The Fateful Night Near Besançon

The road had become my life.

For years, I had traveled across Europe, crossing borders, learning the streets of major cities as well as forgotten villages. My van had become my second home.

Long ago, I had lost my fear of driving through foreign countries. Every nation had its own rules, but one rule remained the same everywhere:

When you're abroad, you're on your own.

Still, when something goes wrong, you usually have someone to call. Somewhere to sit down. A moment to think things through.

Sometimes the vehicle breaks down.

Sometimes there's a problem during loading or unloading.

But there's almost always time to pause, call someone you trust, ask for advice, and look for a solution.

This time, it wasn't a broken engine.

It wasn't bureaucracy.

There was no time to think.

This time, it was about survival.

And the only thing that mattered...

...was seconds.

It had all begun earlier that weekend, at a family cottage.

After a wonderful few days together, I was supposed to leave for work the following morning.

But something inside me resisted.

I felt a reluctance unlike anything I had ever experienced.

It wasn't laziness.

It wasn't ordinary fatigue.

It was anxiety—an anxiety I couldn't explain.

It was as if something deep inside my mind kept screaming:

Don't go. Not now.

In the end, I went anyway.

The moment I got behind the wheel, the feeling disappeared.

Maybe it had only been paranoia.

Maybe I had simply been overthinking things.

After a long day on the road, exhausted and hungry, I stopped near the French city of Besançon.

It was late at night.

Silent.

Dark.

Not a soul in sight.

For a moment, I finally relaxed.

At least a minute of peace.

I made myself something to eat and let my mind drift toward ordinary thoughts.

Then I noticed someone.

A figure appeared in my rear-view mirror.

He was walking from the direction of the town, straight toward me.

I wasn't alarmed.

Things like that happen.

It could have been anyone—a homeless man, a hitchhiker, someone drunk on his way home.

But as he came closer...

...he disappeared behind my van.

I expected him to appear on the other side.

Nothing.

I checked my mirrors again.

Still nothing.

Something about it didn't feel right.

Unfortunately, my curiosity was stronger than my common sense.

I got out.

I took a few steps and leaned around the back of the van.

That's when the first punch landed.

Hard.

Violent.

Without warning.

My head snapped to the side.

My glasses flew off.

Suddenly I couldn't see anything except flashes of light, as if someone had switched reality off and left only chaos behind.

I tried to recover.

Another blow crashed straight into my ribs.

In that instant...

...time slowed down.

The air exploded from my lungs.

My body folded over.

My knees nearly gave way.

If I fall... I'm dead.

In front of me I could barely make out a blurred silhouette.

Big.

Strong.

A man who knew exactly what he was doing.

And me?

Exhausted.

Hungry.

Weak.

I tried to fight back.

But my punches were slow, as though my own body refused to cooperate.

Every movement I made was weak.

His strikes came with the confidence of a predator that had already sensed its prey.

The final blow threw me backward against the side of the van.

My mind was racing.

I have to get to the passenger side.

That's where I kept a screwdriver.

My uncle from Svinná had given it to me when I first started driving across Europe.

Back then, I laughed.

"I couldn't even fix a bicycle with this."

He simply smiled and replied,

"It's not for fixing things."

From that day on, I carried it from one vehicle to the next.

It waited there...

...for the right moment.

It waited almost seven years.

And in a single second...

I finally understood what he had meant.

I have to reach it.

Using the last of my strength, I stumbled toward the door.

But my attacker was faster.

He grabbed me from behind.

Locked me in a chokehold.

And began squeezing the life out of me.

At that moment, only one thought crossed my mind.

This is the end.

My mind showed me everything I had ever lived through.

My mother's face.

Her smile.

Her hands wrapping around me whenever I needed comfort.

My father, squeezing my shoulder the first time I left for a job abroad.

My sister.

Her laughter.

Her advice.

My nephews.

The admiration in their eyes whenever they saw me coming home after weeks on the road.

My entire life flashed before my eyes.

That cliché people talk about...

It turns out it's probably true.

And in that single second, I realized only one thing.

I don't want to die.

Not like this.

Not here.

Not in the darkness.

Not in a foreign country.

Not at the hands of someone who didn't even know my name.

My fingers found the screwdriver.

Without thinking...

...I thrust it backward.

I felt the metal drive through flesh.

Deep.

So deep that warm blood ran over my hand.

