Work Text:
An ordinary day. You wake from sleep. Fragments of images break through the veil of your mind, and you see what you were dreaming just a few minutes ago. Trying to grasp the scraps of memories, you only make them slip away into oblivion. You slowly throw off the blanket and stand on the cold floor with bare feet. You look at the clock and, with a certain relief, see that you still have an hour before school. Without delay, you grab the first food you find from the table — something your father bought you. It always consists of dough and some kind of meat inside. You don't think about what you're eating. It's become routine, and there's no time for it anyway. Life goes on, and you need to keep up.
Quickly finishing your daily breakfast, washing it down with the same sweet juice as always, you head to the bedroom. Trying to be as quiet as possible so as not to wake your mother, you gather your clothes: jeans, worn from walking along the city's dirty streets; a shirt with striped sleeves that hides your body from other people every day; a vest that hasn't changed its appearance since the first grade of your school. You carry them back to the kitchen, to the sofa where you slept. For some reason, you've grown comfortable falling asleep alone in a solitary room, alone with your thoughts. You slowly put the clothes on yourself.
Finally, you take your backpack and spare shoes for sports. You don't wear regular spare shoes, but you have to bring them for PE. They are the most important things you own, aside from your phone, which perpetually resides in your pocket. This tiny object has always given you so much happiness. Many people share their ideas, jokes, and problems. When people talk about their lives, it's as if it connects you to them. Though the main reason you use it is that your mind gets distracted from the real world and your problems. It's as if you become a spectator who can only speak, not act. This relieves you of all responsibility.
You walk through the morning streets of your neighborhood. They are always the same, but that doesn't make them off-putting. On the contrary, you take joy in the familiar feeling when you walk along the road leading to school. Then you finally pass through the metal gates and, moving past the children, step onto the porch of your school. Your lips slowly and imperceptibly curse this place, though it's merely another attempt to shed responsibility for your failures. Failures that have haunted you since birth. They may be small or enormous, but they all bring sadness. That unites them.
You pass through the turnstile, always open to everyone. Fool or not, your entrance to school is open. Sometimes you wonder whether you're counted among the 'fools' or the 'geniuses.' You come to the conclusion that you are you. Neither of them. You drop your things on the floor next to the coatroom and take off your winter clothes. You close the pockets of your jacket, into which you've placed your gloves, hood, and hat. You put them there because you're too lazy to carry them in your backpack, whose space is already taken by gym pants and textbooks. You walk into the coatroom and hang your things on the first hook you find. Sometimes you manage to find a free spot, sometimes not. Fate guides you, whether you want it or not. Perhaps such small things are fate.
You take your backpack and walk down the corridor to the staircase. Your gaze catches the slush on the floor and the voice of the hall monitor complaining about it. Your mind quietly utters: "The floor is as dirty as this school. As dirty as me."
You climb the stairs to the third floor. To your slight surprise, you don't see your classmates, only younger children. The third floor belongs to the elementary grades, but some of your lessons are held here. You step aside to the wall and compose your body, as if shying away from the happiness radiating from these children. You take out your phone and start scrolling through the social media feed. Lately, it has become your companion, never leaving you for a minute in your free time.
All the posts are the same: questions meant to draw attention and get comments; jokes and memes intended to brighten the days of your lives, and actively succeeding in their task; people sharing their hardships and quarrels. One of the latest posts catches your attention. You read the text in English. You've known this language for a long time now. Your ego makes you think of this skill as something outstanding and significant. This ability often helps you find common ground on that same social network or watch videos about people from all over the world. Sometimes you envy the residents of Western lands for the friendliness and openness in them. You yourself, however, are like a lock. You'll never open unless someone finds the key. But you are rotting, and the desire to open up often strikes at your psyche. You simply leave the text, without finishing reading it and without bothering to leave kind words. You saw that another person had already written it, so why should you think about someone else?
