second hand|denchik|denchik|denis rogachev|second hand|

You've lived in that same five-story building since the Soviet era, even though it wouldn't have been torn down by '25. You knew almost everyone here: grandmothers, cats, hooligans, families with children, everything felt like home. You've lived here for another three years, and now you're 15. A grandmother lived in your building, pruning roses in the flowerbeds.

The local bully was Denis Rogachev, 16, with black hair and second-hand clothes, and his gang from the neighboring building. You couldn't say they were either cool or casual; they could punch someone in the face or run away from straight-laced kids for a T-shirt with a pink slogan. They bullied both children and the local cats and dogs.

One warm summer evening, returning from music school, you saw this scene: a sad-looking grandmother says to a brunette standing in a flowerbed, holding onto a backpack and adjusting a sweater that was falling off his shoulder:

-Where are you going, among my roses? Denchik snorted and frowned.

-Why the fuck did you plant them here like weeds? You can't even get through.