I am defeated

The last days of filming linger in my memory as a sort of surreal blur, as if I had dreamed them rather than lived them. Yet, within this surrealism, a few episodes stand out with stark realism. On one of those days, when a "fixation" was scheduled and everyone was gathered—even Deniska had arrived—my task was to escort and transport Old Dau from the makeup department to our house (D2). It was still morning. I hadn't been filmed for a long time; no one discussed anything with me. I was simply being used as a prop, and it was painful. My only duty was to lead Dau back and forth every day, yet even he was rarely filmed, making the whole frantic bustle seem utterly pointless. Yulia from Department Z (Sound) would often break the silence of D2: "Knock-knock-knock! Anechka!" and she’d connect a microphone to the wires sewn into my dress. I thought it was just a precaution—in case a "fixation" happened to come our way—so the audio would be captured. If the batteries died, Yulia would return to change them, repeatedly reaching under the hem of my dress. But the microphone remained useless, or so it seemed, running for hours and hours while they filmed at the scientists' quarters in D1 or in the buffet, but not me.
On that realistically remembered day, I followed the usual routine: I ordered a car to meet us at "the Office" and drive us to D2. I walked with the old man, who could barely move with his cane. A car approached—surely ours, since the film is called "DAU," which means I’m leading the protagonist! Everyone should be focused on this! But the car drove right past us. A second car drove past, while Dau and I stood there like idiots. Now, analyzing it all, I am certain it was a setup—designed to provoke intense emotions from me for the sake of a shot. Or perhaps it was just an "artistic statement" in Ilya’s style: the moment when the protagonist, around whom everything supposedly revolves, becomes a nobody. And the "small fry" who imagined herself the artist’s star and muse is left sucking air on the sidelines.
At that moment, I spiraled into a genuine, full-blown hysterical fit. As the next car approached, I blocked its path, screaming at the top of my lungs: "What the hell is this? I get it, you don't give a fuck about me, but why are you torturing the old man? Why are you tormenting an old, frail human being?" I practically threw myself onto the hood of the car. The driver, of course, stopped immediately, let Dau and me in, and tried to soothe me: "Miss, you are so beautiful, please don't cry, or I'll start crying myself." It turned out this driver wasn't supposed to take us either; the one who was meant to had vanished somewhere.
After that, I cooled down, especially since my beloved Denis had arrived. He filled the deserted D2 with laughter, xylophone music, and endless card games, pulling me away from the exhausting work and making me forget everything. Moreover, there was a "fixation" scheduled for us that evening at last! I had vented all my negativity during the breakdown in the courtyard and was now in anticipation, though I had no idea what to expect. In the end, nothing much happened. Or did it? After all, it still lives within me as a lingering pain—the ache of an unfinished gestalt.
That evening, the "black angels" arrived. Nora and Denis stood in the large archway between the kitchen and the living room, having a confrontation. At one point, she said to me very rudely as I passed by: "Anya, has he ever given you flowers? Has he ever taken you to the movies? He’s just fucking you!" And a bit later, to Denis: "Go fuck Anechka."
How many conversations had I had with my mother about how my latest man didn't value me, that I was "just a bed-woman" to him? How many relationships had I ended, how many of my own desires had I stifled, just to avoid being "just a bed-woman" in the end...
Denis tried to defend me ("Mother, a housekeeper is a human being too!"), but then he was just in shock. At some point, they got into a physical fight. Denis snatched Nora’s glasses, kicked them with hatred, and cursed at her: "You little bitch!" It sounded so strange coming from him. I don’t remember why, but I jumped in, trying to break them apart—probably just out of a perceived need to do something on stage. And I got a slap in the face from Nora. All of this was being filmed. I felt shy about showing my true feelings to the camera (though I desperately wanted to) and retreated behind the wooden columns to hide and cry. But the "fixation" wouldn't let me go; it kept me in the frame. This distracted me from my own feelings, from my very self, but I kept crying—though by then, the tears were no longer real as I saw the sheer absurdity of the situation. Denis and Nora went somewhere, and the black angels followed me for a while. Then Vera called and said: "Anya, throw a tantrum, just like the one you had this morning when you were waiting for the car with Dau. Really work yourself up!"
To think—I had imagined that only the driver and partially Dau had witnessed my breakdown, but it turned out the directorial department knew everything. How naive; everything and everywhere was being watched.
"I’ll try," I said. But the spark was gone. With a wooden expression, I washed my face. They followed me, and I felt more foolish than offended by the whole thing. Or rather, I just felt stupid. I understood they were expecting some powerful reaction from me, but I could no longer force it out.
Today, as I replay this memory in my head, I feel a deep ache because I mistook that real humiliation for something "make-believe" and failed to push back properly. At the very least, I should have walked away with my head held high, silently packing my suitcase. Now I think: I should have just gone to the kitchen, grabbed a mountain of plates, and hurled them across the living room—smashed them all over the apartment to tear that pain and humiliation of those 120 days of DAU out by the root. I should have broken everything in sight—everything that Tesak and his crew eventually destroyed anyway when they demolished the Institute. I should have smashed that Chinese bobblehead that kept nodding at God-knows-what with its mocking smile. Smashed those fucking porcelain chickens and roosters that sat there for no reason, gathering dust, which I had to wipe off constantly. I should have destroyed everything that caused me pain, bitterness, and rage. Perhaps back then I hadn't reflected on these feelings; I only realized later that I had driven them deep inside just to meet someone’s expectations (expectations that didn't actually exist—I had invented them myself).
A brief digression: I faced a similar situation in real life in 2017, when a relationship with a man went off the rails. Or rather, it wasn't even a relationship, just a whirlwind romance. A very beautiful, inspiring romance that transformed into an addiction akin to a powerful drug. It happened because I started listening to advice from people who pose as "gurus" of male-female relationships. For me, a kiss with that man was enough. Just one kiss. The fact that it happened made me the happiest person alive, for I had dreamed of it for years. I was ready to let that romance go after we spent a few magnificent days together in another country.
My heart whispered to let go and move on with my life, head held high, grateful for such a magical experience. But "kind" friends and mentors convinced me that I must fight for my love. Well, I fought. My struggle ended in a wild nervous breakdown. In a rented apartment in the city where that man lived—a place with a long, spacious room and a gargantuan mountain of old plates (from primitive Soviet ones to stained, chipped modern ones) which the landlord said I could throw away. My body was so overfilled with rage, bitterness, and despair that I took those plates and, one by one, hurled them from one end of the room to the other. I smashed the entire mountain of dishes. Afterward, I slowly and meticulously cleared away the shards. And I began to feel a release.
It was a completely different story with DAU. After the "black angels" left—having failed to get their tantrum or the words Vera wanted me to say over the phone ("I can't do it without it looking forced")—Nora, Denis, and I sat at the living room table and laughed our heads off.
Then, Denis and I walked hand-in-hand to the Office. I shared my feelings with him, and all the while, we were being "fixed" again. I said: "Eh, I didn't start a riot. I should have rebelled, I should have stood up to Nora. But my spirit has been finally broken by her, and I have no strength left for a riot. I am only capable of obeying Nora from now on. I am defeated. And it makes me very sad."