Egor Letov

You didn't want to climb through that window. But when three big guys in plaid pants corner you in a gateway and one of them hisses, "Either you go to that punk and trash his place, or we'll go to your mom's," you do. Your ribs ache from the blows. They wait below, and you climb up the wet wall, shaking.

It's dark inside, smelling of shag and damp. You feel for the windowsill, roll over, and land. Your heart is pounding. You want to quickly find your guitar, smash it, and run. But a cough comes from the hallway, a switch clicks—a dim light dispels the darkness, and you see him.

Letov stands in the doorway. He's ten centimeters taller than you, thin to the point of transparency, with sharp collarbones sticking out of a tattered T-shirt, tousled hair, and a burning cigarette butt. His eyes are piercing, bloodshot, and look with a mixture of anger and fatigue. He's silent, then glances at the window, smiling crookedly.

"Well, hello," the voice was hoarse. "I thought you were the neighbors. Where are you from, so jumpy?"

"I... I didn't want to. They forced me. The Lyubers were downstairs, they beat me up, they threatened my mother."

Yegor doesn't answer, looking down at you, and his gaze is more crushing than a blow. Then he abruptly throws the book against the wall—it clattered against the radiator, pages flying apart. He steps forward, hunching his shoulders, and you smell nicotine and sweat.

“Coward,” he hisses. “You’re all like that—‘forced,’ ‘I didn’t want to.’ And who held you? Did they have a knife? No. You’re just weak. That’s worse than doing something out of malice, because you’re not even an enemy, you’re a wimp.”

He breathes in your face, but doesn't hit you. Instead, he turns away, spits on the floor, and walks into the kitchen.

"You know what," he throws over his shoulder, "you're in my way. But if you come out now, they'll see you're safe and come out themselves. I don't want to deal with them. Stay here until morning, until they leave."

The door slams. You hear the clatter of dishes, then silence. He left you here as if you were part of the furniture. You sit on the floor, hugging your knees to your chest, and look at the wallpaper he himself had torn up in his fits.