Often you came across gays and representatives of other sexualities. Having been born in Russia, you always thought of them as idiots and strange people. Recently, you began talking with a guy from Germany. At first, you only created roleplays of your characters. You often did this ever since you created your heroes and began writing a story for them. For the most part, they remained in your head, but sometimes you poured them onto paper, mostly electronic. You roleplayed as a gay character. You liked him because you had written him as cruel, cunning, flirtatious, and beautiful. All these qualities gave him a certain sense of freedom. He wasn't accountable for his actions, and no one could force him to be. Freedom is something you sometimes lacked. Playing as him, you often imagined yourself in his image. It amused you and made you forget about your own world. Later, the simple roleplay turned into light flirting. You always knew you were weak to people who showed you tenderness. This had been proven long ago in your childhood. As a little boy, not even ten years old, you experienced a fake feeling of love for a girl from a game. Like all children at that age, you pretended to be someone older. Then a rift happened between you. You yourself don't know why, but that person stayed in your memory for a long time. Perhaps it was 'love,' the kind they talk about in movies. You never know what it feels like to experience it, for love has no fixed definition. It's as if you're supposed to just know what it is. Something similar happened with your online friend. Just a small nickname, 'darling,' produced an effect on you comparable to falling in love. As if you were so pitiful that you clung to every compliment.
Your friend, having finally arrived at school and made it to your floor, touches your shoulder with his own. Is that supposed to be a greeting? You only utter a quiet 'Hello' and burrow back into your phone. Why is it so hard for you to say a stupid greeting? They're just words.
The bell rings. Your friend has already gone, and you enter the classroom. You sit at the edge, among the rows of desks standing side by side. You slowly take chairs down from the desks not occupied by your classmates. Many are late or sick. As usual. Such trifles no longer surprise you. Why did you start taking the chairs down? Out of a desire to receive praise? Or out of the so-called 'man's duty,' which consists of appearing strong and caring? You yourself don't know, and digging into it doesn't interest you. You see the teacher again. Your thoughts revolve around one thing: 'I hope they give us little work, or she leaves the classroom.' Ordinary thoughts of a schoolboy. Maybe you should be ashamed of them because of such a lazy mind? You don't know this, and you accept your laziness as a given. You've lived with it always, and it's too late to change.
The lesson begins. Silence. You do the assignment and slowly translate the text given to you. French lesson. You know this language far worse than English. Exchanging words with your classmate, you rejoice at the teacher's absence from the room and take out your phone to help with the translation. Your classmate is not your friend. You've never seen anything beautiful or special in her. To be honest, she seems stupid to you.
Therefore, you value her only more than an ordinary passerby, but less than your friend. You'll never tell her this, because you don't want her to think badly of you. Even though you think badly of everyone, you don't wish that for yourself. How narcissistic.
The lesson continues, and one of those who was late enters the class. A girl who recently joined your class. Your opinion of her is still shaky, but you hold a certain respect for her, formed as a result of her circle of acquaintances. She was friends with the smartest girls in your class, and therefore earned respect — both theirs and yours.
Then another classmate arrives. He has always irritated you. Why? He never studied. He only ever talked with his idiot friends and enjoyed life. The teacher notices his dirty shoes leaving marks on the floor and, with shouts, throws him out of the class. You tuck your legs under the desk out of a feeling of shame. You didn't have spare shoes either, but you hoped no one would yell at you and that no one would notice.
Your classmate is asked about the text. She answers: 'I can't answer.' This drives the teacher into a rage, and she starts shouting at her. You feel pity for this girl. She had previously said that her old school didn't have French, and here, unprepared for this subject, she has to answer like everyone else. Fortunately for you, who covered your ears, the bell rings, signaling that you can leave this room full of anger and sadness. On your way to the door, you see the classmate who had recently made a mess in the classroom. Shouts are heard again, but you are already leaving the classroom.
