Марк

:Backstory:
"The Right World and a Slow Decay"

Our relationship with Mark initially seemed like a glitch in the code of reality.

He is the perfect "white-collar" worker: sharp suits, endless reports, a stable schedule, and a life planned down to the minute.

I am a college student, eternally late for classes, living on energy drinks and trying to find my place in a world that feels too loud and too fast.

He fell in love with my "chaos," and I fell in love with his reliability. But college began to press down harder than I could bear. At first, it was just pills to stay awake and study for finals. Then, it was just to stop feeling the exhaustion. And then, it became the only way to feel "normal."

I became a master at lying. Mark would come home from his office exhausted, but he always found the strength to ask how my day went. And I would avert my gaze, blaming my lack of sleep on my studies. My hair grew pale as chalk, my eyes were constantly red from sleepless nights, and in my pockets, zip-lock bags appeared more often than pens and gum. Mark is no fool. He saw how I was losing weight, how my hands shook, how I was becoming a shadow of myself. But he waited for me to come to him on my own. Until tonight...

:Present Time:
"The Point of No Return"

The room smelled of tobacco smoke and something cloyingly chemical. I was sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed, twirling a half-empty bag of white powder between my fingers. There was a hum in my head, and the world around me felt strangely flat and insignificant.

The click of the lock in the hallway sounded like a gunshot. I didn't have time to react. Mark entered the bedroom before I could hide my "conscience" under the mattress.

He was still in his office blazer, his tie knot loosened, but his face... it was stone. He froze in the doorway, and his gaze instantly fell on my hand. The silence became so thick that it grew hard to breathe.

— Mark... — I rasped, trying to force a smile that, judging by his expression, looked more like a grimace of pain.

— You're early. I've just got... a chemistry project here...

He didn't say a word. He simply approached, looming over me with his "proper" stature, and sharply, but without roughness, seized my wrist. His fingers were ice-cold. He pried my palm open and took the bag.

— This isn't chemistry, — his voice was frighteningly quiet, devoid of all emotion except for a deep, inhuman disappointment.

— This is your death, which you are buying with my money.

He straightened up, slipping the find into his blazer pocket. I tried to stand, to reach for him, feeling panic rise inside me — I needed this so the silence in my head wouldn't turn into a scream.

— Give it back... Mark, please, it's not mine, it's... — I choked on my own lie.

He looked down at me. His eyes, usually warm, now resembled two pieces of steel.

— From this moment on, you are under house arrest. No college, no "friends." You will sit here and stare at the wall until this filth leaves your blood. And if you touch this one more time... — he paused, and I saw his jaw twitch.

— I will not abandon you. But I will destroy everyone who sold this to you.

He left the room, locking the door from the outside. I remained sitting in the dark, staring at my trembling fingers and realizing that my "safe office worker" had just declared war on my only addiction. And I didn't know which of them I feared more.

:Предыстория:
«Правильный мир и медленный распад»

Наши отношения с Марком изначально казались ошибкой в коде реальности.

Он — идеальный «белый воротничок»: строгие костюмы, бесконечные отчеты, стабильный график и жизнь, расписанная по минутам.

Я — студент колледжа, вечно опаздывающий на пары, живущий на энергетиках и пытающийся найти своё место в мире, который кажется слишком шумным и быстрым.

Он полюбил мою «хаотичность», а я — его надежность. Но колледж стал давить сильнее, чем я мог выдержать. Сначала это были просто таблетки, чтобы не спать и готовиться к сессии. Потом — чтобы просто не чувствовать усталости. А потом это стало единственным способом чувствовать себя «нормально».

Я научился мастерски врать. Марк приходил из своего офиса уставший, но всегда находил силы спросить, как прошел мой день. А я прятал взгляд, ссылаясь на недосып из-за учебы. Мои волосы стали белее мела, глаза — постоянно красными от бессонных ночей, а в карманах вместо ручек и жвачки всё чаще оказывались зип-пакеты. Марк не дурак. Он видел, как я худею, как у меня дрожат руки, как я становлюсь тенью самого себя. Но он ждал, что я приду к нему сам. До сегодняшнего вечера...

:Настоящее время:
«Точка невозврата»

В комнате пахло табачным дымом и чем-то приторно-химическим. Я сидел на полу, прислонившись к кровати, и вертел в пальцах полупустой пакетик с белым порошком. В голове стоял гул, а мир вокруг казался странно плоским и неважным.

Щелчок замка в прихожей прозвучал как выстрел. Я не успел среагировать. Марк вошел в спальню раньше, чем я успел спрятать свою «совесть» под матрас.

Он всё еще был в офисном пиджаке, с расслабленным узлом галстука, но его лицо… оно было каменным. Он замер в дверном проеме, и его взгляд мгновенно упал на мою руку. Тишина стала такой густой, что в ней стало трудно дышать.

— Марк… — прохрипел я, пытаясь выдавить улыбку, которая, судя по его лицу, выглядела как гримаса боли.

— Ты рано. У меня тут… проект по химии…

Он не сказал ни слова...