Summary: A typical evening - going somewhere and meeting friends in unexpected places.

You are a ticking mental bomb.
Hellish smile and empty dead eyes.
Feastem – Terror Balance

 

I’ve been here before. This little place was all I’ve got in when I was a freshman. The bartender knows me in my face, the people around me always flip a coin on whether I will come or not. Hell, I’ve even received a good discount on all the drinks they had on the menu. I was drinking only the cheapest shit out there, but a cent is a cent. Also it just shows how much they care about those who literally drink themselves to utter death.

But now it is long gone. Burnt, as I know. And that’s why I now stay in my apartment on long days like this one.

On me is a heavy mil-style coat with many pockets to fit many little things. Under the coat is a simple plain shirt, colored like a TV static. My jeans, my only jeans, – they serve me for so long. I don’t even remember the day I got them.

The worn walls clasp around me, forming a simple cage. Pale light barely reaches over my bed through the dusty windows. Opened, so that I could hear at least something – only for that “something” to be the slow pace of wind. The dust is flying in its own chaotic dance, without any witnesses, without any music – just dancing to the reality they are in. 

Hell, am I trying to say that dust knows what reality it’s in? This is just ridiculous. Besides, I’m not made for this kind of shit. I should leave that to poets and philosophers.

Three years wasted in the military, like following my father’s covenant. Barely keeping a good thought. Reading is barely a thing for me – can’t properly understand shit, only read once a week. Army is a machine of turning men into dust or crippled for life. No middle ground, no “ifs” and other bullshit. Either a bad memory or a fucked person. I chose the second.

I don’t even know why I’ve decided to do this. By “this” I mean “getting to college, trying to be better”. What will I achieve after graduation? A shake, a paper and an ability to get a job that is only slightly better than dying off as a cashier inside some blank diner – and that is a better fate in my opinion!

I don’t think that a man can be fixed after the army. Because, as I’ve said, you’re either dust or crippled for life. Sometimes – physically, always – mentally. You just can’t revert memories of learning how to shoot a gun. And definitely can’t bring back those men you’ve killed. Getting into college was… well, it definitely wasn’t a decision I really pondered upon, so I’ll say that was just a “spur of the moment” type decision.

And now I’m here. Second year. Status: alone in a cheap apartment, no ideas about what to do with myself after graduation (and if I will live to that day), hope – eradicated. I feel like the world just didn’t save even the slightest bit for me.

And yet I still find strength to not put a gun inside my mouth and pull the trigger. Somehow. Whatever force drives me forward, I’ll just let it do whatever it wants to me. I’m not even caring anymore.

 

***

 

It takes me four hours of pointless living to remember the assignment that I need to make until tomorrow. I curse myself, sitting in the kitchen and drinking some cold leftover tea in a dirty mug. Somehow it makes the tea taste better. Bitter, knitting in the mouth, it’s the only thing I could drink besides water and, as a rare commemoration prize, cheap revolting sodas. At least it’s better than eating something in a dry stomach.

I finish the tea, settle the mug in an empty metallic sink, get my boots on and leave. The streets are gritty, pale. No natural light, only grayness. Everything in these streets is as straight as a horizon. The buildings are like small prisons, and the flats are like the cells. And, to be fair, mine looks just like one.

I made my way to the nearest computer café there was. That place was nasty, but it’s my only way to access the computer. The streets were nastier, making that squalor of a computer café actually look okay. The only place that can be nastier than the café was my little apartment. Despite daily cleaning it, the feel of trash wandering around like tumbleweed is present.

The building for that little computer café was hidden in plain sight, but my gaze spotted it with an ease. A small box segment in a larger concrete prison, standing amongst dead autumn spikes of trees on disgusting moist and eloquent yellow leaves. Yes, just yet another addition to the overall depressing, pressurizing motifs in a bland, amber gray silence of urbanistic landscape.

I was surprised at how poetic that sentence looked. I guess that little I read was enough for me to develop at least something in the “creative department”. Whatever, I don’t want to freeze here, standing just ten steps away from my destination.

I enter the café, and the first thing I see is nothing more than sweet, sweet desolation and abandonment. The lights aren’t even on in this place. Several shitty PCs are already taken by students, browsing away in absolute disdain. The speed of the internet in this place is just a little step further from “fucking nonexistent”. And prices of those disgusting drinks they serve is so high I’d rather buy myself a pack of рарiеrоs*.

