…In order to truly appreciate life, you need to die at least once…
The First Chapter
November 17th, Students’ Day, dawned like any other - unremarkable and uninspiring. Classes dragged on, a monotonous blur that left me drained. Lately, everything felt that way.
The sting of a recent breakup still lingered. My girlfriend of several months had ended things abruptly, dismissing me with a trite “let’s stay friends.” I suspected she was either offended by something I’d done or simply bored with me.
The last thing I wanted was a shallow friendship, but I nodded silently, clinging to what little dignity I had left.
During the third class, our teacher, exhausted from battling our restlessness, relented and let us review our lists - which, predictably, included spirited discussions of alcohol tolerance. Just then, the deputy dean walked into the auditorium and announced that the 4th and 5th classes were canceled. The room erupted in a chorus of “Hurrays!” and the remaining minutes flew by in a flurry of excitement.
Not eager to face a lonely day at home, over 30 kilometers away, I tagged along with a group of students celebrating in their office. But even this camaraderie grated on me - several of my second-year classmates were already employed and earning a steady income, while I remained financially dependent on my parents.
The office was cramped, chaotic, and deafening, but there was no shortage of alcohol. Something inside me snapped, and I felt an overwhelming urge to drown my sorrows. The perfect storm of insults from friends, my ex-girlfriend’s parting blow, autumnal melancholy, and vodka proved a potent and toxic mix. Believe me, it was a recipe for disaster.
As the drinking session drew to a close and the students began to pair off, I felt a wave of dizziness wash over me. Someone suggested I step outside for some fresh air.
I stumbled onto the street, inhaling the cold air in ragged gasps. I exchanged muted greetings with passing students, but my mind was elsewhere. My head spun, and my friend had long since abandoned me to rejoin the revelry. I stood there, frozen and disconnected, staring blankly through the crowd.
And then, as if on cue, the snow began to fall – big, fluffy flakes that drifted lazily through the air, casting a melancholy silence over the scene.
The clock struck 9, and I was jolted back to reality. Where had the last six hours gone? The memory of my carefree celebration now seemed distant and fuzzy.
A pang of anxiety hit me as I recalled the last bus from Ivano-Frankivsk to Kalush departed at 21:30. I was already running late, and no amount of hurrying would get me to the station on time.
Desperate, I considered hailing a taxi, but a quick search of my pockets revealed a dismal lack of funds: a crumpled five-hryvnia bill, a pack of Camel cigarettes with only two left, and a lighter. The stark reality of my situation hit me like a ton of bricks – I was stranded, broke, and utterly defeated.
“Ay, Max, got a cigarette?” a voice called out.
I turned to see a familiar face from a parallel group, though his name eluded me – Oleg, maybe?
“Yeah, what’s up?” I replied, attempting a joke. “Not enough cigarettes to go with the booze?”
Oleg winked. “Nah, I don’t smoke. We need cigarettes to mix with the ‘relax’.”
A distant voice in my head whispered that drugs were the last thing I needed, but my inebriated brain wasn’t listening.
Oleg’s face lit up. “Come join us, there’s enough for everyone!”
I vaguely recall mumbling something about heading home…
But an unfamiliar student chimed in, “We’ve only had two! Come on, have another!” He laughed, holding up a stash of weed.
This time, something was off. I realized that if I didn’t stop, things might spiral out of control.
The world around me was a kaleidoscope of bright colors, spinning wildly out of control. My head throbbed with a relentless beat, and a cacophony of music echoed in my ears. I stumbled from sitting on a bench to walking aimlessly, with no clear direction in mind.
As I wandered through the city streets, I realized I was lost. Every street looked identical, blending together in a blur of uncertainty.
The haunting voice of Zemfira filled my ears:
“And my head is in a bandage, stylets have settled deep,
Minors and I am on screws, rockets… rockets… rockets…”
I halted at a street intersection, lit my last cigarette, and gazed around. The sound of laughter drifted through the air, and I gravitated towards it, drawn by the promise of human connection.
I stumbled upon another cluster of students, revelers who, like me, were swept up in the city’s celebratory chaos.
“Hey, guys, which way is the city hall?” I slurred, swaying precariously.
They pointed me in the right direction, their faces alight with amusement.
“Thanks, have a great Students’ Day!” my lips managed to articulate, as if on autopilot.
The city continued its maddening spin around me – a dizzying maelstrom of color and sound that threatened to consume me whole. I felt like I was drowning in a sea of disorientation, with no lifeline to cling to.
As my uncooperative body continued its journey through the snowy streets, my subconscious decided that I would get home by hitchhiking. “Someone will give me a ride!” It was 11 pm…
A familiar tune played in my ears, probably by Queen, but I couldn’t remember the words.
After passing the city hall, I struggled not to fall – my legs weren’t listening, my head was spinning, and my stomach was churning like a merry-go-round. The neon lights of the Ratusha’s clock tower blurred together like a mad artist’s canvas. I staggered past the Soviet-era buildings, their crumbling facades seeming to mock me with their stern, unforgiving lines. The air reeked of stale beer and diesel fuel, the acrid smells mingling with the sweet scent of blooming chestnut trees.
I wandered down Nezalezhnosti Street, the cobblestones beneath my feet seeming to shift and writhe like a living thing. The streetlights cast long, sinister shadows on the ground, making me feel like I was being stalked by some malevolent entity. I almost crossed the bridge over the Bystrytsya Nadvirnyanska River, the water below a dark, glassy sheet that seemed to reflect the turmoil in my own mind.
“Hey, kid, got some cigarettes?” a voice growled from behind me.
The music in my ears screeched to a halt on a jarring, discordant note…
My mind went blank, except for a single, panicked thought: “Yo… Oh, I’m in trouble!”
