Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

How would Stanley describe the Narrator as a lecturer?  

Meticulous to the point of obsession, strict to the point of unbearable, tedious to the point of wanting to jump out a window.

Not that he would describe anyone else differently, but it was specifically his lectures that Stanley avoided out of pure, stubborn principle. What was the point?

A passing grade wasn't in the cards for him anyway (let's be honest — not in any of his university modules), he'd forgotten the meaning of the word "maintenance grant" back in his first year (getting it back with his marks would be harder than licking his own elbow), and literature had never interested him... much like learning in general.

He wasn't stupid, not at all. He could study well if he actually wanted to, but he'd lost the motivation to try improving his life earlier than he'd learned to tell left from right... (he still mixes them up). Everything in his life had been decided for him. Where to go for walks, what to wear to important events, what to study at university, who to date, what to become. Everyone had their own opinion about exactly how Stanley should live his life — from first breath to the grave.

No living creature can swim against the current forever, and he didn't exactly... consider himself something alive. He was just "something" doing "something," getting "something" back from life as a reward and being happy to whatever extent possible. Stanley didn't want to disappoint his family — the burden of being an only child hung around his neck like a tight noose; but studying this subject wasn't something he wanted either. Nor any other subject, for that matter. They hadn't kicked him out yet, right? So everything was fine... Never mind that he had failed modules in almost every subject... And that they'd made him repeat the year. It would be rather unfortunate if he failed right in his final year.

Very, very unfortunate for his parents, unpleasant for himself, and tragic for his worthless life path.

Every time Stanley brought up his unwillingness to follow the prescribed path, it was taken as a personal insult by everyone somehow involved — dramatically ending in a row complete with accusations thrown his way. Unsurprisingly, he quickly learned that it was safer to stay quiet and agree even with complete nonsense than to try defending his point of view... anyway, he'd buried his own opinion so deep that he couldn't even remember what he used to love or what once made his eyes and heart burn bright.

Stanley wasn't special.

He didn't have a ringing voice to sing in a choir or gather a garage band of altruists from his neighborhood... Of course, these days a good voice isn't exactly a necessity — you can sing so badly that listeners' ears bleed and lyrics that melt their brains — but he didn't want to turn his already worthless life into complete rubbish. His musical ear had cruelly betrayed him, just like his vocal cords: at the entrance exam for music college, where his parents tried to shove him along with a newly bought guitar, he failed spectacularly. Later he wanted to try playing piano just for himself, or drums — but his parents put a big fat cross over him and refused to sponsor his new "unprofitable" hobbies.

It should be noted that Stanley does actually have a voice (not in the sense his parents wanted). This sounds absurd, I agree, but many people don't know this, thinking he's been mute from birth or even deaf-mute. It's a persistent myth he's painstakingly built around himself on purpose, and since then it's become almost part of him. If you lie long enough and well enough — the lie will replace the truth, becoming it. He's not thrilled with either small talk or his own voice and accent, so he learned sign language.

Learned is putting it strongly... Being American, he naturally started learning ASL; but moving to Britain for university, he discovered that locals — what a surprise — use BSL. It turned out that he mixed it all up horribly (whether intentionally or accidentally), and now nobody understands him except himself. He might start forming sentences using one language and finish with a completely different one.

Stanley didn't become the next Jim Carrey. Firstly, because he's nowhere near being Jim, and secondly — not even close to Carrey... "Too stiff in body, too modest in soul, too uncertain in movement and too quiet in voice for that. With his skills he'd probably only manage to successfully play a tree that doesn't move throughout the entire performance" — that's what the drama tutors told his parents, awkwardly scratching the backs of their heads. Ballroom dancing passed him by for the same reason.

He let a writing career slip past without any pangs of conscience, waving a handkerchief after it but not wiping away tears, because he found words too awkward and clumsy to use. What does that mean...? Stanley couldn't give a clear explanation, mumbling something under his breath for ages. Afterwards he used this as an example of how limited words are in their application. As in — "there are things that can't be described with words, which means there's no point trying to shove them into a collection of letters and punctuation marks." Incredibly profound philosophy, Stanley, I'd advise you to write a book about it where you explain this in greater detail, with all the specifics! ...Hmm? Right, exactly.

Not goal-oriented and motivated enough for sport, not aggressive and confident enough for martial arts, too dreamy and slow for cooking, for anything technology-related... too lazy to even glance towards research.

One way or another, everything passed him by. Or he passed it by.

Stanley is mediocre. Nothing outstanding about him.

Stanley is ordinary. He exists in the completely opposite corner from extraordinary.

Stanley is average. This deeply upsets, to this day, his parents, who dreamed of bringing all their dreams to life... through him.

But there is one area where he's quite decent — drawing. Not to say he's exactly the next Aivazovsky... The master would definitely cry looking at Stanley's sketches in his squared notebook — and not at all because of the profound meaning of his doodles. Stanley kept this secret, with persistent paranoia hiding every drawing and sketch as deep in his desk as possible. No, he wasn't afraid that his works would be sold in a golden frame to a museum or submitted to an exhibition of young underappreciated talents. And he wasn't even embarrassed that all the people he draws come out as caricature shadows with long noses and frightened eyes. He understood: if someone from his close circle saw that he could be passionate about something, even a little, it would be the end — the hobby that helps him relax would turn into the work of his entire life, which he would hate.

Was there anything else that didn't immediately provoke complete, sharp revulsion and the desire to flee in Stanley? Well... running... Not exactly something deserving special attention. Stanley loves to run. Morning and evening. On proper tracks and along streets. For speed and distance. From people and circumstances. From choices and emotions. From thoughts and consequences. From himself.

And then this... Narrator appeared — as Stanley calls him.

If there's somewhere to run to — you can run endlessly. Almost, but with its nuances... You can run from the lecture hall — but you'll have to come back: either the next day, or any day, collecting your documents and failing completely, never getting your degree.

And no, he didn't remember the Narrator's real name, pff, of course not! Too much honour for him.

Why exactly "Narrator"? Hmm, you ask because you've never seen him yourself.

This person radiates self-confidence that borders on audacity. He always knows what to say, at which moment, and the words themselves are pierced with caustic, unhidden sarcasm, constantly provoking reactions that only feed him more. Experience and knowledge allow him to feel confident in any situation, which is irritating to the point of trembling. And all this — in a strange narrative manner, even in third person! Oh, and one more thing — he constantly lectures others on how they should live their lives.

It's precisely this last point that gets on Stanley's nerves more than all the others combined! You'd think Stanley, more than anyone, shouldn't pay attention to this — he has, so to speak, immunity. But apparently — not to everything.

Everything happened gradually. Drop by drop (Stanley suspects it wasn't water — but petrol that was then set alight; or acid), right into Stanley's overflowing vat of patience.

At first he even tried to stay afloat, to do something so as not to be last among students in marks. After all — he did need to finish this university.

Ha. Not exactly "he" and not exactly "needed," but let's not dwell on that.

Stanley had several favourite spots in the lecture hall.

If the lecture was horribly boring — he'd sit by the window. Exclusively in the back row, so the lecturer couldn't see him — while he could see everything happening outside the window. Fresh air, the possibility of watching something that wasn't a boring lecture for two — or even more — hours. Perfect.

Stanley loves nature. It's the thing that captivates him like nothing else, often becoming inspiration for his drawing. As a child he grew up on wildlife programmes about flora and fauna of different continents, knowing more fish species than any normal person should know. Getting a bit older, he secretly spent all his money instead of buying lunch — on helping animal shelters. Now Stanley can only gaze wistfully and mysteriously out the window, watching free birds in the sky and tree branches swaying steadily under the influence of cold wind outside (or the bloody rain. Again.).

If the window seat couldn't be secured, and fighting for anything wasn't Stanley's element — he'd sit by the doors, either to be first out of the lecture hall at the end of the session, or... Well. Earlier than the end of the session. For example, after they'd finally taken attendance. This trick always worked with brilliant success for him, it should be noted... until the Narrator appeared.

He also always sat alone.

He was quiet, and it wasn't that this bothered him particularly — unlike his parents and teachers. From coursemates who started imposing themselves with conversation (Stanley suspects adult intervention wasn't absent here) — Stanley would quickly flee without explaining reasons, leaving them standing bewildered in the middle of the corridor. If there was nowhere to run, Stanley would just... ignore them? Try to pretend to be a wall? Merge with the doors? Become a locker? Eventually, everyone began considering him "a bit" wild and strange, which he was completely satisfied with — nobody approached anymore with questions like "Mind if I sit with you?" or "Everything alright?", because everything was alright for him until you approached.

The first drop became what Stanley christened in his head as "mass population migrations." In reality it was just moving people from seat to seat with a light vibe of primary school.

Everyone was outraged.

Stanley couldn't care less.

He, not hiding his indifferent expression in the slightest, was completely confident this wouldn't affect him. The new lecturer was separating into different corners those who talked to people nearby; those who were slacking off he seated in the front rows.

"I don't fit any of these categories," thought Stanley, enviously watching some lucky bastard who'd scarpered after the first lecture and was heading home with a spring in his step; "I sit quietly, and my marks are surprisingly decent so far. I'm a shining example of an outstanding student."

He wasn't wrong — Stanley and his beloved desk peacefully remained together. How lovely. They didn't need a family crisis.

When the merciless "mass population migrations" finally ended and the disgruntled grumbling about died down — everything went more or less smoothly. Why more or less? The lecturer constantly found someone to pick on and something to pick on them about. One of his coursemates (whose name Stanley hadn't bothered to remember, despite the fact that he constantly offered to sit together) decided to try his luck at overthrowing tyranny and defending the rights of oppressed students. The opposition was crushed as quickly as it had appeared, ending with the first bad mark in the register and punishment for disobedience in the form of writing an essay on the topic: "Why one should listen to teachers." Stanley admitted to himself that from the sidelines this looked rather amusing, and the lecturer's ability to defend his authority was strangely captivating. Usually the students' turbulent zeal wasn't so easy to cool — any controversial actions from a lecturer's side would end in a completely disrupted class. Now the sullen coursemate sat with downcast eyes and angrily pursed lips.

"He looks like a mouse that's had a bucket of cold water poured over it," Stanley noted mockingly to himself, once again unfocusing his attention from the events and people around him.

His idyll with the window (which was far more interesting than Kafka and his cockroaches) was torn apart by a poke in the shoulder from a coursemate sitting in front. Stanley scowled indignantly, jerking back as if the other had delivered a blow. The touch was unexpected, completely unwelcome. Not understanding what he'd done to deserve physical contact, he decided to forget it and continue tracking the disappearing figure with his gaze. People are strange, what else is there to say?

The explanation of what the matter actually was came quite quickly in the form of a sly snigger somewhere up front.

Stanley immediately straightened up, sitting as straight as a freshly sharpened pencil in the uncomfortable wooden chair, but apparently his delayed reaction didn't impress the lecturer in the slightest.

Damn.

He'd missed when they were addressing him.

"Stanley thought that if he ignored the problem, it would disappear by itself. Unfortunately, he would have to understand that life isn't so easy." — Oh no. It wasn't hard to guess who that mocking voice belonged to. What was happening was far more fascinating and appealing if you were an ordinary observer, rather than playing one of the leading roles yourself. Stanley immediately strategically lowered his irritated gaze to his desk, which from the side could be interpreted as upset.

His skin burned from the sensation of thorough study, as if he were not a person but mould in a test tube somewhere in a research laboratory.

Revolting.

If you think about it, nervous finger-cracking wouldn't help him in this situation, but rationality wasn't a priority right now. The priority was quick grounding, which pain handled brilliantly.

Oh yes, he should look for less destructive methods of how-not-to-go-mad-over-some-trifle, but he'd think about that later.

He shouldn't have raised his eyes. He knew perfectly well without this that his coursemates were shifting monitoring glances from the lecturer to his new victim. What was the point of putting on this show? They were at university, not performing a play in theatre!

"Stanley continued with demonstrative obstinacy to avoid the lecturer's words, as if this could somehow help change the situation in his favour."

The coursemate who'd poked him earlier apparently did have something in his head besides sawdust. Stanley wasn't ignoring the lecturer's instruction out of pig-headedness and a desire for painful death, but because he simply hadn't heard.

"He told you to move over there..." the coursemate whispered to him, pointing with a crooked finger... somewhere. It took Stanley several seconds to conclude that he was pointing not at the wardrobe, but at a desk on the opposite side of the lecture hall.

Christ, couldn't he have just said that straight away?

He didn't even need to gather his things — he still hadn't bothered to get them out. How convenient. Stanley quickly picked up his rucksack from the floor, striding with a sulky expression towards the desk, not even raising his gaze in the direction of movement. Big mistake. Some bloody idiot had gutted the contents of their rucksack across all surfaces near them. Almost. Deliberately avoiding the desk that existed specifically for this purpose.

Stanley's foot, without consulting his brain, decided it wanted to play football. Brilliant idea. There was already an audience. The attitude of all the people and his supporters in particular was, fortunately for Stanley, unknown, otherwise it would definitely have broken his champion spirit. His movement coordination skills left much to be desired, so the epic penalty ended in a loser collision between Stanley's stomach and the sharp edge of the desk. Ow-ow-ow...

