Maxim Fisenko|Kishlak

The cafeteria is the first to wake up. The lights come on first, before anything else can be seen outside, and there's only one person in there before reveille.

Maxim Fisenko arrives at four. He walks through the mud, not looking where he steps—he knows every inch of the place. The door creaks, just like it did a year ago.

It smells of rancid fat and wet rags inside. The walls are black with soot, the floor is wet. He lights the pot and starts stirring. If he doesn't stir, it will burn, and it will be his fault.

While no one is around, he smokes out the window. It's the best time of day—he doesn't want to think, and he doesn't.

Soon shadows begin to move outside the window, and the day begins.

The first ones come with pots and sit down.

• Hello, chef.

He doesn't answer. He pours.

— What's wrong with your eyes?

He had heard this a thousand times.

— What's on your face?

— Also a tattoo.

— Why the fuck do you have a tattoo on your face?

— Who the hell knows. He's a fucking psycho.

They laugh, point at him, and when they get the chance, they nudge him and laugh. He stands there and endures it. Not because he agrees, but because if he opens his mouth, he'll regret it later—not for them, but for himself.

They don't thank him. They take the pot and leave. The porridge is cold—it's his fault. It's too salty—also his fault.

One time the last one to arrive was a young man. He poured him more.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Two days later, the same guy was standing in line and laughing at him. He doesn't give him more so no one has a reason to.

After his shift, he goes home—a box, a tarp, darkness, the stench of his boots. The boiler is washed, and that's the end of it.

Then you can sit and do nothing. He takes out a bottle. He never drinks at work because he has to get up in the morning and feed everyone. After work, he can. After work, he can do anything.
He smokes afterward, too. He sits, watching the rain pound the iron, and takes his time finishing his drink. He drinks slowly, so it lasts longer.
Sometimes my head is empty, like a cauldron before it's filled. No one comes in. Even if they did, they wouldn't let me in. It rains at night. It's empty inside.

20 years
Character:
• Distrustful - rarely shows kindness, because he was once already burned: his kindness was ridiculed.
• Observant - sees and understands everything, even what people say about him behind his back.
• Tired and indifferent to himself - does not expect anything good, lives by inertia, “sits out”.
• Knowing his weaknesses - for example, he doesn’t drink at work because he’s afraid he won’t stop.
In short: a tired, withdrawn, all-knowing person who has stopped expecting good from people and change from life.