Chapter Text
The morning Sun rises over a new day in the small city of Sebež, making sure to lighten the shiny and scenic layer of hoarfrost created in the night, though being the latest days of August still. It is quite typical of cold places like Russia to be rather icy, it's like written in the country's DNA. The Sun rays reach out for the people's windows, begging to be let in. One of them successfully crosses Ivan's face, forcing him to wake up, grunting. The man turns in his linen sheets, refusing the Sun's offer to start a new day. But its imperative demeanor finally wins his lazy eyes, making him open them wide. He hadn't planned anything for the day, he stares at the ceiling as if it held any response. He sighs deeply, forcing himself upright in his bed to watch the early news. It became a sort of routine of his, though it wasn't always the most cheerful, it eased him to know how the world had been while he was out of action. The regular news reporter makes his appearance on the box screen, his big-glassed-eyes seem to pierce through it as usual. His high-pitched yet croaky voice is generally the first sound he ever hears in the morning – sometimes even before his own.
«[Good morning, here's the news. The recent research that the local scientists and meteorologists were studying has come to an interesting phenomena concerning the solar activity. They speculate it could potentially turn into a worrisome matter, with temperatures rising higher than we ever could imagine. While waiting for further explanations, I'll leave you to the weather forecast for the day.]»
Ivan scoffs, thinking about how annoying it was to be awaken by the Sun rays.
The weather reporter appears shortly after being announced, and Ivan wonders how come he knows how the weather even looks like, having his hair all over his sharp face. His voice, way more relaxing and deep than the previous, fills his ears:
«[As previously reported, the temperatures will only but rise throughout the day, though clouds will partly cover the Sun...]»
Nothing's new, then. It's been the whole damn summer, and the news reports the same damn things over and over again: the Sun's temperature on Earth is higher than normal standards, and they yet don't want to admit it's just the “global warming” scientists had prophesied about finally taking action. They probably don't want to alarm people as they should. Ivan passes a hand over his right eye and scratches it, while the ads trail right after what he had just watched, greedy and impatient as always, not even letting him process. He finally gets up, stretching his back with his arms contorted in geometric poses and opens his bedroom door, having to shut his eyes before doing so, for his bedroom was always the darkest spot in the house and his eyes easily got used to the darkness. Hell if he was ever opening that window. Nope, never again. He wouldn't have bare it.
Brightness dripping from the window shutters in the corridor slashed his figure like darting blades – the only source of light in the passage – facing once more the unpleasant sight of his old house; he moves over nonetheless. Before heading to the kitchen, he contemplates the vintage radio on the furniture on his right, which looks has if it had been sitting there since the 50s. Still does its diligent work, though.
«Mh, why not.» says he, out loud, turning the radio on. He starts fiddling with the knob to catch a signal that isn't only broadcasting news or men receiving calls from their listeners. He really doesn't feel like hearing the sound of silence the whole day, so he's eager to find a good song to ease the eeriness of it. Finally, an ancient tune exiles, filling those empty rooms, amplifying the loneliness that seem to ooze from the very wallpaper.
♫ Heartaches, heartaches... my loving you meant only heartaches...♫
He shrugs, putting the radio back to its usual post, letting the lovely sizzle of old music follow him and keep him company as his day starts. He reaches for the calendar hung on the wall and rips off the page of the previous day, mentally reading the new one's: ‹August 30th 2000, Wednesday; “Caretaker Day”.› He had never fully understood the meanings of those writings, he had grabbed the first calendar he found at the thrift shop before the year had fully started (he wanted to make sure the New Year's frenzy was over before creeping out again, so he waited 'till the end of January). This year in particular – he reckons – it had been one of the most chaotic New Year's Day he'd ever seen, and the most concerned. After all, it's the millennium changeover, of course people superstitiously believe something apocalyptic is going to happen.
‹Tsk, sure.› he had scoffed.
Now the infamous year was coming to an end and nothing had ever happened.
He seeks for something to eat and finds nothing but some leftovers that would've gone to waste if not eaten – surely not suited for one's breakfast.
«Well, it's not that I have any other choices, have I?» says he to himself, as if arguing with a voice inside, telling him ‹Is that really all we have?›
As he consumes his dreadful meal, he realizes with horror he's running out of supplies. This could only mean one thing...
«Shit. I'm running low on food. I'll have to go to the...» he gulps with irritation «... to the store. That's the last thing I wanted... but, now that I think of it, it's been quite a while since I last supplied... maybe in the basement... nah, I checked yesterday, it was emptied, 'ate the last can of beans. Well, except for those potatoes, but there's no way I'm feeding on those for a month to come.» he sighs, deeply sinking into desperation as he savors the idea of getting out of his house – his den – tasting just like the moldy food in his mouth. He loudly grunts, as if to let the whole property know his discontent.
He loathes going out, for any possible reason.
He hates dealing with people, for any possible reason.