I walk over to the counter, pay my bill and get my time at the PC. I sit down, insert the flash drive I have, open my document and begin typing away.

I don’t even think when I type. I just type, to pass time, sometimes taking a break to research something. I am determined to get this little presentation done, so I could walk out in peace. Besides, this is the only time I can actually do this – the evening of Wednesday, when that little bit of will I have finally woke up.

I finish my document around thirty minutes later. Still some time left, I decide to spend it online, browsing some things while I don’t forget them. To be fair, this café is not so different from the other one on the other end of the street – but this café has torrent clients, and that evens out with the desolation. I connect my phone to the PC and transfer some things.

— Boo you, – I hear coming in from my left side.

The voice is familiar. Not accusatory, but friendly. I turn to my left and spot a familiar face – Nasera stands near, smiling at me, transferring illegally owned music.

— Why are you here? – I asked her. – I thought you had a PC of your own.

— I do, – she replies, – it’s just broken as of now.

— How did that happen? – I was curious to know why, and something told me she spilled something.

— I spilled some tea over it. – Bingo. – My dad didn’t say much, just that I need to be a bit more cautious. He turned it in for repair, it’ll be done in a week.

— Okay… But why are you here? – I asked. – I thought your place had at least one good computer café.

— We’re just visiting my dad’s friend.

— Here? In this hellhole?

— Yeah… – She wasn’t too excited to say that. I wonder why.

Her figure was an exquisite one. Wine colored pants and a buttoned shirt with a bottom of it tucked inside. A beautiful haircut and a piercing gaze. Visible chest and voluminous thighs and back. She was a model – a model, standing around a junkie’s paradise.

Behind her was a pair of dark brown feather wings. Sometimes, looking at them, I just want to hug them tightly, or at least brush my hand in their feathers.

— What were you doing? – she asked.

— A presentation, – I answer.

— For English? – she specified.

I nod and turn away. The transfer was done a long time ago. I take my flash drive and my phone with the cable that I connected it with to the PC (because, one, I don’t trust the cables they give, and, two, I bought that cable myself, on my little cash I get). I clear out the folder, the browsing history, then turn off the PC and stand up from the table. I sense the administrator giving me a tired lifeless look as I leave the café and those students having trouble doing basic tasks.

We walk outside, right into the arms of the sudden rain. Nasera looks into the sky with a visible grudge, cursing Zeus or whoever is taking care about the weather. I look into the sky too, only noticing a typical darkened patina.

Nasera clasps onto herself with her claws. It isn’t nice noticing her freezing. I take out my hand from the right sleeve of my coat and tap onto Nasera’s shoulder, to get her attention. She turns to me, notices free space under my coat, and, with a grateful smile, gets under my coat. Automatically, she gets one her hand around my back.

We walk off into those desolate streets yet again. For some time we’re silent. She looks around, as if trying to find something, my gaze is locked onward. I just want to get home, but Nasera makes this difficult. I don’t want to leave her to soak up all this rain on her own. And leaving her just to freeze is also inhuman. Raptor Jesus, why do I think about this?

— Oh, I remember that building! – Nasera said suddenly.

I looked at her. She was pointing at the apartment complex across the road. It looked like it was thoroughly tortured by time, its worn bricks, absent windows and overall gritty palette and atmosphere told me so.

I looked back at Nasera with a question.

— I was a common visitor. – she said. – There was one older student I knew who held frequent parties. They were... to say the least, old. Just some intelligent students arriving at his flat, talking, eating, drinking... dancing even. – She smiled as she remembered something; maybe how she was a queen of the living room floor. – It was a good time, too bad it passed. What was his apartment's number? Something, something… “26”…?

— “28”. – I replied.

— Oh, “28”! Right… Wait a second, – she looked at me, surprised, – how do you know?

— You dragged me there once… – I said.

— Oh! I remember now, – she smiled. – God, my memory.

We continued walking, and soon the building disappeared out of our gazes. But Nasera didn't stop talking about it, and the parties she attended.

— …We sometimes had police coming in! – She talked and talked. – Under the flat were neighbors, who didn't like us being noisy.

— I remember. That one time you dragged me there, the police arrived. – I said.

— Really? I forgot that…

— On the following day I received a note from the police, telling me to come to the station.

Nasera stopped, and so did I. She looked at me, in shock.

— Really?! – she said, loudly.

