"Translate me through Maidan,

He fights, tears, laughter breathes,

Sometimes I can't hear myself,

Translate me through maidan. ”

(V. Korotich)

The crowd of people is like the sea. If you get into it, then you can’t escape, the wave picks up and carries it with inexorable force, even if you don’t need it. This boy turned out to be here and now by chance, maybe, who gave in to general excitement, maybe to his own curiosity, or maybe fate led him along this road. No one will say for sure now, no one knows.

He was a little over nineteen. Young, successful, not a nerd, but do not lose your head. An ordinary kid, with dreams and plans for life. For what he popers here, and he could not say - all went, and he went. Man is a gregarious animal.

The density of human bodies around was growing, he heard some speeches, but the words floated past, the roar of voices merged into a single howl of the wind before a thunderstorm. Thoughts were not built in a line, but simply ran around the water, as if from a successfully thrown "pancake." The stream steadily pulled forward, pushing from behind. There was no way back.

If he had not lost his balance at some instant, if not for this fall down, maybe everything would have turned out differently. If only ... But it turned out that way.

A blow to the temple on a random stone, and dusk closed around. For a moment, consciousness returned, but a human wave rolled in from above the inexorable flow.

A flash of bright light lit up the mind, just for a moment. Here it is, yes, exactly, fifth grade. The third desk in the third row from the window, the girl Katya, it seems. Redhead, freckles are funny on the nose and cheeks, hair is gathered in two tails with satin white bows. He tugs at the ribbon, and the bow opens. Katya is angry, throws short - a fool, and begins to tie a bow, and he again pulls the ribbon. Once she was right on the lesson from the whole flush with her math textbook on the head. And when the teacher scolded her, he was cowardly silent. He could not say that he liked so much this red-haired girl Kate, that he was ready to receive a textbook on the head every day, if only she would do it.

Bright light becomes muffled, and the picture changes. He seems to be about fourteen. He and Galka, a friend from a neighboring house, smoke on the seventh floor behind a pipe of the garbage disposal. Galka is a kid in a skirt (although he never seemed to see her in a skirt, always in jeans, in shorts in summer), dragged cigarettes from her daddy, and they secretly smoked them in the nine-storey building behind the garbage disposal. Here he kissed her, and she moved his knee, okay, fell into the stomach, and not lower. I threw a short one - a fool, and sped away down the stairs.

And here is his eighteenth birthday. The native "gang", either for fun or for good intentions, made him a gift. A room in a fairly cheap hotel and a real prostitute. Then it seemed so cool to them! He, that king, is sitting on the bed, and she - all so bright, in a golden dress and lace stockings - stands before him.

In a fading consciousness, her face pops up in the smallest detail. A thick layer of makeup, like a theater mask, gray, almost colorless eyes, but a bright black eyeliner and huge thick eyelashes, as well as blinding eyes, blue eye shadows on the eyelids and bright red lipstick on the lips.

She kneels in front of him on one knee, unzips her pants on her jeans and runs her hand into panties. "Oh, nice copy," - takes out into the light of his stake-standing member. For some reason, he tears the packing of the condom with his teeth and pulls it on his penis with his mouth. "Strange, - the thought flies by, - and what does the gum suck cool?"

But her movements are memorized to automatism, the member is standing, jeans and shorts are already on the floor, she throws him back on the bed and sits down on top. “Good boy, good girl,” he says, moving up and down on him. But suddenly his stupor flies like a wrapper from a candy. She angered him why, and did not understand. Pulls her off with a jerk up and to the side. And now her carefully painted face is pressed into the bed, one hand on the back of his head, the other raises her ass up.His dick finds the path himself, but once there, he realizes that he has fallen into a hole. No feelings, no sensations. It angers him even more. Peering back, he again somewhere falls, yeah, here, it seems, more closely, but not so that. In general, he finished, but rather from tension than from pleasure. Fell next to the bed. Inside the gum were sticky and disgusting, I wanted to wash it off the body. (eroticspace) The prostitute raised her head and sat on the bed. When he looked at her, I wanted to laugh. Thick eyelashes with one eye peeled off, and on the second they moved up, blue shadows blurred, from which her face seemed to be twisted, as if with a fingal under one eye. He crawled out of bed and hurriedly retreated into the shower, and behind his back came muffled scuffling and mats through his teeth, she was looking for her belongings in the folds of the washed sheet. Without waiting for the soul, she put herself in order, as she could, in front of the mirror, she threw a short one - a fool, and slipped out of the room.

And the last thing that came to mind was the face of the mother, who was smiling, and tears glittered in her eyes. He saw her like this March 8, when he brought her three white tulips. "Son, what are you with me ..."

The sea of ​​people was moving forward, new waves were pushing from behind, and the words merged into a single rumble of wind before a thunderstorm. And no one noticed how a transparent cloud of a pure and essentially sinless soul rose above the general mass. Rose and dissolved in the unexplored distance of the universal mind.

"Translate ... Maidana Ocean

Swung, took and led him in the fog,

When he fell dead on Independence,

And there was no field where Maidan ended ... "

(V. Korotich)

Author's epilogue

This story, as once “Honest Davalka Lark”, was born out of nowhere, by itself. Request to readers and site moderators - no need to look for analogies, they simply do not exist.