go to the table, I've already set everything."
Jerome reluctantly left his room, but inside he was still going over his plan. Breakfast would be crucial. He knew he had to somehow avoid all the questions and not draw too much attention to himself. The less his mother suspected, the easier his escape would be.
In the kitchen, his mother stood at the table, setting the plates. Jerome sat down and began to eat, mentally going over the possible scenarios. Time was passing, and he realized that he could no longer put off his plan for later.
"Maybe it's worth waiting after all?" the thought suddenly occurred to me.
But it was too late. Breakfast was almost over, and Jerome decided that his time had come. It was time to go to Delia, despite all his doubts.
"Mom, I need to go to kindergarten, I'll eat and then go," said Jerome, getting up from the table.
Mom looked at him as if noticing something unusual, but said nothing. She just nodded.
"Okay, just don't be late."
Jerome smiled and walked out of the house, slowly closing the door behind him so as not to make any unnecessary noise. The street was deserted, only the occasional passerby hurrying about their business. The boy walked along the sidewalk, trying not to attract attention to himself. His footsteps sounded too loud in the quiet of the morning city, and he felt his heart beating faster than usual. He was worried that he might be stopped, asked where he was going, or, worst of all, noticed for his strange behavior.
"Why can't I just go out like everyone else? Why is it so hard for me to walk down the street?" Jerome thought.
He cleared his throat and tried to relax, but his fingers still clenched tightly around his pocket. He didn't know what to do. He was on the edge between going home or continuing forward, toward Delia's house.
And so, step by step, he moved on. The question of what he would do when he finally got to her house kept spinning in his head. How would he behave? He didn't even know what he wanted from this day. The only thing he knew for sure was that he wanted to be near her, near Delia.
He remembered the moment when she stole his watch. It was so unexpected. He was so confused when she came and just took it, as if there was no obstacle. He couldn't say anything to her, but only watched her walk away with his thing, completely confident in her victory.
But here's the strange thing: he didn't even know that this theft would light a fire of love in his heart. He didn't know that this little prank seemed to have set off a whole storm of emotions inside. All these thoughts were now spinning in his head as he walked down the street, and he suddenly realized that he was not ready to feel so strongly.
"Why couldn't I just tell her to give me back my watch?" he thought.
But it didn't matter anymore. The moment she took them off his wrist, he didn't feel anger, but on the contrary, something strange woke up in him. It was something he couldn't explain in words.
He looked back again, as if hoping to see her just around the corner. But the street was empty. And yet Jerome kept walking, despite his doubts. Suddenly it seemed to him that his steps had become much lighter. His foot touched the curb, and he felt as if all obstacles had disappeared.
"But why should I look for her at all? Why is it so important to me?" Jerome asked himself again.
He came to a familiar alley and stopped. Delia's house was a few steps ahead. Jerome took a deep breath and felt his heart suddenly pound in his chest. He looked at his hands as he walked toward the door and felt his inner world waver like the wind before a storm.
He could have gone home, forgotten about this day, forgotten about what had happened, but something inside him said:
"Delia is waiting."
He walked up to the door and, despite all his doubts, knocked, nervously fiddling with the edges of his sleeves. A minute later, he heard a rustling sound behind the door. A clear female voice echoed in the air, and then the sound of the door opening. He was not prepared for what he saw.