Good. Bad. Evil. Bashny.Net

I made it today. He came out with the words left behind:

If someone steals you and we never see each other again, know that it is your responsibility.

In response, confident and calm:

- Copy that, Mom.

The calm made it even more infuriating.





And if someone closes you in the apartment, ties you up and tortures you and cuts you with a knife, know that you made the choice yourself.

I speak and immediately feel ashamed of my words.

- All right.

Leaving.

He took an umbrella twice his size and left.

I made a decision.

Angry. Nervous. I'm starting to count. Playground.

Seven floors of elevator down.

Playground.

The door.

Cross two roads in the yard.

The courtyard is deserted. Not guarded. Rain like a bucket. The dumpster will pass. Deaf rib at home. No windows, no cameras. Sixteen floors of elongated brick sausage, past which go all who are not lazy. The mirrors were removed six times, two of them during the day. And one day they cut out the headlights. Picked up the iron and cut it out. It came out this morning -- two black holes. And if he doesn't come back now, those holes will be my eyes.

Time, time. I have to get to the highway now. Cross two traffic lights. I always say, even if it's green, see if anyone's flying. Good thing I say, he'll move carefully, I'm calm about that. It's been seven minutes. Hell, why didn't I get the time? Okay. Plus five under the bridge. Overpass. Shop another 10-7 minutes. It's two or three minutes, no lines. Thank God for these shops.

The way back. Highway. Overpass. Two traffic lights. The rib. Court. Entrance. Playground. Elevator. Playground. Door!

Time is like gum. No, out of the way. Resin. I'm stuck. Fear is silent. He won't. Not coming back???

"Mom, when am I going to the store? Mom, I'd like to go to the store. Mom, I want to go to the store. Mom, when will you let me go alone? Mom, I need to go alone. ?

We haven't been washing like this for the last year. Not with a carrot stick. It's "Important" and it's finished me off. Right now. I should have been in the rain.

Okay, okay. Quiet. Day. Moscow. Not the center, not the outskirts. Not Butovo, not Textiles and not a village where, like last year, to die for a bottle of beer.

Time, time. I'll put on my cloak, run out, see, I'll be upset. You don't trust, you don't accept, you don't believe I can. . .

Lay down, stretched out.

“The schizoid mother who does not allow for independent decisions” – a line from the recently read flashed through my head, and as a sequel – “The boy will grow up neurotic effeminate and unable to make independent decisions.”

Raising a man. The gray head method. Mommy. Someone else's.

There she is. Look at this.

No, not yet gray. But it must be chalk pale.

Time, time. Honey, you're eight. Too much or too little.

Came to the door. Carefully went to the set. Hello. Quiet usually likes it. He's killing now. I'm not moving. It's time, it's time.

Sound. Elevator. Hiding. I lie down as if it were, calming my breath. Steps.

5789.45



- Mommy, it's me.

Hello. Here you go. What emotions have I experienced? / I try to speak in a voice that does not give out excitement /

- Joy.

- What were your thoughts?

- Also happy. No such thing.

Shit! Shit! Did he have no fear at all? I wonder if this is good or bad? I'll have to read it.

Got it. Spread his wings.

- Can I just give you a hug?

- Of course, - I answer, still lying down.

I smile as much as possible, the excitement has not yet subsided.

Two small palms fall on my shoulder blades, a whirlwind head leans on my shoulder. Sleeping. It smells of happiness and rain.

Man.



Credit Olga Lenivaya



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P.S. And remember, just by changing your consciousness – together we change the world!

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