"I hope that was appendicitis. It'll burst and I'll die quickly but shamefully. It can't get any more painful anyway. At least I won't meet death alone... Damn, they removed it in childhood... Maybe there's at least a liver there? No? Intestines...?" The darkness before his eyes changed to a blurry picture with small bright dots. He realised he really was dying.

If someone had accidentally splashed a pan of boiling water in his face, he wouldn't have felt anything. The water would probably feel surprisingly cool and soothing.

"Did I actually damage something?" — No.

"Did I catch flu yesterday on the bus and have a fever? ...Bloody local transport." — No, Stanley.

It wasn't flu. It was shame.

Deciding that he wasn't actually dying and was ready to stop standing like an idiot, Stanley tried to grab onto something other than his injured stomach. It worked on the first attempt! What had so condescendingly extended a helping hand to Stanley? Well, partially it really was a hand — part of one, probably...

The shoulder of a coursemate who involuntarily leaned aside when Stanley generously shared his weight with him. The student was, to put it mildly, bewildered at being used as a crutch, but said nothing — he was too shocked.

Stanley, fortunately, was still in unbearable pain and still arguing with himself in his thoughts, so didn't notice that instead of a support he was using another living creature.

Gathering the fragments of pride in trembling fingers, he couldn't quite straighten up properly, but at least managed to reach the desk on two legs. Looking more like an australopithecus. At least he wasn't on all fours. And wasn't sobbing from pain.

Could this be considered a victory?

Please?

Yes!?

GOOOOOAL! Olé olé olé oléééééé!!! Stanley is champion!

Ahem, sorry. The story. Right. Let's focus on the story.

"Eventually, Stanley reluctantly resigned himself to his tragic defeat, magnanimously allowing the lecture to continue. We are all deeply grateful to you, Stanley, for your dedication and nobility."

Bloody, heartless Narrator.

New task: start a new note in his phone titled "bloody revenge plan №8."

Maybe there are some positives?

Stanley finally managed to sit more or less straight, but his back was still bent under the weight of recent fiasco.

What do you mean "no positives"?

There have to be some.

Erm...

Just need to think a bit.

And a bit more.

Well, and just a tiny bit more...

Now look around and think just a little bit more...

Well done!

Now new possibilities open up for him, because he's sitting by the doors.

It could have been worse!

It got worse.

...Predictably.

What sadist, for God's sake, invented group work? Stanley had hoped these tortures were behind him, but apparently the Narrator had decided to be his executioner.

"Perfectly understanding that you're incapable of adequately dividing yourselves into groups — this is an extremely difficult task for you — therefore I shall, so be it, handle this myself, avoiding all future disputes. Let's see..." Quietly humming a simple melody to himself that was probably supposed to be reassuring, the Narrator began leafing through the student list, considering how to divide them into groups.

He could have split them simply by rows where pupils sat; or, looking at surnames, alphabetically: these were ordinary methods used by other lecturers. But the Narrator wasn't ordinary.

Oh nooooo, no-no, he was the human antonym of that word, its complete opposite.

He was exceptional. Phenomenal. Experienced. Striking. Unique... And so on down the list of synonyms.

Stanley watched the performance unfolding beside him from under his brow with nausea growing inside him in geometric progression. However much he sat, racking his brains over what the hell was happening, he never reached a clear answer. It seemed to be hiding too well from him, and hide-and-seek had never been his favourite game.

"Let's imagine that Jim's wretched fate..." a predatory, tenacious gaze slid over the students, then darted swiftly through the register to illuminate faces; "...involves a trial obliging him to transform into a piece of furniture. Which of all those known to him would he choose? No need to explain, I have neither desire nor time to listen to your plebeian philosophy and shallow reflections." The strange question was posed, it seemed, with complete seriousness, without even a small smile in the tone. The student faced with the choice immediately began laughing quietly. His gaze, in long-learned habit and seeking support, found his friends, who now sat quite far from him. They shrugged, not knowing how else to help: their names weren't Jim. Besides, they were anyway more occupied with suppressing giggles than trying to save their friend. The Narrator, on the contrary, looked surprisingly rather focused. Confident and relaxed posture. He clearly felt himself in charge in this lecture hall, knowing he had sufficient power and completely controlled the situation. Weight shifted onto the hand that rested against the edge of the massive dark desk. The melody he'd been humming to himself he was now rhythmically tapping out with his fingers on the lacquered surface.

"He's counting seconds," Stanley guessed, instantly glancing at the wall clock to find direct confirmation of his hypothesis.

The clock was working. The hand synchronously matched the movement of the Narrator's hand.

The clock was working?

Oh... They'd finally replaced the batteries. Hmm, this explained the feeling that something had changed, which had been haunting Stanley until now without finding a reasonable answer. He could rejoice — he wasn't a complete paranoid. Now at regular intervals came quiet "Tick. Tick. Tick." Stanley liked this. There was a possibility to focus on something soothing, which the disgusting voices of coursemates definitely weren't.

A slight change in behaviour. The Narrator's eyebrows rose slightly upward, as if he was already bored of waiting for an answer, but he still maintained silence. For now. It looked as if this was a difficult task for him. Stanley, if he'd had a bit more authority in the group combined with an active position, could have made money on bets like "How long do you think the Narrator will last before he verbally tears this poor sod into tiny pieces." His reputation level was insufficient for this action, so Stanley could only wonder on his own, which was no less entertaining.

"Erm... A chair. Er, yes, yes, a chair." Oh... He'd have been better off continuing to play partisan. Maybe by accident everyone would think he was mute too. Probably too many coincidences — two students at once who can't speak, that's slightly too much for one lecture hall... Never mind — Stanley (for money, of course) could have taught him a couple of gestures...

The answer and the time required to get such a banal response didn't satisfy the Narrator at all. Complete antipathy — that's what the expression on the lecturer's face screamed. Whether through unwillingness to hide the vivid emotion, or through physical inability to force himself to do so. The Narrator barely perceptibly bit the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to restrain sarcastic responses that had already formed on his tongue. Where was his hurry? He adjusted his rectangular glasses, though there was no need, and quietly chuckled. A sound comparable to a gunshot to the head at close range. From a shotgun.

"A chair? Jim, that's so... striking!" Stanley swore that the infinite amount of sarcasm in the Narrator's voice almost physically formed the continuation "strikingly stupid," which actually was never voiced aloud. "A chair! Incredibly interesting and completely unexpected answer that requires detailed explanation and thorough, hours-long study. Although I initially said I didn't need an explanation, I can't restrain myself and still insist on hearing the convoluted train of your thoughts." Absolutely horrible. And endlessly humiliating. And remarkably captivating. All at once.

Stanley's name had more letters. Not one of them connected him to the name Jim. But how he felt... As if he'd lived his whole life as Jim. Getting up in the morning, cooking food, working until late at night as Jim. Falling asleep and having both beautiful dreams and nightmares as Jim. Crying from heartbreak, laughing until his stomach hurt and loving endlessly as Jim. Stanley covered his face with his palm. Sharp temperature contrast — and he had warm hands. Never mind that his hand had already blocked his ability to see — it wasn't enough. His chest felt tight, as if his lungs were too big for his body. Stanley squeezed his eyes shut, wishing darkness would swallow him whole and he'd never have to visit this terrible place again in his life. How shameful.

The Narrator was mocking him — not one of the students had any doubts about this simple fact. Just as they had no doubts that Jim, not exactly brilliant intellectually, had blurted out the first thing that came to mind, having no deep consideration of the question underneath it and no plan for how to wriggle out of the situation. He'd knocked together his own coffin, voluntarily lain inside, carefully hammered in every nail and happily buried himself alive.

The student faltered. It seemed his blood vessels worked better than his brain, which should have given a worthy and not completely ridiculous answer, so Jim grew redder with every moment, resembling a poppy field more than a person.

"Well. The chair it's... It's... Well, you know... Like, it's just... Useful, like. Needed everywhere. Everywhere there is... Pretty cool like that, yeah..."

"Cool. I seeeeee," deliberately stretching the vowels, the Narrator slowly tilted his head to the side, "and I kept thinking, racking my brains, how to characterise a chair. Thank you for opening my eyes and enlightening the entire lecture hall. That's exactly the word that best describes chairs. Thanks again, Jim... You'll be the leader of our first group of students..."

Speaking frankly, everyone had already managed to forget what the original purpose of the question was.

The lecturer quickly named the surnames of several more students who were supposed to fall under his wing. Stanley couldn't understand what principle he'd used to choose these lucky ones: among them were both some of Jim's friends and just other students. It looked as if the Narrator was simply pointing his finger at random (in his case — at the register), naming random initials. Though Stanley didn't dare judge, because perhaps there really was some logic known only to the Narrator hidden behind this, which Stanley would never understand. Taking the most rational approach of all — he gave up trying to understand.

"I hope other students have absorbed the visual lesson about how — in order not to look like a fool — one must think first." The Narrator added, immediately moving on to the next student, but with a different question.

A few more questions, but... this didn't stop them all being weird as hell. Stanley didn't understand how such things could even be generated in a human brain. Maybe the Narrator had a prepared script in his head, and he, like an actor, was simply telling his part of the story? Probably not. Or yes. Or still no. Stanley was confused.

"In the morning, walking to university, a museum worker approached Mariella, asking her to choose the colour that, in her opinion, least resembles the word 'yellow'";

"Jim... No, not you, chair. Having the same name doesn't make you the same person. If it did, you'd disgrace all existing Jims... Ahem, where were we...? Right. Jim had three almost identical yellow buttons in front of him, the difference was only in size. They all voiced his name. Which of these three buttons would he choose and how many times would he press it?";

There weren't that many students left who didn't have their group — Stanley was among their number. He reasonably expected that now they'd be redistributed into existing groups... No, this wasn't at all connected to his love for the number three, how could you even think such a thing? Be that as it may... But four groups really does look worse and less logical than three!

"Once Stanley accidentally fell asleep in the middle of a lecture. Waking up, he realised that all his coursemates, including the lecturer, had gone. What could it mean? He was so shocked that he froze in place for several minutes." Oh, for God's sake- Stanley might not remember his coursemates' names, but one thing he knew like two times two — he was the only person named Stanley in this lecture hall. "But wanting to find the truth, to discover where everyone had mysteriously disappeared to, he found the strength to move and left the room. He walked a bit down the corridor, and passing through the doors on his left, he wondered: Where should he head next? To the headmaster's office? To the gym? Maybe to the canteen?" When the Narrator finally stopped his little story invented around him, expecting an answer from Stanley himself — he fell into thought.

Feeling that scanning gaze on himself was, to put it mildly, unpleasant. It interfered with thinking, as if someone was shaking him by the shoulders while simultaneously shouting in his ear through a loudspeaker. If he could avoid eye contact as much as his heart desired, he couldn't hide from simple observation.

"You can always run from the lecture hall or crawl under the desk..." his brain helpfully suggested, clearly focused on anything other than trying not to become the next victim of mockery from the Narrator.

He needed to concentrate.

How to concentrate?

Maybe he should do breathing exercises? Stanley seemed to have read a whole article about this recently. Just on the internet. Or was it some social network? Hmm... What was there... Right, stop, the question! Time is passing. Stanley, stop thinking about anything in passing and having conversations in your head! Is this schizophrenia? Alright, this is really too much now. Maybe breathe after all? Ha- isn't he, like, breathing right now? Some nonsense. Maybe it won't work anyway, because those were techniques that help with panic attacks! Or maybe none of it works anyway. Is he having a panic attack now? Probably not... But what if he is? He has no idea what that even is! Oh Lord, how much time has passed already? A minute? Two? More? Stanley, stop- Why does clothing feel so suffocating on his neck and chest? Has it always weighed this much, and he just didn't notice before? How could he not notice such a thing? Is he that inattentive? Bloody collar... He adjusted it, why didn't it get easier? Maybe he dove too deep into thoughts again and didn't notice the Narrator's words? Need to listen... Seems quiet, only the clock ticking. Right, the clock... Focus on the clock, Stanley! And what's that sound? Like some... quiet purring. Stanley likes cats.

Deep breath in...

Slow breath out...

"Right. What was there...? The gym. Ha... Definitely not, that's pointless — it was being refurbished. The headmaster's office? Yes... Good option! Though no- pointless. The headmaster is currently absent. They say he buggered off on holiday right at the start of the new academic year. Rich tosser... That leaves... the canteen. Hmm. You can definitely find someone there — the canteen's always packed with people, even during short breaks. And if it's lunch break... that could explain the absence of lecturers and students in the whole university, because everyone went off to bloody eat!"

Good.

Hmm. The Narrator continued purring. Was this his habit?

Stanley was about to raise his hands to form his answer, but one of the students beat him to it.

"He's mental. Completely doesn't get it. Mad as a hatter. Pointless asking him... He can't even speak. Mute. Why was he even allowed to stay for a second year? Does the university have such low standards for selecting students?"

...

