— Waiter!

 

— Yeah?

 

— Another 150.

 

— And…?

 

— Lard. With Borodinsky bread.

 

— Got it.

 

Ah…

 

It’s letting go.

 

A cigarette.

 

A shabby little bar. Half-darkness.

A corner where you can disappear.

Sit here until morning and nobody will notice.

 

Perfect.

 

I’m sick of them already…

 

Come on, talk.

Share.

Open up.

 

Courage.

Heroism.

 

What the hell courage?

 

Ever been caught in the rain?

 

Really caught?

Soaked through to the bone?

 

No roof.

No idea when it’s going to end.

 

And now add this:

 

a blistered foot,

a suitcase with no handle,

and someone sending you nonsense messages as if any of it matters.

 

Now add a few more things:

 

invisible scars,

 

the constant feeling that you’re in someone’s crosshairs,

 

that one second from now your brains could be flying ahead of you.

 

And assignments.

 

Go kill.

 

A man.

A general.

A boss.

 

Doesn’t matter who.

Doesn’t matter why.

 

Damn…

 

One shot.

 

And that’s it.

 

Cold.

 

He’ll never see his children again.

 

Never hold his wife.

 

Never look at the sun.

 

Damn it.

 

— Another fifty.

 

There.

 

Bread. Lard.

 

Oh…

 

That hit the spot.

 

How did it all end up like this?

 

I wanted it.

 

And I was good at it.

 

Better than anyone.

 

Sharp eyesight.

Steady breathing.

A firm hand.

 

Targets were boring.

 

I wanted something alive.

 

Where did that come from?

 

Hell if I know.

 

Father…

 

Always talking about his past.

 

The war.

The drills.

The skills.

 

Nothing for me.

 

Mother…

 

The same.

 

And I wanted so badly…

 

Damn…

 

— Fifty more.

 

There.

 

A cigarette.

 

The coaches noticed me.

 

The best.

 

Girls…

 

Those eyes.

 

Pretty.

 

And honestly…

 

it doesn’t take much to get what you want.

 

Trips.

Money.

Warmth beside you.

 

Soft fingers.

Lips.

 

Hormones raging.

 

Only the coach kept nagging…

 

about meaning,

about loving your neighbor…

 

And yet he shot like a god.

 

Impossible to match.

 

— Fifty.

 

There.

 

…

 

Damn.

 

That one went down hard.

 

Bathroom.

 

…

 

There.

 

Better.

 

Still tastes foul.

 

Everything’s floating.

 

The stall looks like a dump.

 

Graffiti-covered doors.

 

A rusty sink.

 

A filthy basin.

 

A cloudy mirror.

 

Doesn’t reflect.

 

Smears.

 

Cold water.

 

On my face.

 

On my neck.

 

Under my shirt.

 

Damn.

 

I’ve got to stop this.

 

But how?

 

How do you forget?

 

How do you accept

 

that you are all of this?

 

All this dirt.

 

All this filth.

 

Everything you’ve done

 

in that little war

 

after which they call you a hero,

 

while you call yourself

 

an animal.

 

…

 

Strange.

 

Feels like I’m not alone here.

 

— You’re not.

 

— Who…?

 

— I’m here.

 

— Who the hell are you?

 

— A Guardian.

 

…

 

— A what?

 

— A Guardian. Yours.

 

— Oh, hell…

 

— Not hell. Guardian.

 

Looking?

 

Just standing there, staring.

 

Trying to find an answer?

 

Or trying to figure out what’s broken inside you?

 

I’ve got good news.

 

Almost everything is broken.

 

Want to talk?

 

I’m listening.

 

— Screw you…

 

— Again?

 

Times.

People.

Partners.

 

War.

Memories.

 

And of course…

 

“my parents didn’t love me enough.”

 

…

 

— Leave me alone… hic…

 

— Funny how you wave your hand.

 

Why are you hiding your eyes?

 

I’m talking to you.

 

What do you think?

 

What are you going to do?

 

What have you already tried?

 

Besides this?

 

— What’s so damn wrong with it?.. hic…

 

— That’s not an answer.

 

…

 

Nothing?

 

Everybody does it?

 

So you have to?

 

Or is it just convenient?

 

You drink.

 

It lets go.

 

For an hour.

 

Then it comes back.

 

…

 

— Enough… hic…

 

Wait!

 

If you’re my Guardian… hic…

 

Aren’t you supposed to pull me out when things get hard?

 

When I’ve got nothing left?

 

When everything is falling apart?

 

— Supposed to?

 

…

 

— Yeah… hic… damn…

 

…

 

— I’m here.

 

— And?.. hic…

 

— I know the way.

 

— So what?.. hic…

 

— You won’t like it.

 

I’ll point.

 

But the choice is yours.

 

I’m beside you.

 

Not instead of you.

 

Do you understand?

 

…

 

— So what?.. hic…

 

…

 

— Your answers

 

are right in front of you.

 

…

 

— I don’t see anything… hic…

 

— You do.

 

— There’s nobody here.

 

— There is.

 

…

 

— There’s only…

 

…

 

a mirror.

 

And me.

 

…

 

— That’s exactly what you need.

 

— What?!

 

…

 

We’ll see.

 

…

 

Wait.

 

This happened before.

 

…

 

Screw you… hic…

 

Damn…

 

Just like the coach…