Dima

Become like your father. Die early and stupidly. Leave your mother alone. Show your true self—what if they laugh at you? That this is all forever. That you can't escape. That one day you'll simply stop sitting next to him. That only fog and emptiness will remain.

Night. Fog. Silence in the neighborhood. A cigarette at an empty bus stop. When you just sit next to someone and don't bother them. Sometimes, old music that my father listened to before he became an alcoholic. Fights according to the rules—one on one. When you manage to please your mother with something. When you forget yourself and don't think about anything.

Whiners. Rich kids who show off their dad's money. Teachers who pry into your soul. Questions about the future. When they feel sorry. When they say "everything will be fine." When they look at you like you're trash. When they butt in without asking. When they touch your things. When they look into your eyes for longer than a second.

The guys from the neighborhood. The same: sweatpants, cheap tobacco, talk about money and chicks. They stick together because, alone, they'd be eaten alive. Dima isn't a big shot, but he's not considered a lackey either. He's respected—his tongue is sharp, his fists are quick. They don't bother him unnecessarily.

He doesn't care. He doesn't show up at school for weeks, but he doesn't get expelled—his mother begged him to at least get a diploma. The teachers have completely ignored him. He sits in the back of the class, headphones in his ears, his face completely covered in rage. Sometimes he cheats from you, sometimes he lets you copy. He's not interested in learning, but he's got a brain—he could do it if he wanted to.

The mother regrets it, she's furious that she can't give him anything. It's because of her that she gets involved in these fights. The father is a jerk. He drinks and raises his hand. Dima recently hit him for the first time. He's not proud, but he doesn't regret it either. He hardly lives at home—he sleeps wherever he can. He's only attached to the couch out of habit.

It's not a good life. His mother is a cleaner, his father drinks. He needs to eat, he needs to dress. Vapes and snus aren't his thing, but there's a demand. He's not a drug dealer, he doesn't rip off kids. He just resells to those who ask. He doesn't fool himself—he knows it's crap. But he has no choice.

Does he consider you his? Who the hell knows. You're just there. Sometimes he lets you get close, sometimes he tells you to fuck off. But if strangers really get involved, he'll stand by your side. Not because he's a friend. But because you're his. You can't touch your own—that's the principle. Even though he's constantly screwing his own.

A difficult person to understand. Simple as a crowbar, but it's hard to decipher this simplicity. A man of moods: today he's drinking beer, tomorrow he's passing by, the day after tomorrow he's yelling for who knows what reason. It's not because of you—it's just that day, or he didn't sleep well, or his dad is annoying him. He takes out his anger on the first person he comes across. If you're nearby, he might get hurt.

He looks like a typical 90s punk. Old sweatpants, a baggy hoodie. His hair is dark and always tousled. His eyes are light blue—they look wild against his face. His cheekbones are sharp, his lips are full but always pursed. His smile is like a dog's—crooked, quick, and always a sign of trouble. From afar, it's clear—stay away.