...Thank you! The Narrator is so thick that on his own, without your laconic and most importantly tolerant explanation, he'd never have reached this conclusion! If I'd started explaining something with gestures, he'd probably have taken it for charades. I knew, of course, that I had a stupid reputation, but to receive such pleasant words... Thank God there are still such caring people left on our planet, because if not, I—

"I know sign language." This wasn't narration. This was stated in first person. If not for this contrast with his usual speech, his words would have seemed ordinary, not drawing attention to themselves. "In my opinion, this is basic knowledge that every person should have. Learning a few gestures for basic understanding isn't such a difficult task... only if you're not intellectually limited, which is far worse than muteness." ...Ooh.

The voice was no different from the one the Narrator had been speaking, or rather narrating, with before. Measured, calm, thoughtful. If not for the context of the situation, one might decide he was giving tomorrow's weather forecast.

Every word spoken under cold calculation

Every accent was under precise control.

In his eyes, whose colour remained a mystery to Stanley, irritation flashed.

Silence. Only the repaired clock was brave enough to make sound. It had been dead almost all the years Stanley had been studying at university, and now had become fearless in matters of the afterlife. Everyone else, it seemed, didn't share the clock's bold position, so froze in place, not daring to draw attention to themselves. Even conversations from the gallery finally died down.

The gaze returned to Stanley, lost its anger and almost perceptibly warmed, which made Stanley's shoulders noticeably relax.

Grey? No, not just grey... Maybe Stanley was colour-blind? Ha, no. He'd done tests on the internet! Then maybe blue? But there's green there... Heterochromia? Hmm...

Only now did he notice that all this time he'd been nervously twisting the seam of his sleeve in his hands, turning it inside out and rolling it up in an attempt to ground himself. He raised his gaze from his shirt again, inadvertently immediately lowering it back.

Huh?

He raised it again.

For a moment it seemed to him that the Narrator's lips formed a small smile. Just a bit. Only the corners of his mouth. And then... did he give an encouraging wink?

No. He'd imagined it.

Maybe his brain had mixed everything up, as always, but even this "possible" gesture worked like a small signal for Stanley to finally give an answer to the question.

Movement. His hand glided easily through the air above his open palm, flowing into a second gesture.

"Right doors." Simple, easy and with flair. The Narrator didn't like the flair, and he tilted his head slightly until his face took on a puzzled expression with eyebrows like a little house. It looked as if he was recalling in his head every word he'd spoken in the question to Stanley.

"I would go through the right doors. Not the left ones." Stanley was certain he was moving very slowly, being careful not to confuse the Narrator and mostly not to confuse himself, starting to mix different languages again. Maybe even too slowly?

The Narrator's confusion only grew, parallel with the panic rising inside Stanley. He entertained the thought (rather, had already resigned himself to it) that he'd made a mistake after all. He should have been even more careful! Damn... Now he'd completely confused the Narrator. His coursemates would think the Narrator was a dilettante, when it was Stanley who'd made the error.

Maybe he'd mixed up his hands? Or maybe languages after all? Maybe he should try again? A bit faster? But what if he really got confused then? Or should he just say "canteen" and not rack his brains with his inventiveness and cleverness! Or—

Quiet laughter.

Stanley uncertainly tore himself away from the frantic torture of his clothes, returning attention to the Narrator again. He had a strange expression that the best decoder, psychologist and cryptographer combined couldn't decipher.

Not quite cunning. Not quite softness. Not quite interest. This is how a person looks when you've deceived them, while they simultaneously feel irritation and fascination with this fact.

Right doors. They led to the exit. Having the opportunity to scarper from uni, knowing he'd get nothing for it — he'd do it without a second thought and couldn't give a toss where everyone else had disappeared to. He was still there, which meant this should be corrected.

"Very good, Stanley." The acknowledgment was quiet, almost reluctant. The Narrator was still squinting, with merriment splashing in his eyes...

"Excitement." His brain corrected him. That's what that expression was. The expression of a person who'd been challenged, and they were ready to stake everything. And even more. It seemed this would have consequences.

Chapter Text

People.

Fly.

Wow.

Flying people.

Such profound meaning. Makes you want to unlearn reading.

And understanding anything at all.

He's starting to envy vegetables.

"Stanley, what do you think?"

That you're all idiots.

And unfortunately there's still not enough sarcasm in his head to destroy this place off the face of the earth.

Ah.

He meant the presentation topic.

Though it still applies.

Right, fine. Good. Okay. He agrees that there are indeed interesting books that don't make you want to switch places with John Coffey when reading them, but the rest?

You're a masochist. You get ecstatic from raping your own brain with participle constructions. You get aroused by the fact that you can feel everything some fictional character created by some other weird bloke feels, through a set of symbols on paper or screen. But not everyone gets off on this type of perversion! This is bloody sadomasochism that doesn't even develop further.

Let's write a book about... loneliness! Ooh yes, Lord! Here we go! Such a primal idea, stripped bare to goosebumps, nobody's ever thought of it before! This will be innovative! Futuristic! It'll stagger the simple reader with its depth!

And you know what else? You know!? We also need to season this with the fact that history is cyclical, and only kindness and love will save us all, just like that!

Hah- I bet you didn't expect to see things turn this way. I'll honestly confess — I was shocked myself. Still am.

Probably enough stunning ideas for this chunk of text. Because it's frightening to imagine what would happen if we added something like magic or the national question to this cauldron from hell. Can you even imagine such a thing, eh? It would be fatal. The world wouldn't survive, tearing apart at the seams. Nothing could remain the same anymore.

You can get a stamp in your young reader's book. Incredibly commendable, I hope this helps you in an emergency situation, like if you accidentally get hit by a car or—

"Here, take this." Oh, a new attempt at establishing communication? Thanks for trying, but he can still pretend he can't write not only by hand, but with a keyboard either. Maybe he has dysfunction altogether, and besides, he can't use his hands? Though no, scratch that — he was deftly using his phone with these limbs a minute ago.

There's still a choice! Simply — he didn't hear. Considering he missed even the lecturer's words today, this would be a perfectly reasonable move. Or that he's just thick. Or he's allergic to the creative genius of literature by Gabo García Márquez. And to him personally too... doesn't sound believable enough... allergic to all forms of the name Gabriel? Or, as a last resort, that he simply has no breakthrough thoughts worth sharing with the world.

What can he think about some Colombian bloke who wrote about his backwater? Should Stanley lie through his teeth that he really likes his unique writing style or philosophical concept? Stanley doesn't like lying. Well... probably. About some things.

Never mind.

Stanley wouldn't refuse a hundred, or even more, years of solitude right now. He's also ready to embrace eternity with open arms. At least a few epochs? Please???

Because, despite his precious coursemates' opinion, he wasn't bothered by the fact that he couldn't communicate with them. He was bothered by the fact — that they wouldn't be able to understand how thick he considered them.

Really a shame.

Though no, the absence of voice doesn't prevent showing this in any way.

Deeply lonely and dreaming of helping with project development, Stanley was provided with many different tools through which he could skilfully converse.

But Stanley was inventive, don't worry about him. He managed to turn this "salvation" into complete catastrophe.

The charades game dramatically ended with the obvious defeat of his coursemates. They decided to change their negotiation strategy with the not-very-talkative Stanley: tearing an impressively large chunk of paper from a notebook (which, thank God, didn't belong to Stanley, and his stingy soul remained in a state of peace) and finding the most boring, most dreary blue biro, they shoved it in front of Stanley with a gleam in their eyes, as if they'd just invented a Christmas miracle. He raised an eyebrow, sceptically looking at this uninvited but offered humanitarian aid package.

He could actually use his own notebook. And pen.

But he still hadn't got anything out of his rucksack due to insurmountable laziness. So apparently everyone around decided that beggar Stanley had nothing, and he carried his rucksack empty, purely as an accessory item.

Unfortunately, he was still obliged to make his contribution. He quickly jotted down a few personal, exclusively "one hundred percent original" reflections and ideas, which, in his not-very-modest opinion, were decent.

Unfortunately, he slightly disagreed with the other team members, because in their opinion — it was illegible.

Hmm...? He wasn't even trying to write badly.

How sweet of them that nobody dared say this aloud.

Did they decide to support Stanley's imagined inclusivity and start communicating in gestures?

No.

For God's sake. They'd better have actually—

"The theme... iso-something there... could suit... remote work... duck session?" Right, well done, you guessed seven words out of nine, try again.

Stanley apathetically watched the crumpled piece of paper pass from student to student, almost accidentally reaching the neighbouring group, while they tried to decipher his ancient magical manuscript.

He boredly propped his face with his hand, automatically checking with his thumb whether he should shave already, or maybe grow a beard and plait it into braids?

His eyes quickly swept the lecture hall, reaching a conclusion even faster.

Riiight... the room would be oversaturated with eccentric personalities if he decided to choose the second option.

What could he occupy himself with while the newly-minted palaeographers had thrown themselves headfirst into their new discovery? Better not distract them from work while they weren't distracting Stanley from idleness.

And... damn.

First-year Stanley had selfishly used up all the ideas from the entertainment list, leaving final-year Stanley no leisure activities whatsoever.

Hmmm... Maybe try remembering what useful, and most importantly practical knowledge he'd gained within these walls? After all, he'd learned loads of interesting stuff!

Erm...

Need to delve into the depths of the mind's chambers...

Aha!

The average number of lights in the lecture hall is twenty — he doesn't even need to check, this figure lodged in his subconscious after dozens of consecutive counts.

Ha- did you really think this would be something related to the specialist subjects Stanley's been studying here for this bloody year running? No-no-no...

Usually about three of these lights don't work, and Stanley has already strategically calculated exactly whose noggin they'll fall on. He even had a coursemate who on principle occupied seats in the darkness...

Stanley, by the way, hasn't seen him for ages...

Was he consumed by blackness, or is it so cosmically gloomy there, almost a black hole, that he's invisible? Ah—

Oh...

It seems he was kicked out two years ago. Or three?

Do black holes consume time...?

Hmm. Back to our sheep— lights.

Someone had started a forum where a photo of the same light was posted daily. An entire fanbase, so striking — that Stanley couldn't have gathered around himself, even if he were a character from a game.

Strange.

How did he even arrive at this thought? Stanley doesn't play video games...

Never mind...

Why this particular light? Because it didn't work.

Throughout the entire year.

And management didn't replace it because there was "no budget."

Unfortunately, the legendary light sadly left us when this mysterious Mr Budget finally graciously appeared.

This gentleman, speaking frankly, I haven't seen personally either, so I'm unable to describe what he looks like.

What happened to the forum? The main topic changed to a rising star — an incomprehensible plant of unknown origin that stood gloomily in the corner on the windowsill. At least someone gets to look out the window of this prison...

Stanley was a terrible gardener. And person. All his green friends inevitably died various deaths. He starved them of water. Some, conversely, he drowned! The cheerful threat that there wouldn't be enough space in the cemetery, which he heartlessly resolved — by chucking corpses out the window.

I told you he was a terrible person! This is simply inhumane...! unplantane...? Hmm.

Ignorance (no bliss this time) in the sphere of flora care wasn't comprehensive enough to consume logic as well. And in Stanley's modest opinion, this hideous, crooked sprout (which lacked sunlight in this hole just as much as Stanley did) — dreamed of a new pot, bigger than the current one.

A light bulb flickered.

An otherworldly sign of approaching new fandom.

Mmm, seems like knowledge is running out.

Thinking is too exhausting an action, even unloading wagons would be easier. Though Stanley didn't know, so couldn't assert this. And couldn't even ponder further.

And how are our second sheep doing?

Well then.

This could be funny.

If it didn't look so pathetic.

"Duck session? What's a duck session?" Oh no, mate, you're moving in the wrong direction. You almost managed to read one bloody sentence, don't ruin the progress.

"Maybe he meant 'desktop session'? Like hot desks?" Ah, never mind.

In fact, Stanley was now the main character around whom events revolved. Coursemates were trying to decipher HIS handwriting, to communicate with HIM, to understand HIS thoughts and views. He was the one because of whom everyone else was thinking so hard.

But he felt superfluous.

He didn't crave attention — he could flip the table, jump on a chair and spin his rucksack overhead like a chef twirling pizza dough — but he absolutely didn't want to.

And yet... the sharp, irrational desire to get up and leave the lecture hall transformed into a bull terrier that had bitten into Stanley's neck.

He can do it again.

As always.

"Wait, is this 'isolation' or 'installation'? Installation theme?"

Get up.

And leave.

"Installation of what? Software?"

His jaw clenched on its own. So hard that he began to be haunted by the feeling that his teeth might crack.

Dentist is expensive.

Need to calm down.

But he's shaking like a washing machine.

The reflex to keep every sound deep inside is stronger than irritation.

But keeping sound inside and keeping yourself together are different things.

"ISOLATION! I-S-O-L-A-T-I-O-N!"

They don't understand BSL.

Much less will they understand ASL, Stanley.

Though it was unnecessary, attention quickly jumped from the chewed paper to him. He was waving his hands so furiously that you could only miss it if you were standing with your back turned or if you were blind.

But what use was it that they could see? Those useless eyes, devoid of any sense, stared at him in mild fright. To them it looked as if he'd just wished each of them personally a terrible death in agonising torment, then cursed their entire lineage for all possible future generations.