— Yes. I came inside, they got me to their commissar, that really big gritty ptero. He said to me something like: “For a year now, we were trying to find one bastard, who was raping innocent women on Saturday nights. We gave your photo to one of the victims, and she recognized you.”

Telling her that, I looked at her face. Her eyes wide open, barely believing what she hears. I liked this surprised look, it always contradicts with her seriousness.

— I almost shat myself, that's how afraid I was. – I said. – He then asked me: “Do you have anything to say?” I said: “Well, that's sad that this is happening, but it doesn't have anything to do with me!” – I chuckled through the last bit.

— Did all of that… really happen? – she asked, finally.

— Nah, I’m just fucking with you, – I replied.

I laughed, and while I was laughing, she groaned and jabbed me with her other hand that was holding the coat.

— Fuck you, Greene! Don’t scare me like this. – she said, playing grumpy.

— Sorry, I just couldn’t miss the opportunity. – I said.

— What opportunity? – she asked.

— You’ve begun talking about the flat and the parties, – I explained, – and that made me remember one documentary I’ve watched recently. And so I decided to play along.

— Oh… – she said, then chuckled a bit. – You cheeky bastard, Greene. As always.

I chuckled too. I like when she says shit about me with no malice. Keeps the friendship fresh, I guess.

We continued walking.

— Does that mean what you’ve said about me dragging you to one of the parties is also a lie? – she asked.

— No, that one’s true. And the police are true too. They just gave me a look, that’s all.

— A look?

— Yeah, a typical policeman look. As if I’m someone they were searching for. I didn’t receive a note, I didn’t go to a police station. Just a look – that’s it.

She sighed in relief. We continued walking, and soon made it all the way from the café, near my apartment complex, to a kind of okay looking park. Of course, the fall trashed it with black lifeless trees and disgusting moist carpet of yellow leaves, but aside from this look everything was fine. The concrete walkways were clean and new, the benches looked sturdy, the trashcans were clean.

We sat down on one of the benches, looking around and waiting for something to happen. The rain came and went, it was replaced by silence and lifeless light of the overcast sky. Sometimes I look at that light gray gauze, a bit blinding my eyes, and think – what do people see in this patina? One may see a pattern that would decide who he will be in the next ten years. Others may see an opportunity that they will not miss. Third will see a picturesque moment of stagnation, ready to be put in three tones on a canvas.

And I see just an overcast sky – a metaphor for how shitty and unclear my life really is.

— Greene? – Nasera asked. – Are you alright?

The voice of my voluntary companion quickly, like a sharp tug on the scruff of a coat, returned me to reality. I look at her, saying with my gaze: “I am everything, but alright. I am okay, sad, angry, ecstatic, hurt, healed – I am everything, but alright.” She seemed not to understand the message, and took my look as a yes. Man, sometimes I just desire for people to understand what I want to say without words. Oh well, that’s just a utopia.

Nasera gave me a little calm smile – her little trick card she uses, that always gets me.

— I like it when you just stare into the sky, – she said, and her words were filled with confidence. – I am serious. You look so childish. And cute.

— Cute? Look at yourself. You’re one beautiful gal, and I’m just someone who received a bad lottery ticket.

— Oh, come on, – Nasera slowly stroked me on my back. – Self-critique is always good, but you’re not literal dust. You’re still alive, you still have something left, even when you feel like you were robbed off of everything you had.

— Yeah, yeah, you told me. All of us have a little reserve for feelings on a black day.

She just smiled, and silence between us arose again. It lasted for around couple of seconds, before she said:

— I was always curious, what do you do when you get home?

— Rarely – read or stare into my phone, – I answered. – Always – staring at the dust dancing in the space of my room.

— That’s… depressing, – she said, sympathetically. – You should find yourself a hobby.

— I already have one.

— Reading? Oh, right! Sorry, missed it.

— It’s just I don’t read a lot. Maybe, like, five pages a day, ten. Not more.

— Why’s that?

— I don’t know. Reading for me is like some sort of a wicked herculean effort.

She smiled yet again. God, is her smile ever melting something bad inside me.

— At least you do it. At least so little. It’s just a matter of turning it into a habit. Just read more.

— Easy to say.

— And easy to do! It’s not as hard as you can believe. Before you’ll know it – you’ll read everything the university has in her library!

I wanted to refute, to tell her how stubborn I am, but decided to keep my mouth shut. As much as I argue with her, she’s speaking the truth in the end.