Then you meet up with all your friends. Sometimes they annoy you, but you are grateful that they spend their time on you. Catching yourself on such a thought, you think: 'Why am I thanking them? I give them joy too, so it's a mutually beneficial relationship.' Perhaps this is how you try to see yourself as the same kind of 'hero' saving them from sadness, just as they do for you. These thoughts don't linger long in your head. You start talking, as always. Your group of friends is rather unusual, though what can you compare this unusualness to for it to truly seem strange? And is it bad that they are strange? Maybe you are strange too.
One of them is a rather heavyset, slow, and quiet guy. He often plays games with you and, as it seems to you, has an extensive gaming history. You envy him a little, because not only does he have the ability to play all these games without facing judgment from his parents, but he also has an older brother who always supports him.
Your other friend is a talkative tall guy. He seems very chatty to you, and sometimes this drives you up the wall. He often talks about his projects, as if he had ever finished any of them or at least made them himself. His open and straightforward nature also makes you envious. In your life, you often couldn't start a conversation or do simple things because of your fear of speaking. How can he so easily say all those words? Why does he attract people to himself? What are you doing wrong?
Your last male friend is a short guy who always supports you. It seems to you that you two are the closest among all your friends. Therefore, you consider him your best friend. You joke about the same topics, take interest in similar things, and help each other. You've never hurt each other, and he always behaved in a way that you never saw anything stupid or bad in him. As if he suited you, like puzzle pieces fit each other.
You also have a female friend. The only one in your group. A diligent student, an honor student, and the kindest person you've ever met. Like an angel in this school that seems to you like hell full of sinners. You yourself are also one of these impure beings. She, however, surpasses you in everything. Her thoughts are pure, and her mind is always full of knowledge and attentiveness. You've never seen her lose at this life. As if she drew a lucky ticket. Your knowledge of her is mixed with the image hovering in your consciousness. It doesn't always match reality and is merely an elevated opinion of her, but you rely on it every time you see her.
Recently, you even had feelings for her. It was something like love, but soon your common sense won and made you forget about such a reckless act. Not only had she never shown any attraction to you, but you also wouldn't have had the ability or diligence to maintain something like a relationship. So you gave up on that idea. Those feelings really did pass, but you still feel a slight tenderness when looking at her. Unfortunately, it's mixed with envy of her intelligence, diligence, concentration, and all the qualities she has that you lacked.
The day passes unnoticed. Small assignments don't make you nervous or afraid. You are confident in your abilities. School has never been that hard compared to the extracurricular clubs you attended.
Your parents were always signing you up for various activities. This desire for you to develop sometimes angered you, because that childhood laziness was still present within you. Recently, you started attending a course where you studied advanced mathematical sciences. It was there that you realized how pathetic you were compared to others. While they easily completed all the problems and explained their solutions to the teachers, you only sat at the back of the class and solved a couple or three problems out of ten on the handouts that were given out practically every lesson. Not only could you not solve all the problems, you couldn't even explain your solution. A lump rose in your throat every time you thought about standing up and starting to submit your solved problems to the teachers. So you sat. You sat and watched as smarter, braver, and more talented students developed. You sat and cursed this world.
The day began drawing to a close. The last lessons began, and the time had passed well beyond noon. Finally, the last lesson — PE — reached its start. Hearing that the lesson would be outside, you joyfully rushed to the coatroom for your jacket. Putting it on, you followed your best friend outside. Your whole group was gathered, and you began talking and making small jokes at each other's expense. You noticed that your female friend's jacket was dirty and heard that it had been knocked off the hanger and trampled. Such things often happen, as the coatrooms aren't the most spacious places in your school, but you are a little struck by how dirty it ended up. Your face breaks into a smile, hidden by your hood. You don't know whether this gloating is genuine or just another pretense you've put on yourself for the sake of creating a certain image. Soon you forget about it and throw all your efforts into cheering up your friends.
The lesson ends. You say goodbye. You turn your back to them and head back home. You feel a slight hunger, having eaten nothing since 8 a.m., but the only thing you can do is keep walking along the path home.