What had the lecturer actually achieved? What drove him when he assigned Stanley to group work?

Did he want to mock him?

Did he think magical realism existed in this world too, or whatever it's called, and Stanley would find common ground with his coursemates by sheer lucky coincidence?

And he, naive fool, had started thinking this Narrator might not be completely mental and might have at least some moral and ethical principles?

Stanley hates books.

Stanley hates this subject.

Stanley hates group work.

Stanley hates this university.

And Stanley hates the Narrator.

His hands were still trembling finely, though he wasn't cold. He had to clench his fists.

He didn't want to, but his gaze fell between the heads of his clueless coursemates to the already familiar figure intently scribbling something with a pen on paper.

Here's someone who definitely has no problems with handwriting.

The Narrator raised his head, squinting, carefully looking at the neighbouring group with the obvious purpose of checking how work was progressing.

He wears glasses, why is he squinting so idiotically—

"Sorry, Stanley, can you... write this again? Maybe in bigger letters?"

He could scrawl it across the whole desk with permanent marker if only his fine motor skills wouldn't let him down...

In frustration, without noticing, Stanley had managed to fling the plastic pen in an unknown direction, so he had to waste time on a search operation. Thankfully he didn't have to stick "MISSING" posters all over the room.

It would be rather awkward if he'd lost someone else's thing, even if it triggered his gag reflex with its ordinary mundanity.

The find was discovered with a quiet crunch under one of the chair legs.

Oops...

Stanley hoped nobody else had noticed this heartbreaking sound, though counting on this was naive. Trying to behave normally and not arouse unnecessary suspicion, he bent under the desk, almost banging his head when straightening up.

Well, so what, a small crack along the entire body.

It's a feature. A stylistic decision. An autograph from Stanley himself...

Shame displaced the caustic feeling of offence that gripped his chest, though breathing didn't get any easier. Now the sensation of lungs filled with water was replaced by the no less disgusting feeling of being tied to a post and set on fire.

Stanley twisted the cheap plastic between his fingers, trying to get a more comfortable grip. He wrote again, trying to form each letter separately, gradually, but the result wasn't much more encouraging compared to the previous attempt.

Won't do.

In a wave of irritation he crossed everything out with sharp movements, almost tearing through the sheet.

Tried again. Still not great.

"Let's just... focus on what we can clearly understand. This communication thing was good..."

The girl nervously twisted the beads of her bracelet, feeling awkward about being able to watch Stanley's struggles to triumph in the unequal battle against calligraphy. Or perhaps she wasn't so much worried about Stanley's mental breakdown as the waste of time on it.

"Erm... Yes, we'll work with this communication angle. Thanks, Stanley."

Very diplomatic.

They'd cancelled his idea without even understanding it.

And though this fact angered him, he could move forward with this awareness.

Accept that his opinion was his for a reason, because it didn't concern those around him.

Time heals.

But now there's someone else's laptop screen in front of him, and a screw has been twisted into the wound that had started to heal.

"Here, maybe typing will be easier? We really want to include your ideas."

Christ, a cockpit would be simpler to figure out than the interface of some notes app from the Mesozoic era. Or maybe Proterozoic?

And in a browser where a billion open tabs were already annoyingly hanging. His finger was itching to close this chaos.

But who was he to complain. There was a keyboard, and even if it wasn't 'qwerty' layout, he'd be able to express his thoughts accessibly without worrying that they'd be too illegible.

Well, of course, this effect could still be achieved if his grammar and punctuation were at the level of freshwater fish... Or if he deliberately missed the letters.

Stanley's enthusiasm for such resistant actions had managed to burn out like a small wick drowned in wax, so he was again willing to try composing a coherent message.

The fact that they seemed to have decided to listen to him after all also had considerable influence.

Erm...

Read?

It seemed the laptop was lent to him by the same generous soul who'd given him the pen.

Main thing was not to accidentally leave his "autograph" here too, otherwise Stanley would remember this situation every night until he fell into eternal sleep.

"OK, so the isolation theme — characters live in one house but never really interact. Like open-plan offices where everyone's physically together but emotionally distant."

Writing when people peer over your shoulder, standing over you — uncomfortable.

Generally working under someone's supervision is humiliating, as if your every move is subjected to thorough analysis and consistent expert criticism.

He missed the letter 'e' three times alone; the letter 'a' had become his final boss entirely.

"Yes! That's brilliant! This physical versus emotional proximity thing!"

Approval.

The fire on which they'd recently tried to burn him diminished to almost pleasant warmth inside. His fingers froze over the keyboard like a bird of prey hovering over its quarry, ready to continue typing with much more noticeable confidence.

"However, this magical realism stuff — that's where it becomes irrelevant. Flying people don't teach us workplace dynamics."

Oh?

"But maybe the magical elements represent psychological states? Like stress can make reality feel surreal?"

For God's sake, stop mixing surreal with realism in one pot!

The loud tapping on the keyboard was gaining aggression, as was the expression on Stanley's face.

Now he was ready to become master of fire to burn everything around.

"Look, this is a literature class, not therapy. Márquez writes about people ascending to heaven because they're pure or whatever — it's just pretentious bollocks that sounds deep but means nothing practical."

...

Silence?

What the hell!?

Turning slightly, he met only uncertain, timid glances darting between his coursemates.

"I mean... it's not bollocks. It's about transcendence and—"

Argh!

Quick impulsive typing.

Fortunately, he'd managed to get used to the uncomfortable keyboard and idiotic button layout, so wasn't making mistakes in every word. Probably unfortunately. Because he didn't even have time to reconsider what he'd written. Or consider anything at all.

"It's literary masturbation. He wrote weird shit because normal stories weren't 'artistic' enough. Now professors pretend it's profound wisdom when it's just showing off."

The coursemate who'd kindly given him the laptop apparently already regretted his benevolent and overly altruistic life decisions and wasteful intentions.

The oxygen seemed heavy.

Apparently from excess carbon dioxide, because the fire nation had started a war...

Clearing his throat to somehow fill the loud silence, his coursemate reached for the laptop to confiscate Stanley's freedom of expression.

"Stanley, maybe we'll just focus on the parts we all agree on..."

Right.

Of course.

Understood.

You didn't really need my opinion after all, did you? When something doesn't match your worldview, you're ready to make it disappear so it doesn't hurt your eyes. Doesn't create the danger of unexpected changes. It's easier than admitting that maybe you're stupid.

This doesn't surprise him. This isn't the first time. He's almost resigned himself to this unfair way of the world, but the sediment will never disappear.

Your truth is false because it doesn't match the correct truth of the majority.

Stanley grabs the laptop body, deciding to play tug-of-war, but not with a rope, making the case ominously creak.

"Fine. You all figure out how flying people help office communication. I'll just sit here, because apparently wanting practical analysis makes me an uncultured American tosser."

Nobody argued with him — now this would be equivalent to kicking a baby. Because he had no way to respond.

They were ignoring him.

Even if he started furiously proving something with gestures, having no more textual tools at hand, they'd simply drown him out — by turning away.

Revenge is a dish best served cold — evoked no response in Stanley.

They closed the topic, he in response closed all open tabs on someone else's laptop.

A peculiar checkmate.

Hmm. He didn't really want to participate in this circus anyway. He'd better continue observing from the sidelines, staying in the shadows so as not to catch thick-headedness.

After the team heroically threw Stanley overboard as the weak link — things went uphill for them.

Having like-minded people at your side, it's not so difficult to work on a common theme.

When it finally came time for groups to present themselves, they were last on the list, which gave them an advantage to prepare better. Others didn't have more attractive topics to work on, so Stanley rather half-heartedly decided not even to make an effort to listen — paying attention to this superficial, primitive tedium was the lecturer's job. Let him suffer.

Inevitably their turn came.

He'd strategically taken a place at the edge — not that they'd have let him stand in the centre as a silent talisman — but his goal was to attract as little attention to himself as possible. If there'd been a possibility, he'd have gone right out the doors rather than just standing by them, rolling his eyes after every sentence that was supposed to reflect "his" thoughts on the topic too.

Stanley can pretend to be mute, but unfortunately he can't manage deaf.

He felt his brain melting through his poor sensitive ears with every moment under the pressure of "magical realism" nonsense.

At first he tried to distract himself, as usual switching attention to something peripheral, spatial, untrodden, beyond the flow of time and limited human understanding. To anything. Please.

He didn't know anyone by name, by face either — but now he knew who had what footwear, and therefore knew their character, their essence.

Seeing rubber sandals pulled over neon-orange socks with a symmetrical hole on the toe, he reached two conclusions — first: this person was probably a perfectionist, because having identically matching gaps on different socks in exactly the same place is impossible, meaning he'd made the second hole himself; second conclusion: Stanley's brain couldn't handle such a large volume of new information about people who held no interest, so he should look for himself in another field.

He'd have been better off continuing to develop his deduction skills, because when he stopped paying attention to other people's feet, his brain immediately switched back to the main irritant — the nonsense his coursemates were proudly carrying.

He clasped his hands behind his back in a lock, so tightly that he could have cracked nuts between his palms.

The presentation wasn't weak, because this word doesn't encompass the full spectrum within its meaning. It wouldn't have reached the rank of disastrous either.

His coursemates spoke over each other, not letting one another finish thoughts — starting second ones, jumping from the author to his other works, returning to the theme, then accidentally veering into philosophical analysis of minor details — and nothing was fully explored.

Everyone had their own vision of how the topic should be covered.

Measuring the quality of the presentation by the audience was unreliable, because students always look melancholic regardless of time and place.

Stanley shifted his gaze aside, realising he looked like a tropical guppy that could only move its eyes.

The main trigger of Stanley's irritation looked no more interested than the coursemate dozing in the back row.

The Narrator stood with such a detached facial expression, as if he'd sunk deep into himself, conducting reflexive-analytical discussions with the shared goal of finding truth in the mystery of two holey bright socks.

Whether this was bad or normal — Stanley couldn't judge, because he hadn't looked at the lecturer during other groups' presentations, so there was no information for comparison.

Nothing is eternal, and if this thought triggers existential crisis in many, Stanley felt the urge to dance a hopak from happiness.

The presentation didn't just seem long — it was endless.

Restraining himself from breaking into a run, Stanley strode energetically to his desk, feeling such lightness that, if you think about it, he could have flown altogether to collect his things and scarper from here.

Freedom at last.

But is this freedom?

He'd still have to come back here tomorrow. And the day after. And next week. And even next month.

The thought of liberation decided it was lonely, and his brain began projecting new friends. But unfortunately, you don't choose friends... actually no, you do. But thoughts — no.

With natural mastery he tossed his rucksack into the air by its loop, catching it halfway back to earth.

Not caring about the crookedness of his wretched back, he slung the bag of life essentials over one shoulder, which by his own feeling was noticeably higher than the other. Fortunately, he couldn't see himself from the side, so there was no reason to worry yet.

And nobody told him he looked more like crooked scales. Now if they'd said something, that would be different...

"Stanley, stay behind"

Oh no.

No.

No-no-no—

"Stanley, run" — his inner voice interrupted, suggesting the conversation wouldn't be about his pitifully pathetic posture.

He should pretend he hadn't heard.

But Stanley hadn't gone into silent acting after all (though this was more like mime), and this part wouldn't mesh with him shamefully giving himself over to a chase through corridors seeking not political but shelter within the dirty walls of student accommodation.

He was already an adult, this was childish! He should act like a normal person and just change his name. From this moment he was no longer Stanley, but... Stanislav? Stefan? Stanford? But in that case it shortens to Stan, and his name too... but anyone shorter! So the address wasn't to him. Yes. Exactly.

Stanley nervously gripped his rucksack strap, slowly, as if this could postpone the inevitable indefinitely, returning to his starting position.

When he raised his eyes to a sufficient level to see the person but deliberately not look them in the eye, Stanley felt something cold tug in his lower stomach. And though he'd skipped breakfast, what was catching up with him now clearly wasn't hunger.

Unfamiliar fingers fidgeted with that bloody familiar bracelet of wooden beads.

He should have kept his tongue behind his teeth (though in his case — hands in pockets) and not said what he actually thought about flying people.

Seeing Stanley, she hurriedly said goodbye to the lecturer without hiding her guilt and retreated from Stanley's narrowing field of vision, who was beginning to see red around the edges. He didn't have time to see her off with curses in his head and disgust in his gaze.

This swot with overachiever syndrome had grassed on him.

For his bloody personal opinion.

The best defence tactic is finding someone who can attack for you. But since Stanley had no dog or any other living creature nearby who could do the dirty work for him — he'd have to get his hands dirty himself.

For a moment he stopped, considering each next move, cautious not to do anything stupid.

"I understand — I'm a thick American who doesn't understand why random mystical bollocks makes García Márquez so 'important' to European intellectuals" — the movements were sharp but clear for understanding even without knowing sign language. He used all his unlimited mental abilities to avoid mixing anything up.

Stanley was so skilled at constructing sentences that he managed to fit in an insult to the author, contempt for the genre, reproach to the lecturer as a European, and touch on suspicions about discrimination based on his nationality all at once.

The lecturer's reaction made Stanley put effort into hiding a Cheshire grin full of malicious satisfaction with a downward tilt of his head.