Sometimes I can’t believe that we can sit at a random place on the streets, just like that. Her soft feminine body is near mine, sharing warmth and empathy. Absolute glory under the suit, almost making me frantically protective, like those yandere people. A beautiful, welcoming color of her scales. A pair of amber eyes, staring into infinity behind pitiful concrete and flesh. A pair of soft feather wings. A beautiful haircut. But, most importantly – her arms. Her warm arms that I could be embraced in for an eternity, or even more.

Again delving into the depths of poetry, knowing that you’re not good at it. Good job, Greene, you’re making yourself a fucking creep.

— You’re out again, Greene, – Nasera says, pulling me back into reality. As I turned my head to her, she only smiled (for what time already? (do I even deserve these smiles?)), sighed and said: – God, you’re a dreaming person for sure.

I nod.

— At least you’re not denying that, – she says.

— Well, because I could imagine something I never have.

She sighed, tiredly.

— When you’ll learn? – she asks, genuinely.

I turn to the sky.

— Possibly in a different life, – I respond, cryptically.

Wait, the sky. It has darkened significantly since the last time I’ve looked at it. For how long are we sitting here? 

I check my phone.

— Jesus, – said completely plainly, it was my only response.

— Already 6?! – Nasera said, shocked.

She quickly stood up.

— Jesus me, I need to go home quickly! – Nasera said.

— Yeah, I’ll go home too.

I stand up, get my coat onto her again, and walk out of the park with her, this time twice as fast. We were definitely late for something, but despite the quick pace, there was no typical tension – she enjoyed the time, and thus being late became less of an issue than she thought it would be. Besides, I don’t think her dad would be that mad. As much as she told me, he sounded like a man of reason.

Suddenly, as we walked down yet another street, we stumbled upon two friendly faces. Tommy and Claire. It’s always nice to see them around.

— Aye, Greene! – Tommy said, then we shook hands. – How are you in this fine evening?

— Pretty good, you?

— Me? I’m doing just fine!

I turn to Claire.

— How are you? – I ask, trying to remove that bit of hostility I tend to have in my voice.

— Pretty… chill, – she says, with a friendly smile.

I nod.

Nasera and Tommy exchange a prolonged hug. From the outside perspective, or from where I stood, they looked like a pair of lovers.

— I see you’ve been walking down under one coat, – Claire noticed, as Nasera returned under my thick military style coat, away from the typical autumn cold.

— Yeah, we’ve met in the computer café near my place, – I explained. – We talked a bit, and since we didn’t have a single thing to do, we decided to walk around together.

— He’s a gentleman, – Nasera said, giving me a cheeky smile. I didn’t have a response for that.

— Maybe, – Tommy said. – But he’s a hundred percent a nice friend!

A gentleman, a nice friend… Maybe I am those, who knows?

A second later Nasera left my coat, gave me a goodbye hug, gave Tommy a goodbye hug, shook Claire’s hand and left the scene. Now I am alone with Tommy and Claire. For around half a minute we just stood in silence, waiting for the missing words to come.

— So, – Tommy finally said, – you were returning home?

— Yeah, – I simply replied.

— I don’t want to grow on you, but mind going to our place for a cup of tea? It’s not that late, and besides you seem like you were doing basically nothing all this day.

— Sure, why not, – I said, not really caring where to be at the moment.

Claire gave me an appreciating smile.

— Nice, – Tommy said. – Alright, let’s get going. It’s just down the street.

And so I walked away from my destination yet again. There is a good thing and a bad thing for this. A good thing is that I like to spend some time with my friends. A bad thing being that I want to return home, but I don’t want to seem like a bitchy boy, or an egoist. Whatever’s worse. Still, if they really mean that I would drink a cup of tea with them, that means I’ll get to eat some good pancakes that I just can’t afford, and that is too good of an opportunity to just miss out on. Besides, if they didn’t buy any cupcakes, that means they made them, which is nicer, but can bring some risks to the show.

Soon, we left the desolate part into the district and entered what I would call “the confused intelligentsia**”. The reason for me to call it that is because everything seemed to have this little nostalgic warm soviet feeling for whatever reason. That’s why I used the word “intelligentsia”. And the “confused” part is that it’s so far off from its period in history, and yet it still clings on to its past, doubting to last a new year and thriving to change. It’s really hard to explain, and I’m not really good at explaining.

