Killers are always becoming heroes during the war. Plus, the same named girl broke my heart once.
I should say that every year I receive messages with pictures «Happy Holiday!»
or another shit with all the wishes and nice words like «love», «joy», «wealth»
which have nothing in common with reality I live in. Real life, yes? Sometimes it can be a bit unpleasant, so you can escape from it to the cinema, games, religion, sex, patriotic feelings and especially holidays. Which allow people to sit down at the table and pour the glasses with the second chance, with an opportunity to live, an opportunity to look out of the kitchen’s window, to laugh.
I couldn't use such services. Couldn’t trust these holidays. Filling the glasses were more like a betrayal. I didn't want to deal with illusions. That's why I came to a great grey nowhere, until I got married. We worked both, me as an engineer, and she was a writer. Soon, we bought the first car. I taught her how to drive when the truck faced us. The next thing I remember, I was crawling out of car and heard her final words: «Beware the yellow snow».
I felt guilty with not even a scratch on me, realizing my wife has gone. It was the moment when I was going through her stuff and found a letter by Arthur Poghosyan. I thought I knew every friend of her, but couldn't remember his name. Of course, very soon I found nothing in my pocket to pay for apartments, because every penny went to a glass. I moved to my friends' flat, but soon couldn't bother their cozy life by my presence and left without a word. I walked around cathedrals and cemeteries, slept there. Later friends found me and brought to life again. First things first, so I had to find a job. So, I hooked an eye on a contact-manager vacancy, offered by the man named Arthur Poghosyan.
Young guy barely older than me. He seemed sharp, extravagant. It was the first time I saw him. And it was unpleasant, even embarrassing. I was trying to talk about his letter I found through my wife's stuff. But he didn’t want to hear about that, then all of a sudden, he spat at me while I was talking. That damn spit hit me right in my throat, which has almost sent me after my wife.
Anyway, he left me a pager during our interview, which I carried in the back pocket, thinking about maybe I could catch him again to ask a few questions. But Arthur Poghosyan disappeared as accidentally as he came. It took a while to get me a job and rent another apartments. The world continued to stay the same as it was, and my life was alright. Searching for Arthur Poghosyan haven't brought any results yet. Soon, the second wave of melancholy came over me. I was that close to bankruptcy and starting to drink again, and also (suddenly) to kill myself. I didn't want to cry neither scream, therefore after working I was running circles on a football field. I set myself an aim: if I am able to finish one thousand laps, then I will give myself a permission to die. While not achieving required results, I decided to reduce the killing permission to one hundred laps which were equal to forty kilometers. Next Saturday & Sunday I dedicated myself to completing it. I had nothing to lose, even if I had… I ran more than one day and finally did it – green light. Now I had to find out how to finish myself. Actually, ten or fifteen laps more would make me dead already.