Point out my shortcomings:
that I drink a lot
on foot
on my shyness.
Don't forget about animals
habits and about
the worst
of qualities -
gullibility.
My heart iztykay
finger
dirty fingernail
get under your skin
to hurt me
need to try.
I believe baby
you can.

I. Pinzhenin.

Or maybe you can still forget? Forget and repeat what was once happiness. Or at least called "happiness."

I'm walking down the street. On the asphalt, which slowly sleeps fine snow. I am going without analyzing the way, although I am looking straight at my feet. A little girlish laugh makes me throw up my head. I strained my eyesight a little and I see a couple in love standing under the lantern. Why under the lantern? After all, kissing is more comfortable in the dark.

The guy leans to his beloved, and ... Whiskey is pierced by a bout of sudden pain, and a hearth that burns last night is whipped by nettle. I shrink from self-pity. This damned feeling originates somewhere behind the ears and crawls to the frozen eggs, filling all the gut.

The girl throws a quick glance, whispers something to her cavalier, and he looks at me with a mixture of threats and warnings. Oh, my friend, how familiar is your feeling. Once I also looked at those who only dared to look at my favorite.

And I can not budge. I stuck my boots to this damn asphalt, I was buried in it right up to the Earth’s magma. But what's even worse: I can't take my eyes off a couple in love under a yellow lantern.

Inside the volcano is ripening. That's it, and he will break out. Will sweep away everything and everyone: this street, this stupid lantern and these arrogant jerks, cheekily licked before my eyes.

The guy hugs the girl by the shoulders and leads her away. From sin away, not otherwise. They just leave, and the little girl throws cautious glances in my direction.

Feel that lets go. A black rage clutching at the heart with its claws leaves, leaving behind itself a thick, dense trail of non-existence.

I do not live. Moreover, I do not even exist. I do not, because the world died last night. When my wife said she was leaving for my brother.

I don't remember shouting then. In my opinion, even hit this thing. I woke up when I heard the English door lock clicked behind her, leaving me alone.

Zigzags of fate. Damned life makes sharp turns, like a car on a mountain serpentine. The fact that yesterday seemed unshakable, today is covered with dust. It becomes as rotten as a dead body gnawed by worms.

I remember how, without feeling the taste, I poured a bottle of vodka into my stomach and collapsed right on the carpet in the living room. He spread his hands and rested his eyes on the chandelier on the ceiling. The peeling of headlights from passing cars slid along the peeled walls. We wanted to make repairs and removed the old wallpaper. My business went up a bit.

“You wanted greens, but I persuaded you to blues,” I said in a croaking voice.

I internally storm like during pitching. Feelings are pumped over by a wide range of emotions: from “return, forget and forgive” to “get out, rubbish!”

Vodka warmed the inside and painted the room with dark colors. I closed my eyes and immediately got sick to live. No wonder I never believed in God. He is not. If He was, I would have died then. Simple and straightforward. Calm and quiet.

A drunken rattle shrouded brains and dropped over her eyes with a dirty quilt. Go to sleep and wake up in another world: where there are no traitors sticking a sharp dagger into your relaxed back. Go to sleep and forget the ten years spent, as in a silly happy dream. Fall asleep and not wake up at all.

She went where she was not called: in my drunken sleep. With a mysterious smile, she unzipped the luxurious silk dressing gown, which I presented to her for some regular holiday, and came close, enveloping the heavy aroma of Opium. I saw erotic dreams only in the far youth.And then he grabbed a shameless waist, jerked him to his knees, and stabbed a cruel, burning kiss into a boldly beckoning chest.

I fought her hard: as I never fucked. Looking eyes in eyes, exchanging breath and moisture with her hot body. At the peak of painful pleasure, I suddenly woke up. Still not moving away from the wild horse race, looked around the empty room and finally realized: I am alone.

From this very minute to the end of his dull days. Until the last breath in his worthless life. And then I whined like a puppy. Dreary whine turned into a howl. I sat on the carpet, clasped my head in my hands, and began to sway like a pendulum.

- Bitch, bitch, bitch ... - repeated in a whisper endlessly, like an ancient spell.

It was necessary to close her eyes, as her face floated in the memory. Damned subconscious threw new and new memories. Vague phrases, half hints and gestures made sense.

“If we divorce,” she asked me once, “will you marry again?”

I then just smiled and did not understand. I understood nothing until tonight. Or did not want to understand. At first she admired my twin brother. To the point that jealousy twisted me into strands. And then suddenly changed the vector. Her brother turned into a rag and rohlyu. I would understand even then that it became a watershed. What happened the worst thing is treason. But I did not understand anything.

- trash!

Fist hit the wall with stripped wallpaper. The pain gave strength. I thrashed my fists against the wall, like in a punching bag. Knocking knuckles in the blood, drawing fancy patterns on the old plaster with his own yushka. At some point, the patterns folded in the face. Her face.

I had to stand still because ... Because women can't be beaten. But then he grinned and with pleasure slammed against the sly smile on the wall. Once this bend of plump lips seemed to me charmingly magical. But now I understood: dirty port whores are smiling like that. And whores are not women!

When I calmed down, fists were wiped almost to the bone. But it became easier. Not much, just a little bit, but feel better. I knew that she went to him - my dark twin. Now he is sitting on his lap and complaining about me. As he hit, he called me and did not pay attention.

Heck! Damn damn! Die both. How dead I am - the most boobish fool on Earth.

Nooo ... Thought makes a fancy turn. Live. Live both so that I can tear off your skins. And enjoy the death screams.

It was all yesterday. And today I'm just delirious down the street, hating everyone. And especially - casual lovers. So he was tempted to approach a couple sitting on a bench and say:

- I bet, buddy, that in ten years your head will be crowned with horns.

To catch a fucking feed from an outraged lad, strike back and call him a fool.

It's time to go back.

Approaching the apartment door, I see that it is not locked. I do not care about thieves, do not care about the whole world, but ... I sit down on the step of the stairs and try to put in order the disheveled thoughts. I'm pretty sure she is there. I came, as if nothing had happened, and was sitting in my kitchen.

I hardly get up and open the door. And there is. Only she is not in the kitchen, and shoots in the closet. Bent down with cancer and fumbles on the shelves. She takes out clothes, examines each of them for a few seconds and throws them on the sofa.

“What,” I ask her from the doorway, “has your brother pinched money on the wardrobe?”

I honestly wanted the phrase to come out as tough as a movie. But having already said, I realized that I looked miserable. She shudders when she hears my voice, straightens and slowly turns to me. And here I am again swinging like a leaky tub in a storm. I want to rush to her, kneel down, bury my head in the collarbone and howl softly. I gather all my remaining strength into a fist in order not to do so. But she understands everything, because that slutty smirk slowly appears on the doll's face.

“These are gifts,” draws me in a singing voice that I loved so much. - And the gifts - not otdarki.

I take a step forward, but my brother comes out of the kitchen. He puts his hand on my shoulder and unfolds ...