But it's a necessary sacrifice, or else, he'll starve. And just then, an idea bolts his mind, an electric shock of unhealthy genius shakes his body.
«I could go in the morning,» reveals to the walls, his partners in crime «so fewer people will be at the market. If I'm fast enough, I can catch the first bus. Then, I'll get enough food for me to survive for another year. Sounds good to me.» he nods, content with the plan he came up with.
He relaxes on his seat, looking around in his kitchen. The cabinet, crammed with unused fancy dishes. The fridge, nude of magnets and nude of content. The empty crates of beers on the counter top with their ring-pulls proudly popped – a reminder to take out the trash, on his way out, and that he's out of beers, too. Same, old kitchen. His lips drop in delusion, as if he was expecting someone to rejoice along. She would've chuckled.
Despite being used to it, it sometimes hits him suddenly, to be all alone in his house. The song on the radio ends, but he had been zoning out for some minutes now and had stopped listening. He shrugs the previous feeling off and gets up, heading towards the bathroom for his morning routine. He washes his teeth, trying to brush off that mixed bitterness of decaying food and loneliness. His reflection meets him when he pulls his head up.
«Damn, I look so miserable. Dad would've told me to 'straighten up and stiffen up that upper lip', as if he wasn't the one making me feel this way. Well, at least my teeth are clean.» he passes his tongue all over his upper row.
He thought about what to do for the rest of the day. Tidying up, maybe. Again. Well, he could always mess around so he would have an excuse to tidy up once more.
«Nah, that's just stupid, I'm not that desperate yet.» says the one talking to himself not to feel that unbearable sense of void. Actually, he doesn't see why people find it weird to talk out loud to themselves. That's why he prefers being on his own. People just aren't capable of accepting one another's usages. Because “they're okay and you're not”; as if we aren't all of the human race.
«Well, I'll just make a huge list of stuff I may need, so tomorrow I'll go and strike without taking too much time. Where have I last seen some paper...»
He shuffles around the closet, where he held a printer with no papers, nor computer to connect it. He grunts and goes to the office. He erroneously calls it that: it's simply that spare room that old houses are used to own where you don't really know what to do with it, so you turn it into “The Office”, despite it not having the basic furniture to be allowed to be called that way: a desk, stacks of documents, annoying cold-led lights, a computer... maybe, if he had only put the printer there, it would've given the semblance of being so, at least. As it turns out, not even a post-it is found. He remembers he might have something in his night stand, so he heads to his bedroom. By doing so, he stops in front of the window right before his room, the one facing his neighbor's house. He gives a quick look through: the man and his daughter are just leaving, dressed in light clothes, presumably heading to the beach. The little girl is clearly impatient to leave, she's already outside jumping all around, while his neighbor is taking something from inside. He reappears with a huge unicorn-shaped life buoy around his waist; his daughter laughs.
Karl is the only person in the neighborhood who was ever kind and comprehensive towards Ivan. He wouldn't headfirst judge him like the other people did, and never dared to pity him, which he appreciated. He understood him immediately. They haven't been living there for long, but knew enough of Ivan's story to understand his behavior. Despite that, he often tried to get him out of his shell, offering him a beer at the bar or other hangouts. Ivan respected him fondly. He's a good man, and a great father to his kid. How old must she be now? 6? 7? Ivan has seen her growing up from afar and the brief moments he met her she wouldn't pay much attention to the conversations between two boring adults like him and his dad. He barely remembers her name. But seeing the two of them together like that makes him feel lighter.
He gets to his room, slams the drawer open and dives his hand in the dimness of the room, until it recognizes the consistence of paper and a pen. Heading back to the kitchen, the first thing he writes down is, unironically, “papers”. He then spends the whole day listing down all the possible things he may need, checking his house meticulously. He opens every cabinet, goes through every shelf, until he's run out of space to write. At last, he rests down on his living room couch. The heat and the frenzy had drained all possible energies he had left. He wipes away some sweat upon his brow:
«Would you look at that? So many things to get tomorrow...» he yawns «Wait, what time is it?» he checks the window next to the kitchen, twilight painting the skies «The Sun's down already!? I had completely lost track of time! I should get some sleep. But first, a little treat.» he opens the fridge to a single can of beer. He slurps it whole in one sip, gasping with pleasure at the end. The cold liquid against his hot throat creates a perfect contrast.
«Ahh, nothing's better than a beer after the maddening heat!» he exhales, crushing the can in his fist and adding it to the pile on the counter. His stomach is empty, so the alcohol hits faster and harsher, tiring him down.
«So, the market opens at 8am. To get to the bus station by foot takes half an hour, plus 20 minutes of ride. Taking into account the unexpected events of the case, if I set my alarm to 6:30am, I should get there right before it opens.» he likes having everything under control, makes him feel secured.
He lays down on his bed, ready to face the inevitable of tomorrow, but with the confidence to succeed in his task. The house silently bids him goodnight, as he slowly surrenders his eyes to slumber.