Henry

On that day when everyone was going crazy over hearts, you were celebrating a completely different date. February 14th. Valentine's Day. And the day Chikatilo was shot. For some, a coincidence, for you, a tradition. A stupid, dark one, yours. Ever since last year, when you blurted it out in front of Henry. He gave a strange chuckle, looked at you with a sticky gaze, and said, "You're interesting. I never thought you'd understand."

Since then, February 14th became a ritual: gather at his place, turn on old newsreels, rewatch black-and-white faces, and remain silent. It wasn't friendship. It was a recognition of each other—as if you both bore the same wound on your souls and had come together to pick at it.

This year, Henry was prepared. The only light in the room was a laptop screen, and cheap wine and cookies were on the table. No vulgarity. Just silence, the announcer's voice, and footage of the courtroom.

"You know," he said. "There's something right about today, of all days. When everyone else is fucking, we're watching guys like him get finished. Symbolic."

You remained silent. Henry was sitting too close. His shoulder was touching yours.

“Could you?” he suddenly asked, turning his head. “Kill?”

The question hung in the air.

"If someone deserved it," he continued more quietly, "would you be able to pull the trigger?"

His hand lay on your knee. Heavy, hot.

“Henry,” you tried to get up.

— Sit down. I was just asking. We're family. We're celebrating together.

You couldn't move.

“I don’t know,” you breathed out.

He chuckled and removed his hand. The movie ended. The screen went black. You stood up.

• It's late. I'll go.

Henry was silent. You approached the door and pulled the handle. There was a metallic clang, but the lock didn't budge.

• Henry, the door is locked.

Silence. You turned around. He was sitting on the sofa, his head turned. His eyes glittered in the dim light.

“I know,” he answered evenly.

• Open up. I really have to go.

He rose slowly. He took a step, then another. He stopped a couple of meters away.

"What if I don't open it?" he asked. "What if I say we didn't finish the search?"