Not expecting such a disgustingly underhanded attack, the Narrator was ready to tell Stanley off, but he turned out to have cunning.

The lecturer opened his mouth, which stretched into an indignant grimace. Purely instinctively he raised his hand in the air, making incomprehensible waves — as if he wanted first to adjust his glasses, but was struck by the words so much that the main intention was abandoned by an attempt to make Stanley justify himself. Narrowed eyes burned with reproach.

The hand slowly lowered after all, and with it — the temperature in the lecture hall.

The Narrator straightened his shoulders, making Stanley notice he was slightly taller. The dubious victory didn't give the student sufficient confidence, because he hated arguments. He wiped sweaty palms on his trousers, feeling his heart unpleasantly oscillating inside.

Why had he started this?

"...Right. So let me understand — you think one of the most significant writers of the twentieth century is just 'mystical bollocks'?" When the crisp words cut through space, the last student not participating in the argument quickly slipped from the room, having no intention of getting caught in the crossfire.

The Narrator spoke with an infuriatingly slow and completely contemptuous manner, as if talking to an infant.

Stanley shrugged with just one shoulder, the one free from the burden called rucksack.

"Significant to whom? Literature professors who have to justify their jobs by finding deep meaning in weird fever dreams?"

Stanley wasn't monitoring his hands, but the swearing, let's say, he deliberately censored using the second sign language known only to him in this lecture hall.

This caused natural confusion.

"What did you just say?" Stanley repeated, simultaneously uncontrollably shuddering from nerves — the lecturer's voice dropped an octave lower. "García Márquez won the Nobel Prize. His work explores colonialism, political trauma, the cyclical nature of violence—"

"Yes, through magical butterflies and people who live two hundred years. Why not just write a bloody history book if he wants to talk about politics?" Stanley waved his hand, brazenly interrupting.

His eyes and whole body are afraid, but his hands act.

The Narrator, undermined by the audacity, took a step forward, hands on his hips. An attempt to restore authority.

It looked almost comical, because they seemed to be quarrelling, but only the lecturer could shout — whose voice indignantly jumped up, unpleasantly resonating in the ears when it cracked mid-sentence. Stanley barely restrained himself from asking him to shut up.

"Because literature captures human experience in ways bare facts cannot! The magical elements represent—"

"Represent WHAT? That Latin Americans can't tell stories without adding supernatural circus acts? That's actually pretty bloody racist."

The mutual hurling of various sharp words at each other stopped. Just for a moment.

Stanley couldn't leave the lecture hall, couldn't think of what to add to his previous words and couldn't remain in the stifling silence any longer, so forced himself to raise his eyes. Bloody, hateful Stanleyesque eye contact. He only met the lecturer's gaze to immediately stare back down at his trainers. The small gesture became a catalyst for further reaction.

"Excuse me?" He sounds stunned, and Stanley takes an uncertain step back, noticing the Narrator clench his fists. "You're calling ME racist while simultaneously dismissing an entire literary tradition?"

"I'm saying that maybe forcing students to pretend flying people are 'profound' is intellectual colonialism. But what do I know — I'm just here to pass and get out."

"Then why are you HERE at all, Stanley? Why waste everyone's time if you have such contempt for literature?"

Stanley bites his tongue with his teeth, carelessly waving his hand in a broad gesture, pointing at the group that had already left.

"Ask your little snitch why I'm wasting time! She couldn't wait to run and tell you how awful I am, could she?"

The lecturer seemed to have already planned the dialogue ahead, but something had gone off-script again, so he opened his mouth and immediately closed it, frowning as if he'd started to guess something. Or imagine it.

"Stanley, she didn't—"

"Oh, please! 'Professor, Stanley's angry at García Márquez! He doesn't respect our deep literary analysis!' Classic bloody teacher's pet move." Stanley rolls his eyes, sharply interrupting again, not bothering with tact in his expressions.

It seemed he couldn't listen to his opponent's thoughts to the end, let alone respect them.

The Narrator took another step forward, but now his body movements looked more firm and focused.

"She just mentioned that your group was having communication difficulties. She said you seemed frustrated and that everyone was having trouble collaborating effectively."

Stanley is a balloon filled with fury instead of helium to the critical point of no return.

Now he'd been pricked, and instantly, with a pitiful sound, deflated and fell to the floor shrivelled.

Now it was his turn to freeze, trying to calculate what he'd heard.

This wasn't in his script.

"What?"

His gestures slow down, and his shoulders begin to feel so burdened, as if someone had hung several more rucksacks on him without his consent or even warning.

The lecturer in front of him demonstratively snorts, crossing his arms over his chest.

"She was concerned about group dynamics. She mentioned that because you can't speak, it was difficult for everyone to work together smoothly. That's all."

Time seemed stuck in a jam jar, causing a long awkward pause. Stanley lowers his hands, which had started feeling too cumbersome, and his body too weak to hold his limbs in the air.

Damn.

"She..." He gestures uncertainly, pressing his lips together, "...didn't say I was disrespectful?"

The lecturer sighs.

"No, Stanley. She didn't. But YOUR attitude right now? That's a completely different story." This time the Narrator sounds softer, but still tense.

Stanley turns away, feeling completely lost.

He'd just overreacted.

He tried to wipe away the shame by running his hand over his face, but it didn't help, having nothing to do with his physical state.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

A black void leading to long-awaited freedom gaped mockingly before his eyes. Spitefully, he couldn't just take it and leave now.

He needed to say something, but for that he'd have to turn back to face the Narrator, who was definitely studying his crooked back with his gaze right now.

Stanley wanted to close his eyes and open them already in his bed. Or stick to the six-feet-under rule.

The faster he did this, the faster he'd go lick his wounds after the failed harakiri.

"Just... forget about it." Brief and final.

Unable to look up even a millimetre, because his eyes treacherously fled — but still successfully doing their job, he caught how a shadow glided closer to his feet across the floor.

"Stanley. We should talk about this properly—"

"No. I've had enough."

Careful step.

Another one.

Being able to walk again, not standing rooted to one spot, felt strange. The feeling that his gait looked highly unnatural and his knees bent the wrong way opened hunting season on his head.

"By the way, I wouldn't recommend carrying your rucksack like that. You already look like crooked scales."

BAM.

With a rumble that made everything compress inside — came the slam of doors.

Silence followed.

And a weary sigh.

Fingers reached for his collar, smoothly unbuttoning the top buttons, then unhurriedly loosening the tie that had started to choke.

It became slightly easier.

Obsessively adjusted his glasses, slowly approached the board, picking up from the floor the fragile white stick that had fallen somewhere at the beginning of class. He hadn't even noticed. Strange that it hadn't broken.

White, small, unremarkable chunk of chalk. From the cheapest set, where about ten more like it lay. They'd been using it for ages, but it still hadn't worn down to the end.

His fingers were now stained with calcite.

Why had he done this?

Why was he doing this?

Sighs again.

With methodical movements in ritual order he begins erasing the board: top to bottom, left to right — and no other way.

Stacks papers in a pile with perfect right angles parallel to the table edge.

Pushes each chair under the desk.

Rubs his temples, approaching the windowsill to close the window, but instead leans exhaustedly against the cold plastic surface that should have been wiped down, which he'd just realised with his hands... The damage to his cold skin was already done, so extra fussing was like sand into water.

The glass was dirty, but through it even in its best state little was visible: a courtyard with several trees leaning with age; a cracked road and a few desperate people hurrying to houses and flats in the evening twilight; high sky that looked transparent... surprisingly unburdened by weary clouds.

He sharply closes the window, gripping the worn handle to the limit in an iron grasp.

"One Hundred Years of Solitude... but who among us isn't lonely?"

Stanley kicks the bin with a clang, which hadn't deserved barbaric treatment and a dent in its shining body. It fell, rolling slightly down the corridor. For a moment Stanley's conscience nearly covered him with pity for his tyrannical antics.

He definitely should devise a revenge plan to let off more steam on something that was something other than an inanimate object. The joke had got out of hand the moment the remains of his dignity were brutally smeared like gel pen on paper.

"Sorry, I—"

FUCKING HELL THROUGH THE BLOODY FENCE!

Crash.

Having overestimated his understanding of objects in space and the world in general — his nose painfully kissed the smooth metal of a nearby locker.

An incomprehensible strangled hiss escaped his throat. Though the surface was cold, it couldn't replace a compress. He raised his hand, checking if his precious nose was still in place at all.

How bloody painful.

Why is he such a klutz.

With boiling venom in his eyes he looked around for the herald of all his misfortunes.

Ha, that girl again. He'd never thought he could remember anyone, especially with his terrible memory for faces — but here this skill wasn't needed, enough to look at her wrist.

"Stanley, right? I, erm... We worked in the same group today, you probably remember."

With hope that he wouldn't have to reinvent the wheel for communication a second time and she'd understand everything from his bewildered face.

What was all this about.

"Sorry. I today... I heard... I heard the loud door slam and thought... I'm sorry I told the lecturer that..." She swallowed convulsively. Her smile reeked of such falseness that something began tightening inside Stanley.

Fortunately for him, she liked looking into other people's eyes no more than he did, so she hid them, giving Stanley the opportunity to bore into her with a grim, explanation-expecting gaze.

"You probably saw me approach him after class, right?"

He slowly nodded, knowing she wouldn't see this gesture anyway, for the first time regretting that he couldn't speak. Stanley would have liked to free himself from this awkward confession and inform her that he knew what she'd talked about, but he couldn't do this.

"Sorry. I shouldn't have grassed on you."

Huh?

"But I was obliged to inform him that it was specifically because of you that our group performed worse than others! You have to understand, I didn't do this out of personal dislike, but because I care about my academic success—"

Someone had turned on an old television that drowned out everything around with mechanical interference.

What?

What, for all things holy and damned, could this mean?

He gripped his nose bridge with trembling fingers, realising he understood nothing.

So... he'd been right from the very beginning that she'd childishly snitched on him?

So the Narrator had just performed an entire scene in front of him, as if he was hearing Stanley's position for the first time?

So he'd deliberately lied about the true purpose of the conversation between him and this little cow, to justify her by slandering Stanley's understanding of the real course of events? Or maybe to corner him?

But why was he so confused at the beginning?

What had Stanley done?

...Right.

He'd been the initiator.

He hadn't foreseen that Stanley would start the conversation first. He thought he had everything under his control, and Stanley had ruined his perfect script — that's why he'd lost his balance.

"—so next time, when you..."

Elementary gestures.

Doesn't matter what language.

"Go to hell."

Rudely shoving his way through with his shoulder, not caring about his own damaged reputation — Stanley, not even looking back and seething with rage, trudged towards the exit.

Screw it.

Chapter Text

Sunshine — a burning mockery of a bad mood.

Sky buried under heavy clouds — and your prolonged misery has dubious but justification. Everything around deliberately falls together in such a way as to double your seasonal depression and give reason to behave like a damp rag on the tap in the bathroom.

When everything around falls together perfectly, simply beautifully even for the most devoted perfectionist — having a gloomy face feels like committing a crime worthy of life imprisonment. Everyone around is so carefree and cheerful, as if the radioactive luminary personally decided to solve all their problems.

Heating water under directly aimed rays — inside you boil with desire to either close your eyes or lock these lucky bastards in a concentration camp.

Too much? I agree. But they only lock you up for thoughts if you express them publicly or post them on social media.

...

Countless curses in a row — and it's already unclear where Stanley would deserve life imprisonment more — in prison or in hell. His comical, and fortunately not lifelong existence still causes more frustration.

"I'm really very sorry, mate, but today's your last day here."

Right-right, wonderful, give me the bloody paper to sign already, and let's not put on a performance as if we're all immeasurably sad about the fact that a mute idiot is leaving our such well-coordinated company.

He'd been sat down like a dog at a show, the only difference being he couldn't perform the "speak" command and didn't have a diamond collar — though he did have a noose of uninvited obligations and restrictive laws that held him tighter than a chain.

Stanley could compete for the title of biggest prawn ever known to humanity — tensely clenched hands on knees, fingers intertwined; back hunched as if he was used to moving by rolling, and professional habit constantly kept him grouped for the next trick; black beads performing the function of eyes blinked blindly.

Sign here and sign here. Sign here and here. Formalities observed. Who really needed them — that was another question.

Office paper for peanuts still smelled of fresh ink and felt warm to touch.

Hard not to ignore the people around with their somewhat alarming behaviour — to bury your nose in the fragrant aroma.

Yeah.

No wonder they're sacking him.

Without delving into any letter smudged from contact with his finger, which from a logical point of view should have formed a word — he abruptly scrawled squiggles in various parts of the bureaucracy.

If he'd just signed a deal with the devil for the sale of his soul, he hoped it was a more profitable contract than the one he'd signed in this same place a few months ago, condemning himself to voluntary hard labour in the evenings. Maybe now he'd at least get some bonuses, because pay rises or bonuses were something he'd only seen on the pages of dictionaries.

