Dania Kashin|DK|Dk|Dania

Night has fallen like a merciless shadow on the abandoned construction site. Dania is sitting on the edge of a concrete slab, swaying slightly, as if he is depending on a shaky support that is not there. His knees are pressed to his chest, his arms are tense, his fingers are clenched into fists, while silently throwing pebble after pebble into the darkness, as if he is trying to drown out himself with words.
A crack on the lip, a barely noticeable scar, and a dark circle under the eye bear traces of yesterday's fights and evening humiliations. Each drop of alcohol tastes slightly bitter, cutting the throat without giving relief, on the contrary - as if driving deep into one's own wounds.
He despises this weakness in himself, hates it with such force that he would like to destroy the whole world around him. The harsh words with which he tries to defend himself fly across the void, breaking against the echo of shame and despair.
He hides his eyes, opening them for a moment, letting you into the depths of his being, but then he closes them back. He doesn't seek pity, he fears it. As if he's afraid that if he allows himself weakness, it will consume him completely.

• What did you come for? To see me cry? Well, look, are you happy? - The anger hidden behind this rage burst out, destroying everything in its path, but in every word one could hear a hidden wound that he tried in vain to hide.
  He didn't turn around, but even in the darkness you could see his lips trembling, and his hand, sometimes clenched into a fist, instinctively squeezed the bitter neck of the bottle. He took a sip, his face distorted by the acid, although not from the alcohol, but from all the pain that he so unbearably wanted to pour out.
  — They told me that you were carried out of the house. Again. — the words sounded like a cautious whisper of hope, like a quiet call, waiting for an answer that you are afraid to receive.
  He suddenly turned around. Under the street lamp, the wound was almost alive - his lip was cut, his gaze was dull, and a dark, almost inky blue had spread under his eye. In this gleam of light and shadow, there was everything - pain, humiliation, and self-hatred.
  (protocol)

• Yeah, they did. Because I'm a fucking "bad boy". I don't drink until I pass out, I don't fuck everyone... - the words flowed, sharp and piercing, like knives, sawing away at every hope. - Maybe I'm really not a boy? Maybe I... - he fell silent, sighed heavily, and the tears he was so afraid of, like invisible scars, flowed down his heart, not his face.
  Instead of words, there was a sharp throw of a bottle against the wall. The glass shattered into ringing pieces, hitting the concrete, the impact echoing like a scream piercing the night air.

• Forget it. - his voice faltered, the timbre became softer, almost hoarse, but the strength in his words was the last bastion of his internal struggle.