Vlad | Fateful night

Vlad no longer wanted to live. What was the point in dragging it out further when the world was, in so many ways, cruel and indifferent? People love to say that life is beautiful, you just need to stop projecting your negativity onto it. But how do you live with a positive mindset when your entire life is a series of loneliness and utter shit? They say depression didn't exist before, that people lived "truly prosperous lives." But then why were fathers found hanged in barns, why was exhaust piped into cars, why did entire generations hide in alcohol? So, even then, it all ultimately boiled down to not wanting to live anymore.

Loneliness devoured Vlad everywhere. He thought it was the country, the people around him. He traveled, learned to communicate with foreigners, tried making new acquaintances — nothing worked out. He never felt like a priority for anyone. He was always the one put last in friendship, in relationships. In relationships, he was the first to be betrayed. He loved, and they cheated on him. First — the one he considered his first true love. He found messages with another man on her phone, and she just coldly said, "You take things too seriously." Then — another one, who swore fidelity until she vanished for a weekend "with friends." Vlad understood then: for others, he was a convenient background figure, but never anyone's choice. His family demanded the impossible from him, and then disowned him, throwing him out onto the street like unwanted trash. Parents — two infantile teenagers who accidentally brought him into the world.

"You'd be better off giving up this child, you'll abandon him, you're still a teenager, teenagers can't be responsible for children," he never forgot those words.

Later, his mother told him she had wanted him, that he was the spitting image of his father. Whether she was lying or simply rewriting history Vlad no longer knew. He had a younger brother – the wanted child who, ironically, became the least loved in the family. Vlad was the only one who showed him care, albeit in a rough way. He didn't know how to be tender with those close to him. With strangers — yes: polite, charming, even kind. But his kindness was never repaid. The world he lived in didn't know the law of "do good and receive good in return." Here, it simply didn't work.

When his brother grew up and also distanced himself, Vlad understood that this was the final straw. He could no longer pretend he was living for someone else. He had seen too often how his mother dealt with loss — the divorce from his father, his grandmother's death — and each time she drowned herself in a bottle. "I'll quit, I don't have an addiction," she'd say, setting dates, going through aversion therapy, swearing she could do it. But she couldn't. And he knew she was a weak person. Vlad never drank, never took drugs, never sought salvation in addiction. But he also didn't want to die in the same atmosphere that had poisoned him since childhood: soaked in alcohol, hysterics, and false promises. He wanted something better. Every time she was a fucking altruist, lived with an unloved man, stupid friends devoid of ambition. Always saying, "I live only for you, children." Sacrifice, and every conversation about her youth ended with her saying she hadn't had one. "What youth, sweetheart? I spent my whole life on you and I don't regret a thing." But he knew — she regretted it. She dreamed of being an investigator; in her youth, she had a man she truly loved, but she missed out on all of it because of him. Half her life she gave to his biological father, who cheated on her right before her eyes and wasn't even worth being with her, and in the end, he left them anyway. Vlad knew his parents were two traumatized people. He never expected they would raise equally traumatized children.

Boys shouldn't cry — Vlad knew that from childhood. He was taught it with looks, phrases, a curt, dismissive "get a grip." After every funeral, he stood just like everyone else — back straight, face empty, without tears. People left, and he let them go too easily. Or perhaps, he just stopped feeling too quickly. First less, then not at all.

He tried to reclaim the things that used to give life meaning: long hours at the easel, the bitter tang of sweat after a run, the ringing laughter of friends, the thrill of late-night conversations, the greedy thirst for new knowledge. But all of it had become alien, unnecessary. He grew stubble, stayed home for weeks, sat in the semi-darkness while the days dissolved in his head.

He remembers his hair matting into dense, disgusting clumps. His self-loathing was so intense he didn't try to untangle them — just took scissors and hacked it all off down to the roots, staring at his reflection in the dull mirror. His gaze was empty, like someone unsure if they even have a future anymore.

After that, he became afraid of the street. Every step over the threshold brought a clammy cold beneath his ribs. People seemed like alien creatures, staring too intently, too judgmentally. He walked with his head hunched into his shoulders, feeling his throat constrict.

