Бесплатный фрагмент - Ordinary People

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All characters in the book are based on real people but are not their prototypes. Any similarities are coincidental. The book is based on a true story but is not a documentary reflection of events. ©

Foreword

Indifference — that is the true evil. It’s difficult to recognize, difficult to calculate. It seeps into our lives unnoticed and gradually poisons everything around us. Indifference kills dreams, drains strength, makes impossible what once seemed real.

But where does it come from? It isn’t born somewhere out there, on alien planets, doesn’t come into being with the first heartbeat, doesn’t hide in the closet, under the bed, or in a dark wardrobe.

It is indifference that forms the foundation of the terrible stories that people have told since time immemorial. These stories were told around campfires, whispered mysteriously on night streets, and in the depths of dark forests. They were passed from mouth to mouth, acquired new details, and were reborn in new generations. And it didn’t matter who told them: experienced elders or children whose imagination knew no bounds — these stories always remained a way to teach important lessons, show the facets of human nature, and remind us that not everything in this world obeys the laws of logic and reason.

So why does this terrible beast — indifference — still live among us?

This story happened ten years ago. Back then, I worked as a court reporter for a newspaper. Often my morning would begin with press services from various departments sending me operational materials for selection. I would look at photographs from crime scenes and traffic accidents, selecting ones where faces of corpses could be covered or blood could be blurred out. But editing photos to hide shocking details isn’t so frightening — you can get used to that. What you really can’t get used to is the tears and horror in witnesses’ eyes in court. But there’s something even more terrifying, something impossible to forget, something that burrows into your memory and haunts your dreams, involuntarily appearing before your mind’s glance — eyes that have neither tears nor horror, eyes that seem to have nothing at all.

After murder trial hearings, where I heard firsthand accounts of what happened, I would be overcome by a nasty, sticky feeling. And a question would get stuck in my throat like a lump: «Could it all have happened differently?»

Since then, it seems to me that nothing is more terrifying than reality. The most horrible stories don’t begin with Aliens or huge mutants, as shown in movies, nor with viruses, nor with artificial intelligence, and not even with zombies — but with ordinary people. They live in ordinary apartments, go to ordinary jobs, watch TV, have iPhones and store discount cards. They have ordinary eyes… So does it mean that real monsters have the most ordinary eyes?

Here’s what took place at that fateful time.

Chapter 1. The door

«Mom, where are you going?»

Anya heard the door slam shut. The lock in the old wooden door clicked automatically. Mom had left thousands of times before. But this particular time, after the door slammed shut, Anya felt scared. The sound seemed to her like an omen of danger.

«Strange, she usually tells me when she’ll be back,» thought the girl. She shrugged and continued doing her homework, tomorrow’s Monday math test looming over her. Not that Anya was a good student, but she had plans. These plans, as bloggers and TV suggested, were carefully assembled from newspaper and magazine clippings, hand-drawn on a special piece of cardboard. The cardboard was an insert from a package of nylon stockings, and the model pictured on it was Anya’s symbol, an unattainable ideal of a happy life.

                                          ***

The city where Anya lived was no different from other regional cities in our vast country. It was situated in one of the most insignificant corners, where nature itself seemed frozen in perpetual anticipation of change. Here, even time flows differently, and each moment seems carved out of non-existence. Such cities possess a special charm — quiet and blood-chilling.

Our Anya lived in a tiny one-room apartment, with a shared kitchen and bathroom, on one of the streets at the edge of town. She was 11 years old. She didn’t have a mobile phone or a computer, but she had three younger sisters and one little brother. She went to school with an old backpack with tightly pulled straps. In the backpack were books, notebooks, and a few secrets that every child keeps in their secret nook. She loved learning and was particularly interested in literature. Coming home and barely glancing at the flickering light, she would take an old tattered book and immerse herself in it completely, finding solace between the lines and distracting herself from endless worries.

Anya was capable of genuine joy, but her classmates kept their distance.

«Do you know what family she’s from?» children whispered during breaks.

«Is it from that one?» the listener would respond with wide eyes.

Anya was raised by her mother alone. The woman was everything to her: the rule, the law, the very truth of the surrounding world. Anya helped her everywhere, as if holding onto her shadow, learning from her about daily life and acceptance.

«Don’t pay attention to what those nasty children say,» Tatiana would instill in her daughter, actually speaking more to herself.

The family lived very poorly. They were cramped in a tiny apartment within a small family building, which was essentially a panel dormitory. The air was constantly filled with a dense mixture of cigarette smoke, fried fish, stewed cabbage, and other impeding smells.

The combination of neighbours’ angry quarrels, TV blaring at full volume, and noises from different apartments constantly haunted the residents. In the tiny room where the family lived, decrepit wallpaper was patched with newspapers in places. There stood beds, a wardrobe, and a small table where Anya did her homework. Above it was the only bright spot — that very vision board, where the girl occasionally wrote new words or pasted pictures. That autumn, Anya wrote the cherished word: «Cake.» It embodied prosperity and well-being, was the object of dreams and the starting point for the boldest and most fantastic reveries.

