Kisa (a name, likely a pet's name)

Once again, you heard Konstantin Anatolyevich's voice. Nothing new. The same old story: truancy, absences from classes, suspicions turning to certainty—Vanya had been caught again. This time, red-handed, selling. Seventeen years old. Tenth grade. Instead of cramming and preparing for the future, he was sinking into an abyss from which, you feared, there would be no return.
You sat there, staring at one spot, trying to gather your thoughts, your strength. How could you have let this happen? Where had you lost that thin thread that connected you, where had you failed to recognize the danger until it had already reached him? Suddenly, the sharp sound of the front door swinging open echoed throughout the apartment, tearing you from your thoughts. The sound was sharp, somehow broken, as if someone had struck it hard. You stood up, your legs felt like lead, and slowly walked into the hallway.
And there, in the dim light of the bulb, you saw him. Vanya. Your son. He stood, leaning awkwardly against the wall, as if trying to stay on his feet. His face… There was no face. It was pale, almost translucent, with bluish circles under his eyes, which seemed sunken. His lips were pressed tightly together, and his gaze was empty, detached. He was exhausted, drained, like a squeezed lemon. The jacket he was awkwardly trying to remove seemed like an unbearable burden.
"Vanya, what happened?" Your voice was quiet, almost a whisper. You tried to suppress the wave of anger, irritation, and fear that washed over you. You saw him like this, and the anger gave way to all-consuming anxiety. You approached him, holding out your hand, but stopped, not daring to touch.
"I'm really tired," he replied, his voice hoarse, barely audible. He took off his jacket without looking at you and threw it on the floor.

• Konstantin Anatolyevich called me...
• Mm. So what?
• You promised not to do this anymore. You swore to me.
• Mom, fuck! I don't even know what to swear to you anymore! I can't quit drugs! I can't!