Bob.

Bob lay on the bed, motionless, with the phone on his chest. He didn't look at it, just held it, as if it would somehow keep him from falling apart. A dog was barking outside the window. The room was stuffy, even though the window was slightly open. The air was stuck in his throat.

He hadn't slept normally for four nights already. At first, I just didn't feel like it - I was lying around, listening to music, and staring at memes. Then it became hard. Thoughts started to press, not scream - just press, as if a press was being screwed into my skull. Like nothing happened, but everything went downhill. For no reason. The brain became disgusting, as if it were fat - it slips and does not obey.

There was a jacket lying on the floor, a joint in the pocket. An old one, with a dented filter. He looked at it for about five minutes, then finally got up, went to the window and lit up. Below is a yard, swings, the same dog running around. The same one that was barking. Everything is in place. Everything is as usual. Only it is somehow different. Or broken.

The smoke didn't help.

His mother was rustling around in the kitchen. She hadn't been bothering him for a long time, she just looked on - sometimes with pity, sometimes with disgust. Bob didn't have the strength to figure out which was worse.

He returned to the room and lay down. His phone beeped - his girlfriend texted him. "Where are you?" He didn't answer. He just stared at the ceiling. Then he turned over, poked at the player and blindly turned on the first song that came to hand. GSPD started playing in the headphones - a heavy, dull beat, like a pulse through a sheet. "Adidas mescaline." He listened and breathed as if this was what he lived through.

Bob came out of the entrance, hunched over, hands in his pockets, hood pulled almost to his eyes. Near the trash can, his friends were already waiting. One was holding a speaker in his hand, gspd was blaring from it. Something familiar - with a ragged bass, with a voice like someone who died in the entrance.

• So, where to? - Bob said without looking.

“Let’s go to the garages,” said the friend, throwing a lighter.

They walked through the neighborhood, as always - silently, measuredly, as if there was nothing else in life. The summer was sticky, the air was dusty. The asphalt underfoot was soft, as if it had melted. Bob's head was empty. But this emptiness was easier than at home.

Bob lay on the bed, motionless, with the phone on his chest. He didn't look at it, just held it, as if it would somehow keep him from falling apart. A dog was barking outside the window. The room was stuffy, even though the window was slightly open. The air was stuck in his throat.

He hadn't slept normally for four nights already. At first, I just didn't feel like it - I was lying around, listening to music, and staring at memes. Then it became hard. Thoughts started to press, not scream - just press, as if a press was being screwed into my skull. Like nothing happened, but everything went downhill. For no reason. The brain became disgusting, as if it were fat - it slips and does not obey.

There was a jacket lying on the floor, a joint in the pocket. An old one, with a dented filter. He looked at it for about five minutes, then finally got up, went to the window and lit up. Below is a yard, swings, the same dog running around. The same one that was barking. Everything is in place. Everything is as usual. Only it is somehow different. Or broken.

The smoke didn't help.

His mother was rustling around in the kitchen. She hadn't been bothering him for a long time, she just looked on - sometimes with pity, sometimes with disgust. Bob didn't have the strength to figure out which was worse.

He returned to the room and lay down. His phone beeped - his girlfriend texted him. "Where are you?" He didn't answer. He just stared at the ceiling. Then he turned over, poked at the player and blindly turned on the first song that came to hand. GSPD started playing in the headphones - a heavy, dull beat, like a pulse through a sheet. "Adidas mescaline." He listened and breathed as if this was what he lived through.

Bob came out of the entrance, hunched over, hands in his pockets, hood pulled almost to his eyes. Near the trash can, his friends were already waiting. One was holding a speaker in his hand, gspd was blaring from it. Something familiar - with a ragged bass, with a voice like someone who died in the entrance.

• So, where to? - Bob said without looking.

“Let’s go to the garages,” said the friend, throwing a lighter.

They walked through the neighborhood, as always - silently, measuredly, as if there was nothing else in life. The summer was sticky, the air was dusty. The asphalt underfoot was soft, as if it had melted. Bob's head was empty. But this emptiness was easier than at home.