84(ENG)

Без названия, Часть 1

The room is locked from the inside, and if, in a rage, his father does decide to break down the door, there will be time to escape through the window. Ben has already packed as much of his most essentials into his backpack as he can carry. The decision is firm and final. He's moving out, permanently, most likely.The guy opens the window. A light, summery freshness wafts in from the street. The wind ruffles the blue strands sticking out of his red beret. All the lights, every ray of light, all find reflection in his black eyes. A gaze of a hundred hopes. And even if, expectations don't come true, it's better than what it was anyway. Of course, Ben could write, perhaps to the only friend he has now. To say goodbye. But, thinking ahead, he decided to keep silent now, and let Grace know when there was no point in the chase. Freedom at last. No one else's hands would press his wrists against the cold wall, and no one would touch his neck, causing any pain at all. Burns, in his case, are not a pleasant sensation. And you know, it's too early to draw conclusions. Who's to say that his wrists won't end up more at the tiles that cover the bathroom walls, too, and that the thin, delicate skin on his neck won't be damaged? Something foreign, to this body. But, something different. The air pleasantly burns the lungs. Images of unloved parents, as if the wind had dispelled, forever."There will be no more of that nasty smell of cigarettes, no more of that cruelty in my eyes."He descends first down thethe drainpipe, which for some years now has borne the weight of his carcass without interruption, and then, reaches down to the ground with the aid of a nearby tree. For, the gutter cliffs too high for him to just take, and jump. His heart seems to beat in the same rhythm, with the same frequency that the world is now breathing. For a millisecond, his confidence somehow wavered. But, not determination. The strength to be in this hell was gone. Neither fear nor, if that were the case, lack of proper opportunity would stop him now. No matter how hard he worked at it.Somewhere out there, beyond the shingle cover of his own, but not his own home, everything was moving at a different pace. Right down to the cars whose drivers seemed to follow the same rules. I wonder how beautiful all this "anarchy" looks from above?The "warm," orangeish light of the streetlights illuminates him as well as anything else-was only worth it when he stepped out from under the roof of the house that casts a shadow. In this light, his face, full of hope for a brighter future, shines brighter than ever. In fact, if he were to paint himself on a canvas now, given his not-so-small experience, the picture would look alive. Exactly as he was now, reflecting his inner state of mind.Unfortunately, he wasn't up to it right now. As fast as possible, in a casual burst of paranoia, (as if his parents would immediately notice his absence and go after him), shuffling from one alleyway to another, through dark corners, he heads cautiously but surely toward the small train station from which the streetcars ran. His heart is beating very fast. Maybe even too fast. Either from joy or from fear. Who knows?Saved in secret, for a few years of money enough, perhaps, and for a small apartment, for permanent residence, and on a ticket to the right place - even more so.The old, beautiful square near the entrance, preserved from Soviet times, is surprisingly not crowded today. The bustle has subsided. Although, by the way, if you come to your senses a little bit, weekend evening. Lots of people here mostly on weekdays, early in the morning. Ben himself had managed to catch that lively minute, hour a few times... despite his, up to that point, reclusive lifestyle. More importantly, it wasn't his fault. It was his parents' fault. They didn't trust him. They weren't supportive, much less supportive. Fortunately, or unfortunately for some, their attempt to create a perfect replica of himself turned out to be a failure. An obvious failure, and now, there would be no question of trying either.Ben headed a little farther from the entrance, to buy a ticket.It went, surprisingly, very quickly and quietly. Almost didn't have to stand in line for a ticket. Not surprising, again. Who, from such a metropolis, would need to go to that little town? Strange that there was a direct flight there at all. Odd, and very good. It is unlikely that he could even support himself in any way in another nearby city, in the state he is in now. After all, the more developed, larger any city, any country, the more expensive absolutely everything is there. Or, in his megalopolis he is just used to this principle?The streetcar itself, too, did not keep him waiting too long. Just fifteen minutes, and Ben had already taken his seat. There were plenty of empty seats, but still, some people were present. They were quietly looking out the big windows. But, every single one of them. They looked just as alive. The heavy weight inherent in the unknown was lifted from their shoulders. Abruptly, and unexpectedly. It must have been the locals, heading home to their homeland now.Ben had never been to small towns like this before. He had never socialized with "ordinary," low-income people. Again, through no fault of his own at all. That's about to change. Looking at the expanse of already unfamiliar places, like forests growing freely between populated areas, it was impossible not to believe in the best. Was this what freedom was all about? Something more than he could have imagined before. The simple steppes, the forests, seemed to flicker in panorama outside the windows. But, as a man who had never seen them so closely, he was even more excited than he had once believed.The hours on the road seemed like minutes, if he forgot himself in his own thoughts for a long time. In anticipation of the long-awaited feeling of freedom, he was suffocated in phantom sensations, completely losing the boundaries of time, of space. Absolutely all the boundaries humans had ever put on this world, in their eyes.Undoubtedly, someone could get bored, in his seemingly unremarkable place. It would seem to be just a ride, in a slightly shabby streetcar, into the same shabby city, shattered by time and the contingent of its inhabitants. But, how many ideas of how he could live by his own rules had already emerged in his mind. For so many who own this opportunity, by right of absolutely everyone, it is quite commonplace. But, not for someone who has spent many years, sometimes literally, locked up.The bright walls catch the eye. They are covered with numerous drawings. Bright pictures, sometimes depicting something crazy, or simply abstract. In general, Benj had always imagined graffiti artists to be very creative, interesting people. For some reason, it always seemed that they were open-minded, free-spirited people at heart. After all, in this situation "nothing will happen to me" might simply not work. In fact, to some