On the day when mom left and the door slammed behind her, Anya was sitting at the table, daydreaming. Her stomach was growling.

«She probably went to the shop,» thought the girl and looked once again at the cardboard from pantyhose packaging. The girl on it was smiling happily.

Then Anya looked out the window: life outside was going on as usual. People, as if molded from pale gray material, were hurrying for their own objectives. Their shoulders, bent under the weight of invisible but inevitable burdens, were carrying the mark of prolonged nights and hopeless times. Their gazes, empty and venomously peaceful, were rare and fleeting, like those of a wolf afraid to meet a hunter.

«I wonder if they were always like this?» thought Anya. «Did they dream of becoming astronauts or helping others? Where and why are they going? What do they strive for? And do they love someone like I love my mom?»

Anya often fell into such reflections. She had no friends. Anya seemed born to learn to be independent, to be alone. The younger children were often taken by grandmother. They huddled in a rickety summer house 40 kilometers from the city. They attended the village school there. They rarely came to the small family apartment. The girl often wondered how many more lonely children were there in the world whose parents work from dawn till dusk, and whose brothers and sisters are somewhere far away?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sunbeam. The evening sun flooded the room, caressed Anya’s face, and stroked the houses across the street. Squat, weathered, with homemade facades where traces of once-bright paint could barely be found, they now seemed covered with spots of mold.

«Maybe someone up there, where the sun is, is watching me?» the thought flashed through Anya’s mind. But it was replaced by another — that the sun was setting, and mom wasn’t home yet. And that it was time to turn on the lights. «I hope mom won’t be angry.»

Electricity could only be used after sunset, and even then only for particularly important tasks. Homework was considered such. But mom wasn’t home, so Anya wasn’t afraid of punishment. The girl got up from her chair and headed to the light switch.

Anya looked at the clock. The hand was approaching six. Time to have dinner and go to bed to avoid being late for school. The girl didn’t know what to do. She was getting hungrier, but opening the refrigerator without mom was forbidden, lest she eat the carefully rationed supplies meant to last until the end of the month.

There was bread on the table. Anya took a piece. And anxiously glanced at the door.

Chapter 2.
The Schoolmistress

«Close your notebooks and take out double sheets of paper.» The rustling of paper was heard. «And where’s our little mouse?» — math teacher Lidiya Mikhailovna lowered her glasses to her nose, glared at the class disapprovingly, and muttered to herself: «Seems like those drunkards are letting her skip school again. What will become of her?»

She turned her back to the students and began nervously writing on the blackboard, the chalk screeching piercingly: «T-e-s-t.»

Well, there it was. Because of missing the test, she’d have to give Anya individual tutoring. And the grade, of course, would be poor. And for the quarter too. And she, Lidiya Mikhailovna, would have to deal with the consequences. It would take considerable time to review the material. Well, that’s manageable, she thought. The most unpleasant part lay elsewhere. Due to the class’s poor performance, Lidiya Mikhailovna could kiss her bonus goodbye. And that’s what really infuriated her…

                                          ***

In both appearance and behavior, Lidiya Mikhailovna demonstrated an unwavering commitment to strictness and order.

Each morning began with ironing her suits. She devoted herself to this task passionately and intently, as if performing some religious ritual. With rhythmic, well-practiced movements, she sharpened the creases in her trousers, smoothing out random wrinkles and folds. Steam from the iron, like incense smoke, enveloped the woman and dissolved into the air. Starched, stiff shirts, gray or black thick jackets, trousers with perfect creases, glasses like a helmet’s visor — in this armor, she was ready to face the chaos and imperfection of the surrounding world.

Her husband Ivan Petrovich, like a shadow, kept a respectful distance and executed his wife’s orders with the meek characteristics of a faithful servant. Their conversations were as grim and dry as financial reports.

«Ivan Petrovich, did you pay the bills?» — Lidiya Mikhailovna’s voice echoed coldly off the gray walls.

«Yes, Lida, everything’s taken care of.»

Neighbors perceived the couple as a single mysterious entity, devoid of warmth and friendliness. They often whispered about Lidiya Mikhailovna, recounting numerous instances when the teacher demonstrated remarkable cold indifference.

Most often, they recalled how after the school graduation ceremony, festively dressed graduates gathered near the school. Among them was Olya, an excellent student with remarkable artistic talent. She approached Lidiya Mikhailovna, holding a self-painted picture. It was a portrait of the mathematics teacher. The restrained style of the work emphasized the model’s strictness.

«Lidiya Mikhailovna,» Olya said tremulously, «I painted you to express my respect.»