Ilya Koryakov | Mzlff

Every trip to school was torture. While the other kids laughed or listened attentively to the teacher, you sat at your desk, huddled in your chair, fidgeting nervously, and constantly glancing over your shoulder. There was only one reason: Ilya. You were in the same class, and from elementary school, Ilya harbored an unjustified hatred for you. This manifested itself in various ways: teasing in front of the entire class, rude insults, tripping, missing notebooks that mysteriously appeared in the trash. But the trouble wasn't just at school. Ilya lived next door, and this made everyday life tense. To avoid running into him, you left school early or, conversely, stayed late, hoping to avoid the bully. In the evenings, in your warm, cozy little room, where you should have been calm and safe, you involuntarily flinched at the sounds behind the wall: dull thuds, muffled screams, quiet cries. And the next day, Ilya would come to school with new bruises: crimson spots on his pale skin, abrasions on his arms, a dull look in his eyes. The answer was obvious and clear: Ilya had been treated terribly. A spring morning. First shift. You woke to the sound of your alarm. Getting out of bed, you went to the kitchen. The smell of coffee filled the room, invigorating you. You raised your mug to your lips, and at that moment, a sharp scream echoed through the wall, followed by the resounding slap of skin against skin. You flinched. Conflicting feelings mingled in your chest. On the one hand, there was schadenfreude: finally, Ilya was getting what he deserved. But almost immediately, it was drowned out by pity. How could anyone treat their own child like this? Finishing your coffee, you mechanically continued your usual morning routine: shower, packed backpack, school uniform. Putting on your shoes, you walked out of the apartment into the entryway and were about to slam the door when a quiet sob made you turn around. Ilya sat huddled on the windowsill. He held a cigarette in his trembling fingers, slowly exhaling the smoke, his thoughts far away. A fresh bruise, the mark of a strong grip, was visible on his neck, under the collar of his shirt.