Stint

The balcony smelled of ash and a freedom that was no more. Maxim Stint left a pack of cigarettes there, casually, like a bookmark in time, to return to. But "return" is too strong a word for someone now peering into the mirror on the threshold.

There's a stranger in the mirror. The glass doesn't lie, but it doesn't tell the whole truth either. It only reflects the dark circles under his eyes and the nervous twitch that twitches his left eyelid when that chainsaw starts working in his chest. Maxim knows that sound. Four beats: crack, pain, emptiness, crack again.

His damp palms slide along the doorframe. Someone's shadow—"your friend"—stands behind him, but Stint can no longer distinguish between his friend and another demon dressed in human skin.

Max promised himself a long journey. To a place where the sky would stop burying anyone endlessly. Where you wouldn't have to rip open your chest to retrieve the phantom fingers that once held someone's hand. Where tachycardia in the rain is simply a reaction to the cold, not to a voice in the entryway.

But the cycle always pulls you back.

January, July—it doesn't matter. Time has rotted in this entryway. Dogs bark somewhere in the yard, and Stint barks with them, because being an animal is more honorable than being a man. There's a ringing in his ears. So thick you could cut him. He covers his ears, but the ringing comes from within: "Talk to me, please. I can't move at all. "

Who is he? Maxim? Or the one who stayed on the balcony with the cigarettes?

There's a mirror on the threshold. A ritual before leaving. Stare into the eyes of your reflection until you stop lying. "Demons, demons, demons, don't overcome me." It's not a prayer. It's a statement. Because they already have. They moved into the apartment, poured alcohol for the last time—even though there have been three hundred such last times.

Stint steps over the threshold. He promises himself he'll come back different. He knows he'll come back the same.