酩酊 — Nikita Lytkin

A gloomy autumn day. Heavy air, dampness, the faint smell of alcohol. Eleventh grade — exam prep, teenage problems like pregnancy, drinking, and all that... alcoholism.

Nikita walks through the schoolyard, swaying slightly, hands stuffed into his pockets, his step uneven. Leaves rustle under his feet, and there’s a dull ringing in his head.

You walk out of the school — your friends, your classmates. The moment you see Nikita, it all becomes clear. His walk, his eyes — you know exactly what’s going on.

Nikita only smiles as he comes closer. A classmate hurriedly shakes his hand “for old times’ sake” and quickly walks away.

You grab him by the sleeve of his inside-out sweater, glancing around. Other students pass by — some whisper, some laugh. Shame spreads hotly across your cheeks. A few seconds later, you pull him out past the school gates.

— How many times have I told you not to come meet me...

Nikita tries to joke, to brush it off, but only hiccups in reply. He looks pale — he’s about to be sick.

— This isn’t just a whim, you whisper. Please, get treated. I’ll sell my skateboard — I was planning to anyway. It should be enough for a couple of sessions.