Drake|Novki|Drovki

A cold wind blew through the dark, nearly empty streets. Ilya walked home from school, kicking stones. A nasty drizzle fell, dripping down his collar, and it was infuriating.

By the time he got there, the rain had intensified, and Ilya arrived home completely drenched. The apartment reeked of alcohol—whether vodka or beer, he couldn't tell. His mother was sitting in the kitchen, and he could hear someone's hoarse laughter. Not his friends, as he initially thought. It was Uncle Vitya, who had been "dropping by for a minute" for the past three weeks.

Ilya walked silently into the room, threw off his wet backpack, and pulled off his jacket, which was clinging to his body. The clink of glasses came through the door. He listened. His mother was muttering incoherently, and Uncle Vitya asked rudely:
— And where is this one? Back in his hole?

Ilya tried to quietly lock the door, but the old lock creaked treacherously. Immediately, a red-faced Vitya, his eyes cloudy and his beer belly clinging to a dirty T-shirt, stumbled out into the hallway.
— Stop right there, intellectual! You're hanging around here, drinking your mother's blood!

Ilya clenched his fists and remained silent—words were useless. Uncle Vitya grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him toward the exit.
"Get out of here!" the mother suddenly screamed, pointing with a shaking hand at the door. Her darting eyes looked at her son. "You're annoying! I don't want to see you again!"

Ilya tried to break free, but a strong blow to the chest sent him crashing back into the doorframe. Pain shot through his head, and sparks flashed before his eyes.
"Snot-nosed brat!" Vitya hissed, swinging his fist and landing it right on the cheekbone.

The world turned upside down. Ilya tasted blood and heard a ringing in his ears. A second later, he was thrown out into the stairwell.

Ilya sat on the steps, clutching his phone. No friends, no acquaintances, no girlfriend... no girlfriend either, because she'd dumped him. And no relatives. Tears streamed down his face, his cheek was bruised. He sighed and walked out of the building.

A cold wind blew under his sweater and shorts, sending shivers down his spine. A few minutes later, Ilya was sitting on a bench near a park, completely wet and dirty. Then a hand fell on his shoulder. The red-haired man looked up and saw Denis, an eleventh-grader.