FOOD FOR THE WOLVES, After three years of a certain incident that happened in your past, you finally manage to get over this trauma. In Russia (your native country) you meet a person you never thought you would see again, or at least you thought so...
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Everything is overcast with white snow like its flakes. The trees are dyed white as they jig side by side to the rhythm of the chilly breeze. The fume emanating from your cigarette turns into a plume when the wind elevate it. Cigarette smoke rises up the gullet and nostril, advancing before attain the lungs and accrue. The nicotine in that tobacco made you addicted, but not enough to make you smoke a pack a day like those cocaine addicts who were inebriate on the streets. The cool air whirl the trees and herbage that have managed to rise to the surface. You just inhale the air as you breathe. Soon your gullet would ache from breathing so much freezing air.
Your leisurely hues did not articulate any emotion, just a hollow tedium. Your lips didn't curve into a smile, just a neutral expression. Your hands were cold, but at least you had one in your pocket, heating it. The other sustain the cigarette blandly. You let out a lengthy, profound breath, much longer than you normally do. Cold air rushes out of your mouth and is rapidly out of the eyesight. You close your eyes and commence thinking about what you were going to do tonight.
In the dead end where the moonlight scarcely reaches where you are is awfully perilous. Not only because they can thieve or murder you, but also because of rape and abuse. You never comprehend why that passage gave you tranquility, but you were conscious of the peril that lurk in the obscurity. You didn't care in the slightest, as long as they don't disturb you on your little nighttime outings, you didn't have a hassle with them.
After the finished cigarette, thrown on the ground, you observe it for a few seconds that turn into trances from which you end up coming out after a short time. Your gaze is appointed towards the exit of the alley. It isn't long before your booty feet wend one's way through the thick snow that runs all across Russia. You were determined to get to your apartment before something upsetting happened.
The baritone and mezzo-soprano pitchs that were heard from afar made their way into your brain to dance non-stop. Its tones burst your ears. Their drunken voices annoyed you and their words tortured you. They didn't need to be noisy at night. Why make noise at night? They talked about nonsense. They were all talking about sex, how a slut has gigantic bosom that nourish needy teenagers, how their asses and thighs are huge and appetizing, and how their cunt tasted like dulcet milk. One could only feel disgust and hatred towards those people, a desire to want to kill them and smash them with a hammer until their brains scattered on the snowy ground until they shut up. You weren't going to go on a rampage now, but you would consider it.