He released me instantly and collapsed backward onto the ground.

Gasping for air, I looked into his eyes.

There was anger.

Pain.

Shock.

As though he couldn't believe I had fought back.

As though he had expected me to be just another easy target.

In my own eyes...

...there was only one thing.

Determination.

I sat with my back against the van door, still gripping the screwdriver in one hand while the other steadied me against the cold ground.

I struggled to breathe.

Every breath felt like a blade cutting through my chest.

My entire body trembled.

Every muscle protested after a fight I had never been meant to win.

Yet somehow...

...I had survived.

He remained sitting there, staring at me.

And I stared back.

Two bodies.

Two souls.

For one brief moment...

...we understood each other.

He saw someone willing to go beyond every limit to stay alive.

And I saw disappointment in his eyes.

Disappointment that he had misjudged me.

That I wasn't just another easy victim.

Silently, I begged him not to move.

Not to continue.

Finally, he slowly got to his feet.

Step by step...

...he backed away into the darkness.

He didn't say a word.

Neither did I.

There was no room for words.

Only understanding.

Then...

...he disappeared.

Seconds that felt like hours.

My heart pounded so violently I thought it would burst from my chest.

Adrenaline roared through my veins.

My body was still preparing for a fight that was already over.

What now?

Should I call the police?

Should I leave?

In that moment, I felt nothing except the instinct to survive.

I couldn't think rationally.

And there, alone in the darkness, another memory struck me even harder than the fight itself.

There had once been a time...

...when I wanted to end my own life.

When life had seemed worthless.

When I had reached the bottom.

When everything around me had been collapsing.

When it had seemed pointless to keep going.

There had been long months...

Perhaps years...

During which I fought those thoughts inside myself.

Thoughts that kept me trapped in darkness.

Thoughts that convinced me everything I did was meaningless.

That I...

...was meaningless.

And now?

Now someone else wanted to take my life.

And I fought with every ounce of strength I had just to keep it.

The irony struck me like another blow to the chest.

Once, I believed my life had no value.

Now...

Now that I had looked death directly in the eyes...

Now that I had felt its cold fingers around my throat...

I did everything I could to push it away.

The very life I had once been willing to surrender...

...had suddenly become the most precious thing I possessed.

Life.

Not because it was perfect.

Not because I felt happy or fulfilled.

But because it was mine.

Because it held the people I loved.

My father.

My mother.

My sister.

My brother-in-law.

My nephews.

Because it held those small, ordinary moments I had never truly appreciated.

Laughing over a beer.

Playing cards.

Conversations about nothing at all.

Because it held family.

Friends.

Home.

And in that moment I understood something I will never forget.

Life is never about how easily we give up.

It is about how fiercely we are willing to fight.

Only later, sitting there alone in the darkness of a foreign country, my body battered and my mind shaken, did I come to understand something else.

Throughout our lives, we keep learning.

We keep changing.

We keep rethinking everything.

I was no exception.

I had my own opinions.

My own convictions.

My own judgments.

I carried prejudices that once seemed impossible to challenge.

There was a time when I held harsh views about people, nations, cultures—even entire systems.

There was a period in my life when I gave in to hatred.

When I believed I knew who was "good"...

...and who was "evil."

When I believed the world was black and white.

Then life placed this moment in my path.

Something that showed me nothing is ever as simple as it seems.

I came face to face with death.

My attacker was a stranger.

A man I had never seen before.

In that moment, I felt no anger toward his nationality.

No anger toward his race.

No anger toward his culture.

I was angry only because he believed he had the right to take my life.

It took only a single second for me to realize that not everything I had once believed was true.

The world isn't about races.

Or countries.

Or nations.

It's about people.

And within every nation there are those who take...

...and those who give.

Those who destroy...

...and those who build.

This experience became another chapter in the book of my life.

The book called REMÍZA.

Because that is exactly what life is—A constant battle between defeat and victory.

Between the things that shape us...

...and the things that try to destroy us.

And even when we believe we have everything under control...

...life always finds a way to test us.

You never know when that moment will come.

The moment when everything is decided.

When there is no time to sit down and think.

No chance to call someone for advice.

When everything is reduced to a single instinct.

A single second.

A single decision.

And that...

...is when you discover who you truly are.

When someone else tried to take my life...

I fought.

And that was enough for me to understand...

...that life had always been worth fighting for.

— JK —