Stanley as if hypnotised followed with his eyes the lively hand-waving in front of him, full of exaggerated elation and vigour that didn't quite match the situation. At least it wasn't patronising, because this wasn't a sign language broadcast, but rather resembled Tourette's syndrome. Or epileptic convulsions. Or the person opposite thought that if you twitch with almost your whole body when speaking, you'll be better understood... Grandiosely mistaken thought.

Blah-blah-blah... we'll send you your P45 by post and... blah-blah-blah... you need to return... blah-blah-blah... we're very sorry...

Does anyone have bingo for such occasions? It could pass the time. Or Stanley would have to invent his own right now...

The phrase "we're sorry" sounded twice. The phrase "we're very sorry" — all six times. Count in progress.

Managers should be given torture courses — Augusto Pinochet in the 1970s would have taken it up as a weapon.

With indifference in every feature he tapped his foot each time the person opposite comically-ineptly said the letter "o" or swallowed "t" in words.

Though probably yes, Stanley apparently doesn't quite understand what he's going on about in context either. Are they both definitely positioned in knowledge of one language or at least within a common language group?

Sometimes he managed to catch individual sentences composed of endearments and politeness — not that this was somehow useful or even interesting. It seemed nothing would be stated on the matter?

He wouldn't miss it, except maybe the possibility of occasionally replacing dinner, which consisted mostly of Pot Noodles — with stolen food from the kitchen when possible and obtaining diluted but free coffee. However, seeing relatively familiar faces outside university while doing menial work — wasn't a comfort.

Menial, meanwhile, wasn't quite accurate, because characterising Stanley's labour was a complex process, and his employment record didn't help get to the essence at all. Because Stanley did everything that didn't involve the speech apparatus: boredly washed plates until his fingers macerated; deftly delivered orders, never once mixing up tables; frightened customers with the absent expression on his face; without complaint lugged and unloaded heavy boxes in the storeroom afterwards; stayed until late hours, meditatively clearing rubbish, scrubbing the floor like a first-rate cabin boy, and wiping all surfaces available to him with the same green rag that was almost decomposing into atoms in his hands and stank of a dead rat.

The green colour, moreover, evoked pleasant feelings inside Stanley. An important role was played by love for this colour in general. Hmm. Not for nothing was his clothing in all shades of a similar palette.

Having borrowed paint from grass, the irises ahead didn't evoke similar positive associations.

Oh...

His interlocutor was really still talking, but not at all jointly.

Eyes boring unblinkingly; voice sandily addressing him by name — but the feeling as if a pre-rehearsed scene was being performed with him not in the main role but as an unnecessary audience. Stanley always caught himself with similar thoughts in various situations. In fact, he always caught himself with similar activity — this was probably the only way to hear his own voice, albeit within his own skull.

This should have been recognised not just as a red flag — but as a wail of sirens sounding through neighbourhoods, from which the brain turns into senseless semolina porridge with lumps.

Seriously, when had Stanley last said anything aloud?

What if he'd actually become mute?

Does that happen?

A feeling of anxiety rolled in. Stanley uncertainly moved his tongue in his mouth, which felt as if he'd lost a bet where he had to eat a spoonful of flour. A tablespoon. With a solid heap.

Well, his tongue moves — that's wonderful — though it feels like a dead rat, probably what that green rag stinks of. But does he still have a voice?

Stanley tried to quietly clear his throat without drawing attention to it. The result exceeded all expectations and came out so quietly that even he himself heard nothing. Need to repeat. And again... And...

How stupid does he look right now?

Probably quite.

Holding in an intention unclear even to him one hand on his throat — either to completely encircle his Adam's apple with his fingers and extract it entirely, or to feel vibration in his vocal cords. Eyes wide bulging in fright, as if a screamer had just jumped out at him. Dry lips slightly parted, noisily sucking air into his lungs.

This sort of thing should have been done without the interference of outside gazes.

"Stanley, are you alright? Would you like some water?"

If you shake your head in refusal so convulsively, you can get concussion. Then water won't help anymore.

The person opposite didn't need to ask twice, and shrugging, he continued explaining something. To someone. Probably to Stanley, who suddenly realised he hadn't understood a word of what he'd been told and was still being told, not because he'd suddenly unlearned how to perceive human language by ear or forgotten English — he'd simply fallen out of context of someone else's endlessly long and boring monologue.

Riiight... This person hadn't even opened the path to oratory.

Who hadn't fallen out of context of the extraneous, excessively drawn-out in duration and monotony dialogue — was the person who sat in the headmaster's office as if it belonged to him.

Who was reporting to whom — that was still a big question.

The first person you'd notice upon entering this closet decorated with gloomy and confidently obscenely expensive wood — was the person sprawled on the pretentious throne that common folk in more modest form receive as a chair. Surprisingly, they'd done without precious stones. This gentleman, though he felt at home — wasn't the real master. The shocking news could be learned by reading the humiliating "deputy" before the title of the true king of this realm on the badge that wounded one's sense of harmony with its cheapness.

Small eyes fussily ran over papers on the desk, while pudgy hands that didn't know what it was to refuse a snack gripped the wide shiny surface of the solid wood table.

The room itself was cluttered with bizarrely beautiful, pretentiously expensive junk that could only bring pleasure to a greedy fool with an extreme stage of Plyushkin syndrome: high ceiling propped up by substantial bookcases with academic books that had never experienced the possibility of creaking from first opening; through dark colours the feeling of one's own wretchedness and lack of oxygen only worsened, and the colossal windows that should have let in light — seemed to refuse to cooperate with the laws of physics; where space wasn't devoured by useless-in-functionality interior, it was consumed alive by excessive-in-aesthetics décor, which consisted of dubious paintings by unknown authors, a dejected piano with inflated self-esteem and an immense globe with a layer of dust instead of the Arctic.

A temporary element of décor that fit perfectly into the pretentious atmosphere of the room was a man sitting in lordly fashion opposite the aforementioned on something that resembled a chair more than a throne. And though he'd been deprived of a lordly armchair, he hadn't shortchanged himself and looked more haughty than the deputy headmaster. The lecturer lazily swung his leg, which he probably wanted to throw on the desk but was forced to throw only on a similar limb.

"I trust you're... aware of our institutional commitment to inclusivity...? Because, frankly speaking, some... of your recent... pedagogical decisions suggest... the contrary."

Have you ever pondered that someone at this very moment might be hunched over at work according to you or lying on the sofa with a temperature? Or thinking about how someone thinks that someone thinks that right now someone is thinking?

...Should have come up with a better analogy.

Meanwhile, uniting two very specific by definition people wasn't difficult — both were getting an unpleasant free hour alongside those higher in position.

The student was a passenger in the back seat in the direction of his life. Influences nothing, controls nothing. Has sufficient view to see how the car, whose speedometer needle peacefully rests on the right side — is flying into the lorry ahead.

The lecturer was the driver of this car, determining his fate personally with the help of pedals and steering wheel. Everything depended on him, and not only in his life. Has sufficient level of excitement to floor the accelerator while being confident he'll manage to execute a dangerous manoeuvre.

Ahead they're frantically banging the steering wheel, blaring mad horns.

Shouldn't he brake and wedge back into his lane, accepting that you can't always overtake someone?

"Mister..." the gaze slid from the face to the name tag crookedly pinned and sure to leave handsome holes in the man's jacket afterwards; then slid back to unfamiliar eyes, "...Harrington, yes?"

"Oh, no... I'm not Harrington — I'm Smith." An illogical correction, and the lecturer sceptically raised an eyebrow, demonstratively indicated with his gaze at the badge again, to which the person opposite falsely neighed, sounding like a pig's snort — "You see... an incident happened at the university. A collision of various circumstances which none of us has the power to... influence. Politics, corruption, reforms... These are all terrible, loud words we hear from everywhere... do you agree? Meanwhile, I'm also here temporarily until everything settles..."

The lecturer became deathly bored merely from the meagre sentence construction, let alone the underdeveloped speech apparatus through which Mr Not-Harrington sounded not like a person but like a fish thrown by a storm onto land — making ragged, comically loud inhalations between words, making clear the nature of the struggle for life beyond them. It seemed the "deputy" had become so overgrown with fat not only externally but internally that the bags for oxygen performing the function of lungs had compressed in fatty vices, reducing their own volume by several litres.

He seemed to use gulps of air instead of punctuation marks.

The lecturer couldn't hold back the temptation — instead of theatrically mocking Smith, he had to hold his tongue, leaving mockingly flickering fireflies in his eyes.

"Now where was I..." it seemed the excess weight had crushed his brain too, "aha, right, I remembered...!" no, naturally thick; "Did you really think you were... the only one hired this year...? No... They changed almost the entire staff here... And the previous deputy headmaster is no exception... My badge hasn't been made yet, but... at least the position is written here, so I borrowed it... You should get one made too, by the way..."

He stopped listening after that. Generally, they should be listening to him, not the other way round! The fact that he had to listen for so long to this brain-liquefying clumsy monologue put humanity on the intellectual-educational brink of extinction.

Firstly — no. No, he wouldn't make one, let alone wear a piece of plastic with his name on it. Even for his absolutely enormous ego this was too much. He liked being in the shadows. A lecturer is simply an intermediary who transmits knowledge by his own method to not-quite-bright students, seasoning this on top with his own opinion and vision through the prism. He didn't need a name for this. His name in this sphere could be teacher, mentor, lecturer, but not someone personally — this whole story wasn't about him.

Secondly — how. How did this person become deputy headmaster. Smith didn't look like someone who could walk properly on legs, let alone climb stairs, even career ones. The lecturer had firm confidence that he'd been neither a lecturer, had no full set of academic works and grants, didn't participate in competition for the position. Only one answer remained that tasted of paper with excrement — money. Or connections. Or connections and money.

"I've completely strayed from the topic of conversation... Do you already understand why I... called you here?"

The lecturer shrugged, still restraining himself from overwhelming Mr Smith with words too difficult for his tiny brain to understand.

"We've received complaints regarding one student... Does this tell you anything?"

"Perhaps. But you know, the new academic year has only just begun, nobody's managed to adapt and socialise yet. It's always been this way and will be, I don't think there's any point paying attention to it."

"In your view... maliciously breaking the pen of his coursemate and group companion... deliberately closing all tabs important to another student on the laptop... He behaved confrontationally, writing provocative things... and also generally took no part in the joint task..." A loud sigh is accompanied by weary rubbing of the nose bridge, filled with burden of unknown origin, because this person only deals with taking "gratitude" in the morning, raking it under the table at midday, feeding on "envelopes" in the evening, and taking bribes at night. Or, more simply, to repeat his own word — engaging in corruption.

"Ah, you mean that student... Yes-yes, I remember. He behaved rather... outrageously, I won't deny the contrary. But I wouldn't say it's anything so terrible as to give an adult student a telling-off for bad behaviour and wild but small antics."

The lecturer squints, studying the face opposite, trying to understand where the neck begins and where the third chin ends.

The student's provocative name surfaced faster than a corpse, followed by the incident recently unfolded with him in the lead role.

Should he cover for this fool, or let him rake up the consequences of his own actions?

"Yes, outrageously. But that's not the point... it's your actions! You, after all, are older and should account for... what might happen if you call a student with such inclusivity... to group work...!"

"Mr... Smith, with all my respect to you I assume that you too were once an ordinary lecturer, long before honestly earning this prestigious position. I sincerely hope you still have a crumb of the groundedness of ordinary people, and though I understand your dissatisfaction with this situation — I had no opportunity to do otherwise. A student is a student, regardless of their background, age, gender or inclusion as well. If I'd excluded him, it would have caused even greater dissonance and disputes, wouldn't you say? It would have looked like blatant discrimination if I'd allowed everyone to work in a group, establish contact and forge warm connections, while giving him alone a personal, solitary task. You didn't want the student to feel 'inadequate' compared to others, did you?"

"I... Oh, yes, I... Of course not, in no case... But..."

"Oh, don't tell me you have something against such students! Mr Smith, I of course won't inform anyone, but if someone from management accidentally finds out, I'm afraid it won't end simply..." The lecturer's eyebrow crawls upward in a theatrically exaggerated expression, not quite clear which exactly — fearful surprise or focused concern.

"No! No, I have nothing against students!... Or inclusivity! Or students with inclusivity... You've misunderstood me..." Mr "deputy" not-Harrington jumps slightly from his seat, waving his hands either as imitation of a factory fan or shooing away invisible flies. The chair is really quality, because surprisingly it didn't fold in half after being plopped back into. "I only wanted to ask you to think of another way to involve the deaf student in collective work... so it has no negative consequences for either him or other people... I'm sure you'll find the right solution..."

Deaf student?

The lecturer first thought to suppress a smile, then terrifyingly, too relaxedly bared white teeth, stretching his lips from ear to ear in a grin.

"Oh yes, of course, you can rely on me. Soon I'll devise the right approach."

He should at least return to collect his belongings and take them to the halls. Can't lug them about in his arms until the end of this awful day.

Tomorrow will be better. Probably. Possibly worse.

The next day is like a small reset that lets you give a new marker to another twenty-four hours burnt through pointlessly: either black or white, or maybe grey; but none of this has great significance, because either way the day will end. What worried you today will already become reason for laughter tomorrow; what yesterday seemed the best solution to the situation will make you regret being born this morning.

