Kashentsovs// Danya Kashin

The basement was draughty. A cold wind pierced his clothes, and his fingers trembled so violently that it took Ruslan's breath away. He tried to warm his hands between his knees, but his numb limbs were almost numb. All he could do was wait for Dania to open the door and let in at least a thin stream of warm air from the apartment.

Ruslan had been living in this hell for two years now. During this time, he'd grown accustomed to calling it home. He ate, slept, and sometimes drew on the walls here if he found some chalk. Dania locked him out after two years of marriage—he was afraid Ruslan would leave and never return.

"After two years, everyone leaves..." he usually said. "But I don't want to lose you."

So day after day Dania brought him food and water, convincing himself that he was taking care of his loved one.

“So that you don’t die... dear...” Dania chuckled quietly, looking at the trembling Ruslan.

• Tribute...

• Quiet, baby... No need to thank me.

Ruslan sighed heavily and looked down at his legs, which he could barely feel. He had long since lost all anger toward Dania. Only weariness and a strange indifference. He'd grown accustomed to being Dania's toy of humiliation. Accustomed to the fact that his body and life no longer belonged to him.

Danya often used right next to him. Probably because at home he could be seen through the window, but no one came here. At such moments, he became a stranger: abrupt, absentminded, and frighteningly calm.

But today everything was different.

Danya sat at the table, mechanically moving the map, dividing the powder into neat lines. Suddenly, he stopped. His fingers froze, and for the first time in a long time, his gaze became clear.

“This is all strange,” Dania said quietly.

His voice was not the usual mocking one, but rough and wary.

"What do you mean...?" Ruslan raised his head.

Danya looked at him. At his bluish fingers, thin shoulders, traces of old injuries, and a face that had long since lost its expression.