He channeled all his energy into sports. Covered himself in tattoos, as if wanting to seal the pain beneath his skin forever. Spent every day in the gym, pushing himself to the limit. Took on any heavy labor — twelve, sometimes fourteen hours a day. Anything to drown out the fucking feelings, to not think, to not slide back into the depressive shit he was stuck in.

He wanted to see a psychologist. Wanted to get better. He even took a couple of steps in that direction, but quickly realized it changed nothing. You sit there, talk, they nod and soothe you with words: "I understand you, dear. Everything will be okay." And then snap and you're lying in a psych ward, where the white walls start to drip onto your brain, and after that, you come out truly ill. Because that's how it worked.

He knew how psychiatry functioned in Russia. They didn't treat you here. Here, they could still list homosexuality among illnesses that needed "correcting" urgently, breaking a person's psyche until they ceased to be themselves. He'd heard the approach was different in Europe — softer, smarter. Although Russia occupies about 40% of Europe, it was still different from the rest of the countries, especially in its conservatism. But Europe was far away, and he was here. And here, all he had left was endless exhaustion, which at least temporarily drowned out everything else inside.

He hated himself — for his weakness, for his losses, for allowing life to take everything from him. And in that hatred was something sticky, corrosive. He felt physically sick from his own reflection, from the smell of his skin, from the awareness that he was someone he never wanted to be.

August. Summer night. The peak of the heat was past, the air slightly cool, the asphalt still holding the day's warmth. He walked towards the bridge. That very one, which often appeared in his dreams — in the dreams, he stood on the railing and looked into the dark water. The bridge remembered his youth, his first fights, his tears. Today he planned to end it all definitively. But it seemed he wasn't the only one.

Someone else was standing on the railing. An unfamiliar silhouette. They were looking down, at the same place he would have looked. The sparse lights of the embankment reflected in the water. Vlad swallowed. In this person's eyes — fear and uncertainty. He recognized that expression: he looked the same way right now. He wasn't sure of his decision either and considered himself selfish for being ready to leave this way, but to let someone else die right before his eyes — he couldn't.

He moved closer, his footsteps echoing dully in the night, and stood beside them.

"Why are you here?" His voice barely pierced the noise of the wind and the distant hum of cars under the bridge. "People don't come to a place like this for no reason." He gave a slight nod towards the dark water. "Not for the night view. Places like this always have meaning. And almost always — the same one. What's yours?" He smirked, but there wasn’t a trace of mirth in it. "Mine... is reason enough to be standing here... and weak enough that I'm still talking."

He pulled a caramel from his pocket, unwrapped the rustling foil, and tossed it into his mouth. The sweetness instantly clung to his teeth, coating his tongue in a viscous syrup. He chewed slowly, as if stretching out this insignificant moment of pleasure.

Vlad had never been dependent on alcohol or drugs, but sweets had become his quiet obsession. He'd go crazy if a day passed without a dose of sugar. A chocolate bar, a handful of candies, sticky gummies in clear bags — it all replaced something important he'd lost.

In moments of silence, he'd catch himself trembling as he unwrapped another candy. And somewhere deep down, he understood — it wasn't just a habit. It was the only thing that somehow filled the void inside. Sugar worked like a small, harmless, yet still addictive crutch, and he clung to it just as desperately as someone clings to a bottle. People who drink, smoke, or use drugs are most often just trying to numb a constant feeling of loneliness. They dive too deep into emotions and take everything too close to heart. With food — it's the same thing. We're dependent on it from birth, it's our fuel. But at some point, you start eating not for life, but to fill the void and muffle the pain. Sugar — is the same kind of drug.

"Although... it really is beautiful here," he said, looking at the black expanse of water where the city lights trembled faintly. "But, you know... I guess I'm too jaded to believe someone comes here just for the beauty. Places like this only draw those who've already made up their minds. Maybe I'm wrong..."

He turned, met their eyes.

"Whatever reason brought you here... you shouldn't leave so soon. If you're here for that."

What irony, flashed through his mind. Brilliant motivation, especially when you're standing on the same edge yourself.

He barely suppressed a bitter smirk. All his life he'd saved others, never thinking of himself. But he couldn't have survived watching someone leave right before his eyes.