In the moment it can seem relievingly important, especially when everything's against you. You naively believe that tomorrow morning will save your life, will somehow be better than today. But the thing is, your life isn't divided into days. Days are divided into your life so you can book yourself an appointment with the dentist and finally get braces or go on a new date to temporarily entertain yourself on Friday evening.

If everything was bad today, tomorrow that bad stays with you, rather than magically dissolving in morning mist. The only difference is how many new events manage to happen between the past and new bad events.

In the morning your favourite café, where you always buy a latte with goat's milk with cinnamon and two sugars — will close; then you'll be not-quite-accidentally splattered head to toe by a passing lorry with puddle mud, because you stood too close to the road at the crossing; afterwards you'll accidentally fall on the threshold of a public toilet where you ran because your stomach staged warfare over Uncle Muhammad's shawarma with a hundredweight of mayo.

This morning in place of the old café a new one will open where prices are half as much and the coffee tastier; then some lad running through a red light will be hit by a lorry that couldn't handle the wet tarmac; the last... seems there's no alternative vision here... maybe at least yesterday was tasty? Well, at least someone had a minute of laughter over your clumsiness.

Stanley never took an umbrella with him. Even if every weather forecast on his phone declared it would rain, and the bloke with a Cockney accent assured him from the TV screen that he should at least take an inflatable rubber dinghy with him due to precipitation levels — Stanley didn't give a toss. He didn't even have this enormous mushroom that people in this country carry with them so constantly it's become an extension of their arm. Perhaps after a few years of life in greyness and dampness emptying pockets for acquiring such a thing wasn't a difficult task, but as already clear, Stanley doesn't seek easy paths and closes his eyes to them if he finds them anyway.

Stanley didn't like carrying excess with him, though he had quite a... random choice regarding things that matched this category — he could flatly refuse to lug necessary university books because they were heavy, but take a skateboard with him and carry it in his hands throughout the day, inwardly cursing the local climate that wasn't conducive to kickflips and shove-its.

He'd written off umbrellas back in childhood when his mother gave him hers to hold while she did her business. Stanley was a completely inventive and absolutely lazy child, so hung this burden on some nail, himself amazed by his inventiveness. When he returned home with Mum, he understood that something quite specific had vanished. Returning to the place where Stanley had left his mother's favourite yellow umbrella, they saw only a rusty nail and no hint of lost property.

Oh, how many lovely new words he learned that evening.

There's a second type of people for whom the possibility of experiencing suffering is more a privilege than a flaw — no other explanation can be found — because no sensible creature can think a hat will save them from the vile feeling when fine drizzle flies in their face, meaning this is all systematic.

Stanley confidently placed himself among the second type, though he had neither a raincoat nor even a battered hat as protection from completely soaking his head.

However, he didn't like suffering. No.

He simply drowned in one and the same semi-apathetic, semi-oppressive state without attempts at change, whilst having the ability to justify his bad mood, miserable life and unconsciously evoke pity in others.

Though maybe he did like suffering after all. Yes.

If nature had decided to arrange against him, besides everything that had happened, additionally a cyclone transitioning into apocalypse — that would be too witty for one day, even for Stanley; so as if on request, the radioactive luminary wasn't buried behind grey layer, and the wind didn't try to steal his hair along with scalp.

Beep.

Green light.

He shoved his ID card anyhow into the massive pocket of his jacket.

The shabby, familiar eight-storey building of red brick greeted him with loud flickering of mercilessly vision-scorching fluorescent lamps and magnolia colour on cracked walls.

Firmly gripping his own belongings in hand, Stanley scurried along the dark blue carpet that absorbed sounds and was speckled with various-sized spots from coffee and brewing dodgy Pot Noodles.

Contemptuously glancing at the non-working lift positioned next to the stairs, "lucky" Stanley hobbled to his top-numbered floor. As he conquered the local Everest from which he'd descended this morning, his lungs filled with acrid smell of bleach and mould. His hand from anxious precaution glided along metal railings as if he feared falling. He wasn't thrilled with the enclosed space that frequently became a key location for events in his nightmares — floating steps with huge spaces between them, obsessively panicked fear of heights reinforced by unsteady gait and absence of support under hand on anything.

He dragged himself to his floor where twelve rooms were located not counting the communal kitchen. At the end of the corridor was a white rectangle — a window — overlooking the car park.

That's speaking generally, because at this moment the white rectangle had quite an angular, abstract form due to black silhouettes of people who'd independently sprawled on the plastic windowsill that even without this held on with last efforts not to break in half along the elongated crack.

Well, right.

Not encountering any students — that was something from the realm of fantasy, and he didn't position his life as a comic for teenagers.

Stanley had no intention of becoming a spy, but through absence of headphones in his ears or intrusive thoughts in his brain he still unintentionally began eavesdropping on context-torn sentence fragments.

"...hope he'll be better than the previous one..."

"...in your place I wouldn't place big hopes on the resident, he's from our dump after all..."

"...but rumours say..."

Than the previous one? Resident?

Had they really changed the resident?

However, this still had firm ground beneath it, because as far as Stanley remembered (which shouldn't be relied upon), the previous resident had already finished final year.

He too could have never seen this bloody place again, finishing final year a year ago like all normal people.

But...

Not pondering the chatter in the corridor too long, he exhaustedly tumbled into his room where everything reeked of glue and poor man's plywood shavings that qualified professionals call chipboard, from which cheap interior had been cobbled together.

Stanley, without even looking, dropped his things on the floor with a merciless thud, leaning his back against the door.

Hanging about here until he accidentally wanted to sleep — rubbish idea, and he preferred the prospect of dragging his body around the street until late hours.

The weather gave permission, and besides he needed rest for his brain and load for his body, so Stanley hastily changed into sports kit consisting of tracksuit bottoms he'd bought at market and a cringey T-shirt with "Paris" written on it that should have been washed a week ago — and leapt onto the street, masterfully overcoming all the aforementioned path back to fresh air and genuine light source.

Stanley conscientiously considered the proposal to go for groceries, because some tosser had decided that nicking other people's dinners, on top of which was pointlessly stuck against a yellow sticker background in crooked handwriting "DON'T TOUCH. STANLEY'S PROPERTY" — was rather amusing — so he was left without dinner and breakfast. Perhaps they hadn't made out his handwriting, deciding permission had been granted to use someone else's provisions.

The plan to raid the nearest grocery shop had to be reluctantly scrapped, because after losing his job he'd have to live half-starved, economising on his own existence until he devised some reliably working scheme.

So he found the goal of his active recreation in a jog around the area where he was forcibly residing akin to exile.

He managed to force himself into such a desperate step not immediately, because attempting any activity feels difficult to execute.

The main thing is to start.

Recalling the specific date when he'd last gone for a run didn't work out; generally — in ancient times.

Meanwhile, finding his own pace for Stanley proved not entirely torturous — at first he rushed excessively swiftly but insufficiently fast, because breathlessness caught up with him; after this exaggeratedly slowly, so even a granny with crutches overtook him. When his lungs began cooperating in tandem with his legs — things went... or rather ran... much more simply.

He had no pre-planned route in his head along which he intended to run. In such a case he handed control to the God of Random and hoped he'd have a way back, which moreover preferably wouldn't drag on for several hours of running time like Spider-Man.

His own legs proved mixed up in treacherous intention when they led him to the shop.

What a reason — like when you're hungry and stalls with kebabs and dubious pastries of suspicious meat pass you by. No money, the brain understands the trap's presence, but the stomach needs filling with anything, so even external appearance and smells become more attractive in such moments.

Need to run.

Can they not even take out the rubbish? What can you say about the quality of goods on shelves... There are probably daily terrorist acts happening through explosions of bloated tins of tomatoes.

His legs carried his carcass further in an unknown direction.

Stanley ran such a long marathon without "finish" ribbon at the end that the sun managed to hide behind the curtain of tower blocks, and the sky was drawn with pink light with diluted stains of red and orange.

Beautiful.

His hand instinctively reached into his pocket to get his phone, but he stopped himself mid-movement, simultaneously freezing in the middle of the street, enchantedly looking upward.

What's the point of taking a photo?

He has no friends to whom he could, God knows why, send this with caption "look what beauty."

He has no social media, let alone fanbase that would rapturously write comments under a crooked photo with philosophical quote from the first site in search.

He has no time to review terabytes of almost identical sky photos where all living colours are devoured by a dead chunk of iron in hand.

But beautiful.

His heart maintains tempo, continuing to pound from the vigorous run. His legs ache sweetly with pain along the entire length of muscles from unfamiliarity. Clothing drearily sticks to hot, damp skin. Cheeks sting from fast blood circulation.

Stanley tilts his head. Breathing breaks unevenly, making him concentrate on the very fact that he needs to first take a slow breath of oxygen through his nose, then exhale through his mouth.

He abruptly wipes sweat from his forehead with hand movement, though "wipes" is a partially relevant verb, because he rather just smears it across the surface, not getting rid of it anywhere.

Worth starting to seriously consider the return of prodigal Stanley to halls, because it was getting dark and simultaneously colder.

The pleasant pain in muscles was replaced by excruciating, and not wasting time weighing all pros and cons, Stanley planted his broken body on the nearest bench.

As they say, a good arse will find itself a place anywhere.

Probably he should have thought about a route sheet as measures for avoiding complete exhaustion after all.

What can you do.

From excessive abuse of the aesthete inside Stanley with beautiful sights, he was torn away by a loud "plop" beside him. Though this was rather not so much a sound as momentarily gripping panic when the bench began tilting to one side, and Stanley decided these were his last moments of life, because henceforth he'd be buried by earthquake under the thickness of lithospheric plates.

"Better if it really was an earthquake," Stanley wearily thought to himself, seeing, or rather first hearing, what exactly had caused this imbalance of the universe.

Erm...

What was his name?

Jeremy?

Johnson?

Jeans?

"Hey... So what's up?"

Brilliant stupidity in his eyes. Stupid smile that looks like sign of stroke. And stench of booze.

Oh, he's absolutely wankered.

"I can't speak." Stanley sloppily waved his hands, not wanting further development of this... whatever this was.

People didn't evoke any sympathy in him.

Drunk people evoked only antipathy in him.

"Ah... Ri-right, I think I remem... remember you. What's your name then... Well I'm like, basically, Jim. The chair one, ha-ha." Uncouthly, with audibility within the entire street and several adjacent ones, his new mate roared with laughter at full throat, "You're probably this, well what's your name, haaaaa... Steve!"

Stanley blinked, not catching the thread of sense when he was suddenly renamed Steve.

But fine, let him — he was still considering the possibility of urgent identity replacement.

Having quickly lost interest in the partisan, Jim staggered off in search of a new victim for heartfelt conversations.

Thanks to all gods.

This chair along with scales-ness had lost awareness of a human's basic need for personal space, so the entire time with irritating insistence crawled onto Stanley, who was forced to huddle painfully in his side into the wooden armrest.

With the endurance of a dog before a full bowl of dry food he awaited fulfilment of the "you may" command — when the threat would pass completely, hiding in an alley several kilometres ahead.

Right, now he could eat those tasteless little balls...

Time had come for Stanley to leave too. Or rather run, because the path to halls awaited long. The road back would take much time.

Some miracle that this pisshead had hobbled this far too... What had he forgotten here? Most interesting — how had he managed to get drunk to such a state in such a compressed time period?

Returning to the agreement of synchronous rhythm between his whole body proved highly problematic. He barely, with last strength dragged his legs above dried earth forward, stumbling with the toe of his trainers on every bump.

No other solution — walking would take more time anyway than this energetic limping.

His gaze, like a bird of prey that had found quarry, instinctively fell on the already familiar grocery shop.

The bag still blocked the path to the entrance.

Because Stanley wasn't breaking any speed limits... even snails', he had sufficient time to examine in more detail.

The glass surface of automatically sliding doors was smeared with traces of palms and oily fingerprints, seemingly belonging to dwarves or children, at whom the sensor overhead looked down haughtily, refusing to open the gate to the world of inflation and ready meals.

Windows draped in dust like protective film from prying eyes had obscene inscriptions and drawings of street artists.

The facade feebly repainted at least three times — moreover with different shades of beige in desperate but wasteful struggle with rounded graffiti.

And one more thing—

The bag was moving.

The wind probably stirred the cellophane surface.

Ah.

Oops.

Stanley miscalculated everything — with colour, because the grey bin bag turned out to be ashen not initially but through dirt; with object, which was not an artificially manufactured item but an animal... more precisely — a puppy.

He stopped completely. Having pondered for a moment, he slowed his pace, shuffling towards the tiny creature that was tied to the fence with a leather lead.

Even the rustle of small pebbles on tarmac sounded bewildered.

Suspicious that the dog still hadn't been collected.

Approaching, he understood two things: first — the shop was already closed, meaning a decent heap of hours had passed spent running... what a champion Stanley was, the local Sportacus...; second — the puppy was afraid of him. Pulling the lead in an attempt to flee, the collar cut into the animal's throat, and it produced only furtive snuffling through excessive efforts.

Stanley barely audibly drew in damp air through his nose and smoothly, so as not to cause even more stress to the puppy, he squatted down, extending his hand forward as if inviting a handshake in response.

