Chapter Text
Yura. Yurka. Wake up. This is not you, you can be different. Or can you? Isn't this all you are, a shell of a person, who, pursuing the idea of who they should be, supressed all their emotions and thoughts that didn't fit that mold, until there was nothing left? You had to be a man. You had to be stoic, if you had a problem, you better deal with it on your own, and god forbid you'd complain when you're hurting. You realize it now, right? Your fear of being weak actually made you weak. Strong body doesn't compensate for a weak mind, for such a fragile ego.
This conversation is pointless, you're saying? Well, maybe you need to talk to a real person if you don't want to go insane. Talk to who? Anyone, honestly. Although there might be issues with that. First problem: There's no one who wants to talk to you. You're a stranger in a foreign city, nobody knows you, and besides, nobody wants to hang out with a criminal. Are you thinking about lying to them about who you are? Oh, great idea how to start a friendship, by lying. But I guess there's no other option, if you tell the truth, they'd be appalled. Also, anyone you’d get attached to, in case you manage to do that, would be instantly in danger. How selfish of you that would be… Second problem is that you don't know how to. You lost the ability to talk to normal people, you're too far removed from whatever normal life looks like. What do they talk about? Weather? Food? Work? Imagine that. They tell you about writing an article or closing a good deal, you tell them about fucking shooting a civilian in Chechnya, or about human trafficking business of your former partner? About the city that doesn't exist anymore because of you…? And you're back to lying. You're good at lying after all, you're an expert – especially lying to yourself. It shouldn't be that hard to pretend you're someone else – it's what you've been doing your entire life.
Partner. You wish he was your partner, in a different way. It would never happen, you delusional idiot. Not with him. Why do you always have to choose the wrong person? Is it your poor judgment? Is it the self-destructive tendencies? Every time it's the guy who doesn't give fuck about anyone, and especially not about you. Is that what you like? Always being a doormat? I'm starting to think that you like being treated like one. Actually, maybe you know why you're choosing to love such people – the ones you already know won't love you, the ones that don't love anyone, maybe with them the rejection doesn't hurt as much? You can tell yourself that it's their lack of ability to love, not your lack of lovability. But perhaps you don't deserve to be loved at all.
Oh, now you're feeling sorry for yourself? Are you going to fucking cry? Go on. Sure. Cry about your sad, pathetic life, even though you are alive, your family's alive and well and you have enough money to feed yourself and rent a place. You're lonely, what a tragedy. You're not the one who's to cry. The people who you have killed don't cry. The ones closest to them probably already cried their eyes out until there were no tears left. What, you're saying it isn't your fault? That it was all him? Fuck off, who are you kidding? He's insane and you know that. He should be locked in a mental hospital. You were the one with a clear mind, who knew it was wrong, you were there, and what did you do? Nothing. That's right. Over and over again, you just watched. What? You tried to talk him out of it? But it didn't exactly work out, did it? Of course, you had to be diplomatic. Otherwise he'd just get rid of you. So what? Wouldn't that be better than remaining a part of a terrorist group? Couldn't you try just a little harder? Especially given what was at stake. Human lives. Peace. Things that don't matter to him, but matter so greatly to you – or you claim they do. Maybe they matter just a little bit less than your own comfort, huh? Just admit it, you liked being in the inner circle. The power, the feeling of being part of the elite, just for a moment pretend you're important, you're someone, not just the poor, shy provincial boy with perverted fantasies. You loved it. You even miss it now, you miss him, isn't that crazy? You just want to blame everyone but yourself. Everyone else is evil and you're the victim, poor Yurochka. You're as bad as him if not worse. Maybe you should've stayed, don't you think? Embrace being on the wrong side of history, enjoy the power and money, forget about anyone else's struggle – in the end, you're just trying to survive, make something out of yourself, just like everyone else… right? When you finally decided to leave, was it really because you were uncomfortable with the idea of his new plan, or did you just get tired of him not treating you right? Did you betray him because you finally wanted to be better, or because your petty desire for revenge? You wanted him to pay for his crimes and for his disinterest in Yurka. Would you act the same if he would sleep with you? If he did all the things you fantasized about, if he would tell you he loved you? You were just fed up with his hints that didn't lead anywhere. Tiring, exhausting hope that the brief stroke through your hair, the drunk kiss on the cheek or the occasional eye contact, which lasted just a little too long for it to be accidental, meant something more. It didn't. What did you even think would happen? What did you want to happen? You wanted him to love you back? You're aware that… even if he'd reciprocate, if he would be interested in you in any kind of way, this is what would happen: He'd probably fuck you or let you suck him off, secretly, making sure no one else would ever know. You'd let him use you and you'd serve him in that way, just like you did in other ways. You'd drive him around and then give him a blowjob. You wanted that? Would that make you happy? Because you know all too well he isn't capable of love, affection or empathy. The women he slept with (or god knows what he did with them) were disposable for him. You wanted to be in their place so much? Would that be worth it?
There's no point questioning it. It was never about to happen. Why are you even thinking about it? Why are you still caught up in memories of him? Despicable human being, who got what he deserved. Thanks to you. You should be happy. No, of course not, you're not happy, because you're always full of self pity and can't stop your memories from coming back. Maybe you shouldn't be so hard on yourself after all, just now… See all the blood? Where did it come from? You're in the building on the verge of collapse again, falling and hitting the ground, crawling away like an animal while you barely hear the gunshots from somewhere on your right, your ears are filled with annoying high pitch sound. As you try to move forward you feel something soft, weirdly warm and damp under your knee. You try not to look, but it's stronger than you, you turn your sight down and see something that used to be a face, not that long ago. You still see it clearly now, years after as if the image was burned into your brain. There's quite a gallery there. And your brain just pulls the pictures out randomly, just to fuck with you. Let it go. You're in your apartment, quiet, clean. No explosions, no gunshots, the only noise you can hear are the upstairs neighbor's footsteps. Breathe… Breathe.