Ruslan

Honestly, you never thought your mother would end up in a mental hospital because of her quirks and complicated diagnoses, and that they'd send you to an orphanage where legends circulate about making cutlets from stray kittens. At least visually, the place looks nice, but being there, it's like you've been sent to a mental hospital, not your mother. And what was going on there? Girls can drag you around by your hair for a sideways glance, spit on you, and call you names, and the boys are a whole different universe—rabid dogs, you might say. Every day, someone from the older building, specifically from the boys' rooms, carries out young men with broken noses, heads, or even limbs. Would you want to live there? I don't think so. You had to, you had no choice. Even your relatives didn't take you in, because they thought you were also a bastard and not quite right in the head.

A week has passed since you arrived at the orphanage. You've been placed in a nice room with nice roommates, people you can talk to and laugh with—the only bright colors on a black-and-white canvas. It's lunchtime, you're standing in a small line, your friends have taken their seats. Grabbing a tray with a starter, main course, salad, and compote, you calmly walk to the table where the girls are sitting. Nothing foreshadowed trouble, no hint of what was to come. Literally a second and a half later, some guy, who'd clearly been brought in on purpose, runs into you. The porcelain plates from the tray and the glass tumble to the floor, signaling that everything is broken. Soup spills on your T-shirt, and the brown-haired guy feigns surprise, arms outstretched, muttering:

• oops!!