At first the little creature hid, looking with black eyes at the limb as at a deadly threat, but Stanley had nowhere to hurry. He could return at any hour to halls, the main thing was that tomorrow morning in lectures he'd be able to be present not only in body but in mind. At least a bit.

Eventually, through absence of pressure and demands — curiosity conquered fear, besides the puppy had few alternative options — he couldn't physically flee.

Cringing to the ground as if this made him invisible, the dog noisily drew in air near his hand. Stanley, encouraged by the obtained promising result like a good mark in a diary, decided this progress was sufficient for strong trusting relations, and dared to pet the puppy on the head.

It worked out.

If you can call it that.

The animal froze, tensed its whole little body, apparently deciding that if it played dead, he wouldn't eat carrion.

Stanley froze, having made a grandiose mistake in the decision-making process.

He carefully moved his hand, smoothing dirty fur, not paying attention to how his fingers borrowed dirt onto themselves.

The puppy was tiny. Stanley felt how it trembled shamelessly from fear. The small heart pounded ribs from inside, it seemed there were no intervals between beats at all.

Stanley withdrew his hand, deciding not to rush the plot development between them two, and plopped onto neglected earth nearby, awkwardly greeting the wall with the back of his head.

He sat like a vigilant guard for a prolonged time, occasionally fidgeting with the aim of settling more comfortably and watching the little creature nearby.

Good thing he didn't serve the Queen, because they'd have executed him immediately — he'd decided to nap during duty.

His eyelids felt like heavy dumbbells in feeble hands.

It had managed to get dark on the street, and along with the sun that always won at hide-and-seek, air temperature had noticeably dropped, making falling into deep sleep impossible.

Stanley crossed his arms on his chest, hiding his fists in a closed gesture that gave himself warmth. During the time he'd arranged extreme "hardening" for himself, his weary brain had thrown out of his head any sensible explanation for his inadequate behaviour.

He should have gone to halls, of course...

But couldn't.

It's like when you've fallen asleep in a warmed car on the back seat, and here you're forced without prior written agreement to abandon your settled place to go out into winter street cold for further rolling into the house. Never mind that this should bring greater comfort afterwards, where you'll be able to sleep in bed like a normal person instead of twisting your own body to identical external resemblance with a snail's shell in a Lada.

Bloody dampness.

If his clothing hadn't soaked through from excessive humidity, reaching his body, and the air didn't stick to his bones along with an attempt to suffocate — it would be much warmer.

Something warm and soft nestled against his leg.

Stanley reluctantly, though interestedly opened one eye, tried to make out what it was.

His vision didn't focus, seeing objects through murky film — he had to thoroughly rub his eye, overdoing the persistence and only getting worsening of already existing symptoms combined with fine white fringe.

He gained sight after some time, and with some relief understanding he wasn't getting blind-deaf-mute status, he glanced down at the merging grey bundle near his blue tracksuit bottoms.

The first thing that came to mind — is that mould?

Such dampness, however...

Definitely not a night in scorching California. Not even in Portland.

Noticing that mould shouldn't breathe, Stanley woke finally.

The puppy.

Stanley sluggishly stirred numb limbs from their place so as not to wake the animal.

His whole body ached.

If you don't count another parts of his body that he simply didn't feel.

Having made sure that his legs, which he didn't feel even after testing with hand touch — were still in place inside the heavy fabric — he still managed to stand.

Stanley felt like a pirate who'd lost both legs and had to stand on stilts.

The second thought that conscience insisted on, obsessively whined in his head — he couldn't leave the puppy here.

Bending down, he carefully but reliably encompassed with his hands the tiny fluffy creature, lifting it above ground. It stirred, opening coal eyes, but didn't recognise sudden levitation as a sufficiently significant problem, deciding sleep was more important.

Stanley pressed the puppy to himself in such a way that it was comfortable to carry and wouldn't freeze, and dragged himself in the direction that, he hoped, led to halls.

Not counting time, he mechanically moved through streets, because he was focused on differently positioned priorities...

One priority.

When Stanley absentmindedly rummaged with one hand in his pocket, because the other was occupied, his fingers stroked material pleasant to touch from inside.

Wonderful that his tracksuit bottoms were made of such quality fabric.

Bad that he'd lost his card during the day.

More panickedly he began slapping himself with hand on pockets, even back ones he didn't have whatsoever, not feeling anything that could resemble a plastic rectangle.

Blood drained from his face.

Stanley was already a Victorian ghost — grey from cold, and now turned blue like a Smurf...

Complete fuck-up.

After the hundredth check he'd found no holes, and complaints about his own ham-fistedness led nowhere — so he had to ponder when he'd last even seen the card.

He'd opened these doors before, and after...

Shoved it in his pocket.

Jacket.

Now he wasn't in a jacket.

If before his legs hurt, now he stopped feeling them entirely through sudden weakness that pulled him with double gravity downward.

Stanley swiftly raised his hand, desperately boring eyes into the dial that showed too large a number that had much in common with the statement — reception had definitely already closed.

And he was stuck.

Not only him, if you took into account the still peacefully sleeping, carefree puppy.

He had neither friends nor mates whom he could phone in the middle of night or day with a request to let in this loser. And besides, Stanley was too shy to burden anyone generally at late hour through his inattention to trifles in pockets.

It remained to hope that one of the students would open the door for him, feeling a strong longing for a night walk under the moon... Sooner or later. Preferably sooner, but not in the morning.

Stanley gave up and wearily rolled onto the doorstep that wasn't now dirtier than his clothing, leaning back against the wall for at least some variety of support.

Fingers went through the dog's fur, who couldn't give a toss about his life troubles. At least one of them would sleep normally tonight.

He was torn from meditative activity by footsteps approaching with careful unhurriedness.

Stanley instantly jumped to his feet, charged with flared hope, straightening up like a post at "attention."

A person passed by as a black shadow, not paying him attention as if he wasn't there at all.

He extended his hand forward to catch the saving door handle, but it's deliberately slammed shut with force in front of his nose.

He sits arse-back to starting position, completely defeated.

Stanley could sleep without limits — anywhere and as much as he pleased. So even in Spartan conditions he didn't neglect this empty waste of time, knowing he wouldn't get enough sleep anyway.

He always sleeps very soundly, so much that he almost falls into lethargic sleep composed of a strip of nightmares that mockingly torment him more hours than a normal person. Because he sleeps like the dead and it's impossible to wake him, even turning on an angle grinder by his ear (which is why he has to set heaps of alarms) — this turns into real hell.

Stanley would have slept until the opened halls door crashed into him when an early bird flew out for morning survey of the territory.

He woke because he was being shoved, then they began heavily slapping paws on his shoulders and ears with gibberish.

Which actually turned out not to be mysterious cipher of a vanished civilisation but incomprehensible words.

"...mate. Din-mean.... didn't mean. Sorry..."

The prince on a white horse who was supposed to save his arse from haemorrhoids turned out to be a pissed student with whom Stanley had already dealt before.

Hiding the puppy as much as possible in his conditions, not having a jacket to hide the animal completely, he understood that the percentage of alcohol in the student's blood in no way affected the quality of his vision. Hoping he hadn't noticed something grey in Stanley's hands was highly reckless, taking into account the fact that on the street it had somehow become lighter, so it remained to rely on complete amnesia after drinking.

Seeping like soundless mist behind the student, Stanley without extra questions finally found himself in halls, which he'd thought he'd reach only by morning.

The round, lopsidedly hung clock at that very second hastened to disappoint him, loudly ticking, drew attention to the hand moving towards the figure that Stanley cursed when setting his first alarm. He always postponed it or turned it off completely and always after this solemnly ran late.

Meaning he'd ended up in halls only by morning. Wonderful.

Not paying attention to obvious fatigue and desire to crash out in the middle of the dusty corridor, Stanley still dragged himself like a zombie to the needed floor, but instead of crossing the finishing line and crashing out in the middle of, still the corridor, at least of his room — he went into the kitchen.

A place that he hated with all fibres of remains of his sucked-out soul due to constant clashes with other residents who resembled unpolished apes to Stanley not only through external similarities.

Monkeys... That is people... weren't there yet, but this didn't mean he didn't need to hurry. He had golden minutes left that he had no permission to waste into nowhere.

With all consciousness and self-assured purposefulness he opened the fridge with the aim of nicking someone else's. He himself hadn't bought products, and someone had borrowed his for free — so it was quite fair if he took enemy ones.

Sceptically read several inscriptions from bright, crookedly stuck papers that he managed to decipher.

A tasty piece of sausage teased him with shine of fat on surface, and Stanley had to remind himself with effort that he was choosing something not for himself or desire to add several extra kilos.

Nearby lay some cheese, unclear whether it had mould through expensiveness or cheapness.

Below someone had either stomach problems or an extreme diet. Stanley kindly nicked boiled eggs and rice, making someone's diet already dangerous for health.

All other surfaces were clogged with either cheap ready meals with endless expiry dates or cobwebs thanks to poverty.

Stanley couldn't find any meat, and fatty doctor's sausage from toilet paper wasn't suitable — so the puppy would have to make do with the meagre vegetarian set.

He'd have to rummage through the fridge more often at night while everyone sleeps — maybe someone would just happen to fancy boiling chicken.

With stolen food in one hand and a surprisingly docile puppy in the other, Stanley headed to his room, crawling along the wall like in a horror game with stealth mission.

Generally, his life wasn't much different from the "horror" genre.

Not only had he smuggled an animal into halls, which was forbidden by regulations, he'd also borrowed someone's products for an indefinitely eternal term.

Insane weight easily plopped onto his shoulder, making him shudder and execute a filigree pirouette of one hundred eighty degrees, ending up face to face with the human embodiment of booze breath.

"Hey... Is there still wa... water in the kitchen?"

Stanley slowly blinked, not immediately understanding what was required of him.

The possibility of providing a clear answer was blocked through occupied hands and the fact that his efforts would remain distant from understanding anyway.

Leaving his answer in the form of a shrug along with avoiding eye contact, Stanley hastened to hide in his room.

Finally.

When the door slammed shut behind him, he sighed, closing his eyes.

What a day.

Though the second day had already begun...

Stanley dropped the provisions on the table, he dragged the puppy, already awakened from change of surrounding environment, into the bathroom to at least somehow rinse it of dirt and nimble fleas.

He actually poorly accounted for what exactly and how he was doing through exhaustion, purely mechanically washing the animal that hysterically struggled as if he'd done this a hundred times before and had a black belt in this discipline and certificate with honorary title.

This was a feasible task for him, despite sticking eyes and nodding-forward nose. He just needed to keep in his head that he should cover the puppy's ears, monitor water temperature and not soap it with three-in-one shampoo despite strong desire, because dried mud wouldn't scrape off.

Upon more thorough examination of fur, Stanley with a puzzled face noticed a small yellow stain on the dog's side that probably was paint. Surprisingly, it didn't wash off either.

Resigned to the fact that the white dog would remain yellow-grey, Stanley mercilessly sacrificed his only towel with which he wiped his whole body, and now also a dog.

Because the puppy craved sleep no less than Stanley, it no longer showed resistance, having spent remains of strength on fruitless struggle in the bath, letting him do with it whatever the student pleased.

It remained to feed the puppy, otherwise in the stuffy room the stolen goods would perish in vain without the poorly working semblance of a fridge.

Stanley, not wasting an extra moment on thoughts about sanitary norms and hygiene — sat the animal on the table.

Despite all Stanley's invested efforts to separate egg from shell without crushing into complete mush — the puppy seemed to be fussy in the matter of nutrition or wasn't dying of hunger as Stanley had thought at first glance.

Having eaten a bit of egg and rice without interest, it stood over remains... that comprised more than half... of food with closed eyes, swaying in different directions like a swing left by children in a yard.

If Stanley himself wasn't half-dead through fatigue, he probably would have felt burning irritation, so he was haunted only by feeling of emptiness accompanied by smouldering apathy.

Squeamishness — an unknown concept for Stanley, so he easily finished what remained after the puppy, hoping that if something happened after such a meal, it would be lethal.

Having no strength in reserve to tidy the mess scattered around Stanley's small apartments, he collapsed onto the dense mattress positioned by the far wall.

It felt as if it was simply a stone slab covered with fabric.

But Stanley had small differences from a dog — he could sleep even on the floor, so didn't complain.

Firmly, like his mattress, having decided he mustn't leave the puppy on the floor without first buying a bed at the pet shop, he dragged it to himself, hoping it wouldn't fall from bed or Stanley wouldn't crush it when at night he'd toss and turn from side to side as if he had ants in his pants.

In bed it was still better to sleep than on the cold floor.

Stanley threw over them both a thin, scratched blanket that seemed to consist of dust and hair. Moreover not Stanley's. But even this wasn't capable of engaging squeamishness, so he pressed this blanket even to his face, not paying attention to the roughness of bristle, consoling himself with naive thoughts about prickly wool in composition.

He carefully pulled the puppy to himself, who at the first opportunity relaxedly stretched out paws and began snoring, not opposing being a teddy bear for hugs.

Stanley quickly switched off, not even changing clothes.

And didn't set an alarm.