To be fair, this district is much nicer. The streets are clean of trash and rubbish, the buildings seem to be actually taken care of. And people around here are all sorts of “nice”. But, as I’ve said, this district is confused – for confused, by confused, – and this confusion really begins to gnaw if you don’t leave its streets. Gladly in those streets, which Tommy and Claire can call their home, we didn’t last even for two minutes.

We walked upstairs, onto the third (out of four) floor. The stairwell in this building, and, as I guess, in many others, really brings some nostalgia about the past I never had. Those wide stairs, those pillars, the doors, the walls, floors, ceilings – everything in here came renovated, but not remade, which is nice, considering that those underpaid workers who’ve gone out of their way to keep everything as it did a stunning job.

Tommy finally found the key inside his inner coat pocket. With a satisfying click of a brand new lock, with oiled up mechanisms and a fresh stainless steel knob inside and keyhole outside, we enter their apartment.

— Be like at home, Greene, – Claire says to me, as we take off our boots and coats.

I don’t respond, too taken by the zipper on my coat that has decided it had enough. Almost breaking it, I finally managed to unzip my coat and hang it in between Claire’s and Tommy’s coats.

I walk deeper into their flat, stepping onto the fresh cold laminate flooring, illuminated by the lights that are just dim enough for me to remember my childhood again, and soon find myself inside the kitchen. As I’ve told, in each and every thing that this district has had this distinct soviet bit, and this kitchen is a primary example for that. I don’t really know how a proper soviet kitchen looked, but because of the feeling I experienced right now, I felt that this is how it looked – ready for any occasion to be celebrated, ready for any guest to come.

— Take a seat, Greene, – Tommy said, walking past me to the table, – don’t stand like a statue.

Suddenly, I remember the question I wanted to ask Tommy on the streets. Interestingly enough, here I felt that Tommy would be more ready to answer what I would ask, compared to the streets. So the fact that I’ve forgotten the question in the first place can be considered a good thing. Yay me.

— So how’s your writing going on? – I finally ask.

Tommy looks at me for a second, thinking about the answer, then says:

— Fine.

And returns to whatever he was doing. I wanted to know more, but I just don’t want to grow on him. I thought about what to ask again, hoping that he would tell me a bit more than just one word, but soon, as Tommy settled down behind the table, he said:

— Soon the book will get printed. As of now, we’re just double-checking the manuscript for any missed issues.

— What kind of issues? – I asked, taking a seat opposite of his.

— The kind that involves both me and the publisher. I try to solve mine, they solve theirs, simple as.

— How did they appear in the first place?

— It’s because of the editor they hired. That idiot thought it would be funny to do… well, whatever he did. And now both of us have to go through everything one by one.

— Do they really care?

— The publisher? Of course they do. They’re one of the few independents out here. What is their name… – he began thinking, snapping his fingers in the process. – Say it, I’ll say it… say it, I’ll say it… – He gave a final, much louder snap, and pointed his finger at me. – “Perdition Press”. That’s how they’re called.

— That’s a name.

— Yeah. But, I mean, they do their job nicely. As far as I know, the press is owned by a father and a son, going by the surname of Libico. I don’t really care about those details, but I just share them thinking you’re interested.

— I am interested. Having a writer friend is always interesting.

— Well, thank you, – he smiled, but only for two seconds, – but being a writer is not as easy as you can guess.

— I don’t guess, I know.

— How?

— I look at your tired face just yelling at me “don’t become a writer”.

Tommy chuckled.

— And when will the book be released? – I ask.

— Much sooner than you think, – Tommy answered, – Maybe next week.

— Next week? – I ask, a bit surprised.

— Yeah. The publisher really cares about its customers.

Claire soon appeared, wearing a simple home dress. Again, something ever so giving out that soviet aesthetic. She began wandering around the kitchen, collecting things.

— Coffee or tea? – Claire asks.

— Coffee. – I responded.

— Me too then. – Tommy says.

Soon, we receive our cups of steaming black drink. And a bit later I see the main appetizing meal – a “Prague” cake, settling onto the table. If there is anything else soviet, I was definitely missing it, as my eyes were locked onto that chocolate delight.

— Alright then! – Claire said with a smile. – Dive in, boys.

We took out pieces and placed them onto our little platters. A second later, we were diving deep with constant talking.

