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shoulders. Sabina tried to break free, but her husband held her firmly. She was writhing and panting for breath. Hanka had crawled under the table. All Sabina wanted was to drag her out. To pull her dusty feet. To kick her head. But the girl managed to run away and Janusz wouldn’t let Sabina go after her. “Calm down, calm down!” he repeated. Sabina’s anger was slowly dying down.
    “Fuck off!” she yelled in the end, straight in Janusz’s face, spitting saliva that stank of tobacco. Her husband finally let her go. Sabina snapped out of her fury and fixed her hair. She went to the window and opened it with a thud.
    “Get the hell out with your shitty carrion!” she hissed, picking up the fish from the floor and throwing it outside. The pike fell straight down—cylindrical, aerodynamic. It slapped against the pavement. The neighbours, standing in the middle of the backyard, looked up, horrified.
    “Bon appétit, cunts!” Sabina called to them, then disappeared into the living room.
    She heard Janusz whispering in the kitchen.
    “Don’t cry. I’ll give you some ice, don’t cry.” Sabina sat on couch and covered her head with a blanket.
    That evening, Janusz didn’t come to their bedroom. Instead, he went to sleep with Hanka. As usual. Sabina was alone in the darkness. Shadows created by the lacy curtains flickered on the ceiling. Her head was full of noise caused by vodka and anger and it formed a ball of tears in her throat. “I want it, I want it,” Sabina repeated—senselessly, because she had actually no clue what she might want at all.



6
    Hanka—A Ball Of Tears
    Hanka wasn’t sleeping either. Not because her head ached after she was hit—no. A slap like that was nothing. It could get much worse with Sabina, so much worse. This? Just a tickle, a scrape. No blood. There wasn’t even a bruise.
    Hanka was listening, waiting for Sabina to be quiet, but her mother hadn’t stopped crying and coughing. Over and over again she would get up and trail into the living room. Bottles rattled, and alcohol spattered as it was poured into a glass. It was a nice word, anyway: alcohol. Better than “vodka”—so common.
    Since Sabina had been drinking, the morning would be peaceful. Hanka knew this cycle very well. First—the quarrel. Then—the drinking. The following day, Sabina usually wouldn’t get up before three in the afternoon. She’d have to recover from her hangover. Hanka was supposed to be quiet, silent. She mustn’t open the curtains and she had to make some tea from time to time. It was best for her to go outside around noon and play with her friends. Sometimes she’d even be invited to have a dinner at the neighbours’. It was so simple. She was often glad when her mother didn’t get up—it was much better this way.
    Eventually, around three in the morning, Sabina calmed down. In the morning she’d be sleeping like a log, that was obvious. Hanka’s father was sleeping on the floor, right by her side. He was snoring. She covered her ears with her hands and finally fell asleep.
    Unfortunately, Sabina did get up in the morning—agile and fast, though tired out by the hangover, and still intoxicated. Later Hanka kicked herself for her lack of vigilance. She shouldn’t have been lingering, should have left for school right away, without eating breakfast or washing. Her teetering mother caught her in the bathroom.
    “That’s not how you comb your hair, you little shit!” she screamed, whipping the brush out of her daughter’s hands to show her how to do it properly—but instead hit Hanka in the head with it over and over again, the plastic bristles pricking her badly. Hanka covered her head as best she could. She was proud of herself when she finally managed to crawl between her mother’s legs and run away to school.
    Yet, sometimes she failed to escape and Sabina would have to dismiss her from class. It would bring too much shame on them if she went to school with a black eye or a