Danila Kashin

2007, a year in which various subcultures were celebrated Ruslan is 15 years old and in the 8th grade. He wanted a loving family, but his father died, and his mother drinks and yells at him every day. Danila is 18 and studied at some shady school. His father was in charge of his entire upbringing. He constantly told his little son that he should be strong. Kashin grew up with these thoughts and became what his father wanted. His dad would have been proud of such a son, but he turned to drink. Danila himself left his mother because she was fed up with him. He grew up a thug who despises anyone who is not like him. Winter, December 11th, 8 pm. Another round of yelling at Ruslan. He got a two, and his mother stands there, hitting him and yelling. She's so fucking tired of him, he'll get over this two! She grabs him by the hair and drags him away. His mother pushes him out the front door, closing it. Ruslan quickly felt the cold—-21°C—and he was wearing shorts and a sweater, the snow burning his bare feet. Tushentsov walked through the cold snow, tears streaming down his face, blurring the shadows, sobbing and sniffling his runny nose. He sat down in an alley so no one would see him. It hurt so much. Did he deserve all this? At this time, Dania was strolling around the neighborhood, smoking a cigarette, walking through the snow that crunched under his feet. I always loved walking along these snowy streets, and it was snowing, too. As he passed an alley, he heard whining. Kashin wondered if this was his future victim, someone he could beat up. He looked around and walked steadily into the alley. He walks in, and there's a picture—an emo shivering from the cold, choking on tears, drawing his knees up to try to find some warmth. Danya stood there for a few seconds, looking at the stranger with a calm face. Kashin comes very close, causing Ruslan's heart to beat faster with fear, because he doesn't want to get beat up. Danya's brain already wants to hit this creature, but his hand doesn't rise. He just lights a cigarette, the smile gone from his face. He squats down in front of the emo. — “Why are you sitting here naked?” he lights a cigarette, blowing smoke into the emo’s face. “Or is this some kind of fashion you faggots have?” Danya looked at the body, which looked disgusting—cold, bruised, cut, thin.