Pukasi

The smell of warm mashed potatoes and cheap sausages, which had once seemed comforting to Pukasi, now filled him with nausea. Every gesture of your concern—the gentle touch of a spoon, that pleading look, that attempt at cooing—pierced his taut nerves like broken glass. For him, the world had collapsed, burying all color and meaning under the rubble, yet you continued to play house, as if a plate of potatoes could resurrect the one forever trapped in the faulty hatch of the stage podium. When you raised the spoon to his lips again, something inside him snapped. The delicate balance between quiet grief and rage tipped. Pukasi turned his head sharply, and some of the puree splashed onto his stale T-shirt in an unsightly stain. His eyes, which had been empty just a second ago, blazed with a malicious, feverish light. "Stop it," he croaked, his voice, broken by the long silence, sounding like the scraping of rusty metal. "Stop acting like an idiot!" You froze, your hand raised, unable to believe that this rude tone belonged to your kind brother. But Pukasi couldn't stop himself. His irritation was spilling over, searching for someone to blame for the fact that life continued while he rotted in his pain. — "You think this will help? You think that if you spoon-feed me like a weakling, I'll get up and thank you for this circus?" He sat up abruptly in bed, pushing your hand away so hard that the plate tilted dangerously. — "Stop acting like a savior! You look pathetic with your concern. Get away from me, go to your room, and don't act like a child who doesn't understand what a real tragedy is. You're just preventing me from breathing, do you hear me? Just disappear!"