extent, these people sacrifice their safety, so to speak, for the sake of art. However, this is also on the assumption that this kind of art was rare in his hometown. After all, "there's no place for these...vandals! ; defacing city property, not art." His mother had always felt that way, and of course, as always, was not averse to sharing her point of view with her son, to put it mildly. Each time she thought he should be in agreement with her. In that house, though, it was easier to nod in agreement than to prove anything at all. Right down to such insignificant, objective topics.Beyond the simple inscriptions, he was now being stared at by hundreds of eyes of certain entities that were, apparently, someone else's fantasy. He involuntarily wondered how such images could ever pop up in anyone's mind. So vivid, so beautiful, and repulsive at the same time.Especially memorable, of the immediate set, was some flower with pink petals. Not an ordinary one, in principle. And there were a lot of unnatural things attributed to it. Like a floating face with hundreds of eyes. It was both frightening and mesmerizing at the same time. I wondered what the author of this drawing was.Strangely, though, a thousand guesses floated around as to who he might be. Could it be her, or them? Why does he even care? As if this person would at least have some effect on his life.The fact that the bus is already in the right neighborhood, for example.And I think he finally figured it out. This place isn't much different from the rest of the city, though. All the same Khrushchev buildings, often characteristic of residential neighborhoods here, small stores, chain stores at times, and the ones he could recognize. All of this, for some reason, brings some inexplicable warmth to his soul, makes him feel so much better. As if, here, the future would be happier and brighter, and the danger to life and health would be much less. The latter, however, is difficult to explain, depending on the much lower level of security in general, anything, and the contingent, obviously not superior to that that was in his, formally, hometown.Only, the inscription, very often located exactly in the area of his future residence, on the walls caught his eye almost immediately. These identical markings were not particularly decorated in any way, just written in black paint, in a slightly unusual font."84"I wonder what that even means. However, after a couple of minutes it did not bother him much, unlike the previously mentioned flower.And so, the streetcar pulls up to the stop, from which you can even see the house where Ben will now live. Lucky, though, we don't even have to look for it, in a completely unfamiliar city, among completely unfamiliar people. The fact that this could happen was frightening and unsettling to the poor man, but today his luck had turned on him.He looked around one last time and waited for the transport to stop finally, he stepped a little uncertainly on the ground, hitherto not at all familiar. It even smelled somehow different, though how, and with what, is hardly possible to describe or explain. The air seemed fresher, and everything around him looked less empty, far from the standards to which he had managed to get reluctantly used to, and which all his life they tried to impose on him at home. In this gray "ugliness," in the few and badly shabby houses, spontaneously growing somewhere right in the yards, but not at the behest of some new environmental project that does no more good than Ben's parents' "efforts" at the moment, in these old playgrounds, that had probably been built before the collapse of the Soviet Union, there was something beautiful in the unkempt overall picture that was made up of all factors, illuminated now by those very orangeish lights, which, perhaps, can give a whole new color to anything. Yes, he had really lucked out with the streetcar so much, the stop was right about a meter from his yard.The apartment, fortunately, was booked, so to speak. In fact, the landlord should be waiting for him there now, to let him inspect the place before buying, and, of course, to accept payment, mostly in cash. In fact, Benj didn't really care if the appearance matched the one in the picture. One could hardly expect anything different at all from an ordinary one-room apartment in an old khrushchevka house.felt.The code that could be entered into the intercom, in case there were no keys, had already been resolved beforehand, so there was no question of how to get in. Going up to the third, of the five existing floors, he went straight to the door, with the number 29. As always, even in such a seemingly correct and ordinary situation, the poor man felt something mixed with uncertainty, shyness, and fear. The years of living in that, in fact, very dysfunctional family could not go unnoticed, apparently. He stood for a few minutes, trying to make up his mind, before simply knocking on the door. The characteristic knocks, on an object at least somewhat empty inside, rang out as soon as he was able to engage his trembling hand to do so.Almost immediately, hearing the clicking of the opening lock, he involuntarily shrank for a second, but, a moment later, came back to his normal state, not even having time, so far, to see the owner of the apartment. But, and this, in fact, quite pleasant part of the day did not make him wait too long for his appearance.From behind the open door appeared a rather nice-looking woman, about thirty-five, forty years old, I guess. Her blond, curly, rather short hair was sticking up her face a little, covering her ears as well. An old-looking dress, legs, in nothing but capron tights. Or stockings, perhaps. She walked around the apartment shoeless, though, for it was warm inside. The friendly tone of her voice, with which she greeted Ben from the start, inspired confidence, and his characteristic calm. The stranger responded, in a way, with the same warm greeting, only with much less confidence. And it seems, very much in vain. After all, everything went smoothly and very nicely afterwards. The deal, or rather, just the purchase of the apartment was done without any disputes or accidents. Not only that, the woman treated her buyer with tea, leaving a whole box of tea bags for him. Most likely on purpose.In any case, the sun behind, now his window had gone down long ago, and the time that was now passing all the events, it is difficult to call late evening. Night, rather. Inspecting his new home, not at all superior, and not seemingly worse than all his expectations. The dwelling lived up to them completely: a little old, rudimentary renovation, completely the same criteria of furniture, like cabinets with nothing inside at all. Not surprising.He flopped down on the bed right away, even though there were no sheets, no bedding at all. Immediately he fell into a deep, restful sleep. The rain poured outside the window at night, lulling his soul and giving him, somehow, a calmness and inner joy he had never felt before.