I like Tommy and Claire, for many reasons. One of them is what I can call sincere honesty. They are not the type of people that try and go out of their way to lie their way out. And definitely not those who would just close off from others, focus on themselves and themselves only. They are open and honest, telling things people don’t like, but need to hear.

Soon, after what seemed thirty minutes of endless talks, Claire asks me:

— So, do you have any plans for this Sunday?

— I don’t have a plan for what to do with myself after five minutes, – I said, – you think I have a plan for this weekend?

Tommy laughed.

— Anyways, – Claire continues, – me, Tommy and Reeda are planning to host a little flatshow here.

— A flatshow? – I clarify.

— Yeah. A flatshow. Just like in the soviet times. – Tommy says, with a bit of that unnerving pride I really don’t like in him.

— I know you guys like some soviet things, and this district is literally called “The Little Soviet Union”, but aren’t you two the ones that like to snicker onto that dead majesty of a country?

They don’t have a response to that. This little silence lasted for four seconds. A new record.

— U-uh… Anyway… – Claire finally said. – Are you interested or not?

I thought. A flatshow, hosted by Claire, her brother Tommy and Reeda, the girl that I’ve met literally two times in my life. For all I cared, it sounded interesting, and, besides, what is there for me to do on a Sunday? I shouldn’t skip out on an event like this. And I think they really want for me to be there, to have my pair of lifeless eyes stare onto them unnervingly.

— Sure, why not, – I simply replied and took a last bite from the piece of this beautiful chocolate cake.

— Amazing! – Claire said, a bit solemnly.

— Thanks, Greene, – Tommy said with an appreciating smile, – you’re helping us out on this one.

I nod and finish my cup. Soon, after a bit of more talking, I finally get up and leave the kitchen. As I put on my coat, I see two pairs of friendly eyes looking at me. Zipping up my coat, I thank them for tea and cake and leave.

Soon I’m back on the streets. The pale dusk makes this district ever so more desolate and abandoned. The coldness creeps, making its way into my spine; I shiver and begin quickly walking away, back into my little cemetery of a district, where I belong, because the world wouldn’t save anything for someone like me. And I’m not saying it because I thrive for attention – this is the least I want. Someone else’s gaze onto my back. Someone’s accusatory eyes, examining me and what I am from top to bottom, like a surveillance camera in a totalitarian country. Whatever, I should just get home.

As I get up in the stairwell, I look at the time: almost 10 PM. Jesus, that means I’ve spent almost half the day outside. Still, not the time I would go to sleep at.

I enter my lonely apartment. The walls welcome me with their dreadful nothingness. The lamps dangle from the ceiling in their electronic isolation. The city slowly cries its last lights out, slowly dropping into this little moment of hibernation.

Poetic again, good on you, Green. Those fifteen pages you read definitely change you every time you actually fucking read them.

Nevermind, I should focus on preparing for tomorrow. Sometimes I forget, and that is not really nice – forgetting your foods that you made with care. I prepare the meal for tomorrow and settle it inside a sturdy plastic container. The container is put into the fridge, near a bottle of the cheapest mineral water I could find.

After I’m done with preparing the meals, I get into the bedroom, search around for my bag – because I like to toss it into different places and have additional difficulties with finding it – and, after finding it, check whether I have everything inside. Several beaten notebooks, around five different pens, a pencil in a really shitty shape and a corpse of what was before a normal eraser. Simple, straightforward. A way to tell others you don’t have to steal is to show them the contents – they will understand that you’re in a much shittier situation than they are. At least they have knives and enough balls to come up to you and ask you for cash, while you were robbed of everything.

After that, I toss the bag like a football into the hallway, leaving it near the door. It really blends in with overall darkness. The same darkness makes me feel a bit more sleepy than before, and a second later I feel like if I drop onto the dusty ground right now I will be sleeping for twenty hours.

Thinking about spending a night on this dusty floor isn’t an opportunity I would use. And with little strength and volition I have I make a gigantic, herculean effort to get back into the bedroom and fall straight onto the cold sheets. That’s all I have.

I don’t even bother getting underneath the filthy, yet new blanket. Instead, looking onto the plain wall, painted in dusk gray, I close my eyes, immediately falling to sleep.

[NOTES]
*papieros – self-made cigarettes, popular in Soviet Russia
**intelligentsia - a class consistent of intelligent Russians in early Soviet Russia
***flatshow - an acoustic concert, played in someone's apartment, was popular in Soviet Russia at least until the 80-s.