Slowly, I turned to face my tormentors, and my worst fears were confirmed – the skinheads, their heads shaved, hands tucked into their pockets, stood before me.
My gaze darted between them, my mind racing with a futile calculation: six of them…
One of them sneered, taking a menacing step closer. “What’s wrong, did you go deaf?” The others snickered, their laughter like a cold wind.
“Hand over your cash, phone, you little prick…”
The thought of my brand-new V300, a birthday gift from my parents, and the prospect of broken ribs flashed through my mind. A cold dread settled in, like a weight plummeting to the pit of my stomach, leaving me breathless…
“Guys, I…” I stammered, hesitantly sliding my hand into my pocket, my mind racing with the desperate hope that I might somehow defuse the situation.
“$#%!” the skinhead bellowed, his fist hurtling toward me.
In a split second, I realized my mistake. I clenched the lighter in my right hand and made a feeble attempt to dodge to the left. The skinhead’s blow sailed past my face.
Seizing the opportunity, I summoned all my strength and landed a punch squarely on his jaw. “An uppercut?” I vaguely recalled. The skinhead crumpled to the ground, spewing a vile curse.
The others charged at me, their faces twisted in rage. “Ah, you… $#%!” they yelled, closing in.
I landed one more lucky punch, connecting with someone’s nose, but my defenses quickly crumbled. I stumbled and fell, desperately trying to shield my face with my hands, but it was too late. A vicious kick sent me reeling, and blood gushed from my nose and lips.
The skinheads then turned their attention to my ribs, their boots pounding against my sides with merciless precision.
“$#%! Hold him down!” the skinhead I’d punched earlier bellowed, slamming my hand onto the sidewalk and pinning it beneath the lighter.
“Get this, $#%!” he snarled, jumping up and landing on my hand with a sickening crunch.
I felt a searing pain, but it was quickly numbed by shock. Had he broken my fingers? I couldn’t tell. The lighter shattered beneath my hand, and my right palm went numb.
One of the skinheads giggled, plucking my silver ring from the bloody snow. “Hey, look at that – a little ring!”
“Let’s get out of here!” another one yelled, glancing nervously around. One of them snatched my phone, while another ripped off my jacket, leaving me battered, bruised, and helpless in the snow.
The skinheads retreated, their giggles fading into the distance as they disappeared into the downtown crowd. I spat out a blood clot, and my tongue probed the gaping holes where two upper teeth once sat.
Dazed, I gazed down at my mangled right hand. Three fingers were missing, leaving behind a gruesome, bloody stump. A bizarre thought crossed my mind: “How am I going to use a mouse now?”
I struggled to my knees, then stumbled to my feet, swaying precariously. A cauldron of rage began to simmer within me, its red-hot fury spreading through my veins. The pain and remnants of my sanity were consumed by this all-encompassing anger, which threatened to engulf me whole.
With a swift motion, I grabbed an empty beer bottle from the sidewalk and swung it at the first skinhead, striking him on the back of the head. The bottle shattered, but his skull didn’t. Undeterred, I leapt onto another skinhead’s shoulder, digging the jagged bottle fragments into his face with all my might.
He shrieked in agony, trying to buck me off, but his feet flew out from under him on the icy snow. We crashed to the ground together.
I sprang off him, somehow managing to stay upright on my unsteady legs. I spun around, my eyes locking onto the remaining four skinheads, my rage-fueled adrenaline surging through my veins.
“$#%;№!! You’re dead, $#%!” one of them bellowed, producing a butterfly knife from his pocket. He flourished the blade, taunting me, and I let out a feral growl, launching myself at him.
“Take this, @#$%!” he screamed, but I punched him with every ounce of strength I had.
Then, a searing pain ripped through my abdomen as the skinhead’s blade sliced through my sweater and plunged into my stomach. I tried to strike him again, but he was too quick. He stabbed me again. And again.
The world around me dissolved into darkness, shattering into a thousand fragments. I crumpled to my left side, vomiting as my vision faded. My final coherent thought was a despairing realization: “What a senseless death…”
Through half-closed eyes, I dimly saw the four skinheads hauling away the two I’d managed to take down. They were a blur of cursing, shouting figures, but their voices were distant, muffled. I felt a creeping chill, my limbs growing numb, my eyelids heavy as lead. Darkness was closing in.
But then, the skinheads’ shouts surged to a frantic pitch, jolting me back to semi-consciousness. I forced my eyes open one last time, a faint spark of curiosity flickering within me.
My vision swirled, refusing to coalesce into a clear picture. Figures blurred together, but I managed to discern a fiery red blur hurtling toward the skinheads. A brief, intense scuffle ensued.
In an instant, the skinheads were sprawled across the snow, and the red-haired figure rushed toward me.
“Well, what now, you idiot?” she asked, her voice a melodic contrast to the brutality that had just unfolded.
I tried to respond, but only managed to cough up a mouthful of blood.
I wanted to scream, “Call an ambulance! Can’t you see I’m dying?!” but my lips refused to obey.
Instead, the girl leaned in close, her breath whisper-soft against my ear. “It will be ‘one’,” she whispered, the words barely audible.
I felt my heart beat its final time. The last blood clot coursed through my arteries, and then… nothing.
But suddenly, I jolted upright, gasping for air. Drenched in cold sweat, I stared at the electronic clock’s glowing red digits: “6:58”. In the darkness, I frantically clutched at my stomach, reassuring myself that it was whole, unscathed. I lifted my right hand, and in the dim light, I saw five intact fingers.
The metallic taste of blood still lingered in my mouth. Just as I was catching my breath, the alarm clock shattered the silence, making me jump again. The clock’s indifferent display now read “7:00”. Time to get ready for class.
I exhaled a shaky breath. What. A. Nightmare.
