Belgrade Noir

Neda put her hand over her mouth to stop herself from gasping. Ever since Milena had become a teenager, Neda had made sure to never enter her room without knocking. But for some time now, the girl had been refusing every attempt at communication and Neda was worried that her daughter was turning into one of those problematic adolescents who easily lose their way. What she wanted most was to build a different world for her child. Yes, she was aware that instead of Neda’s need to “understand Buddha,” Milena had taken after her father and his materialistic spirit. But she was still a child. There was still time for Neda to change her spiritual viewpoint, and give her a chance to look at life from a different angle.

“Stop staring,” said the girl. “I know what you’re thinking, but I don’t care. Besides, you didn’t pay for it.”

For the first time in her life, Neda wanted to hit her child. To let the Evil in, and beat her senseless. Instead, she burst into tears.

“What do you want, Milena? What is it that you want?” she asked when she was finally able to stop sobbing.

As Milena tilted her head and carefully dissected her mother with those dark eyes, Neda realized the strength of Marković’s genes.

“What do I want? Everything I don’t have, Mother. Everything. I. Don’t. Have. Isn’t it logical? Don’t all people want that? Not you, of course. Oh, no. You have to be special, even if you are starving. Go read your books and give me a break!”

October 30, 2018

Neda had never watched reality TV. Her brain simply couldn’t understand the purpose. She asked people who couldn’t miss an episode what attracted them to these shows. She didn’t ask what was on the tip of her tongue: how could they watch uninteresting people talk about uninteresting things, peppering it with all sorts of equally boring exhibitionism? She had never gotten a satisfying answer. Either those she asked didn’t have the inclination or capability to dive into their inner self, or maybe they intuitively knew they wouldn’t like what they’d find there.

So she ignored the whole phenomenon, that plastic, toxic package of basic instincts and vulgarities that made headlines in the media.

So the information that her daughter, who was legally a minor, had become the youngest participant of Vimark TV’s Commune — the newest and, according to newspapers, most expensive reality show in a sea of humiliating circuses aimed to make people forget about more important things — was something she couldn’t believe at first. And once she was forced to believe it, she couldn’t really feel it. It was just like all those tsunamis and massacres in distant parts of the world that make you sad but are too far away to break your heart the way one crippled beggar child in the street you see with your own eyes can.

Milena used the name “Millie Wow” on the show. She was reportedly seen fucking one of the male participants in front of the cameras.

So for the first time, Neda sat down to watch Commune. She poured vodka into a highball glass and watched Milena showing off her thong while kissing some simpleton with a strange haircut who used vulgar language. Neda couldn’t help remembering her daughter’s faded underpants from the annual physical at school. Was that the event that led her to where she was now?

As she refilled the glass, Neda wondered how Millie Wow would feel if she knew that her bare butt funded the jet-set lifestyle of the TV station owner’s recognized children. While sadness replaced every other feeling in her, a single spark of rage began to burn within her broken heart.

Maybe it was finally time to reset things. Maybe it was finally time for a bang in her life, something that would completely rearrange it, even if, along the way, it first broke it into a thousand pieces.

November 15, 2018

After some time, Neda’s plan was in place, complete with logistical support: Goran could certainly get her a weapon. Swearing like a sailor whenever he heard Marković’s name, he clearly felt quite good about it.

As Marković was a man who loved control, Neda knew that he would be there early, just in time for Vimark TV’s morning show. So it was still dark outside when she resolutely entered the main building of the television studio just after him, passed by his still-smiling secretary, and opened the padded doors of his office.

The room was full of tasteful pieces of art and books — a declaration that the father of carnal entertainment was a spiritual person who was above the audience paying for all of it.

Looking at her with his impenetrable eyes, he slowly put his cell phone down on his antique writing desk.