Yuri Markeev. Spider Zhigulev (№ 354348)

I feel sorry for everyone. Myself, not sorry. It's a shame. What nonsense.

What can I do?

The toxicosis. The time burden. The thirty-nine steps Oct. And Valera in the blood which is flowing a welcome warmth.

But I remain in silence because they are afraid to spill the contents of hell. Beware the frantic struggles of television programs, tight aggression, stinging black. Enough that is in me. Sickening who I will suffer through all morning, and I must humbly endure.

The morning itself gets a stake in the throat and esophagus. Don't go to the bathroom, not to shave. The maximum that can – in the darkness to pour on his head a bucket of cold water. Sleek hair to cool the brain. And that's a lot.

And I dress. Slowly, quietly, gently. And in the dark. Whisking by hand in the corner of the hallway, grope a pair of overalls, put on her boots hit not the first time, but on top. Lean is impossible. Dangerous. Lower back crackles like electricity, and bow your head risky. All of the three-pillar I can rush outside. At the door for a moment linger, whispering some prayers. Angels can't hear me. I know that. No one wants to hear a man in hell. Because the door of hell is locked from the inside. I open the door and step into the entrance. On top of pouring Orthodox radio. Half-blind grandmother Dusya every morning, turns on the radio with Church hymns and makes it seem like she's not half blind, and half deaf. Grandma darling were familiar with my parents. Five years ago, I could borrow money from her, and she'd given me, without fear of deception. Now will not. I betrayed her. Promised to weld a cross on the grave of her husband, took the money in advance, but not cooked. Came patient to work through a loophole in the fence, begged the men to give me three metal bar from the forge, laid out in front of my grandmother in the form of a cross, and elicited from her the remaining amount. The money was punctured, and about the welding of the forgotten. Now in her apartment lying bars for cross, but I can't borrow money from her. However, probably could, if I wanted to. Do not want – a shame. The time has gone when I was able without shame to ask to borrow money. It was in his youth, when the conscience is able to simulate embryonic schizophrenia. That is when my soul is for a moment turned into a complete child, not knowing neither shame nor remorse. Then I could just come and ask. And now there is. Crumple before the door, covered with paint of shame, don't know what to say. Like, you know, what you give, but can not ask. Age. Damned delicacy of soul, which only is aggravated and becomes more obvious.