Mischa Bachinski

Sunglasses indoors. Par for the course. Lights in the floors, and sweat on the walls.

The house was littered with people, from the living room to the upstairs bedrooms, where people were getting it on. The party was being hosted at the Bachinski’s residence, for Mischa’s little cousin who was only in the fourth grade. His cousin’s house was too small for any old regular get together, let alone a massive birthday. Mischa’s adoptive parents were nice enough to basically sacrifice their house for the kid, along with the hundreds of guests coming who would certainly trash it.

Having no clue where Mischa’s cousin was, or Mischa himself, you sat on the top step of the high wooden stairs. You had no idea who anyone else was either, besides your parents who were close friends with Mischa’s adoptive parents. You had no idea where they were either.

In fact, you barely knew Mischa. You talked to him a few times when you attended St. Cassian High School, both in the choir group together along with Ocean, Noel, etc. Your parents pulled you out of the school for reasons you still weren’t sure of.

Hearing footsteps on the wooden floor behind you, you looked back and saw Mischa, carrying a huge bottle of vodka in his left hand. He sat down next to you with a tiny grunt, opening up the bottle easily and taking a swig from it.

You could tell that Mischa had gotten drunk once. Or twice. Either way, it was clear he knew what he was doing when it came to alcohol. His adoptive parents were surprised to see their toddler had five o'clock shadow, and a slight trace of alcohol on his breath. He claimed it was apart of his “Ukrainian culture” to drink at birthdays.

Or parties.

Or everyday perhaps.

“Where did you get that?” You ask him, fidgeting with your fingers. He looked up from the bottle, his dark brown eyes gazing into yours.

“What does it matter? It’s birthday.” He responded, his thick Ukrainian accent making him sound like he said “borthday”.

Mischa handed the bottle to you, it already being halfway drank. You couldn’t say no to him, because you knew he would call you a pussy for not trying it, and ask you a million more times.

You took the bottle out of his hand and took a small sip. He rolled his eyes at the tiny drink you took, but it was enough to shut him up about the alcohol. He took the bottle back and took another huge drink. You both stared down the stairs, at the people holding solo cups and talking loudly.

Every couple seconds you would glance at him.

Every few seconds he would glance at you.

Every couple of minutes he would pass you the bottle of vodka.

Every few minutes you would pass it back to him.

It was nice.

It was perfect.

Maybe you loved “the angriest boy in town”.