I sob violently, choking on the sounds tearing from the depths of my chest, as if every tear rips out a piece of my soul. My fists are clenched so tightly that my nails dig into my palms, leaving crimson crescents—painful, screaming marks of my guilt. My whole body trembles as if electrified, my lips helplessly whispering his name:
"Max..."
Hoarsely. Barely audible. As if even the air pities me and refuses to release that name—like a death sentence. My throat burns—scorched by screams, by pain, by words left unspoken. And the walls… those lifeless wooden walls swallow every one of my moans, returning only the hollow echo of my own powerlessness.
He lies before me. Motionless. Silent. Like a broken doll whose strings have been mercilessly cut. I can't hear his breathing. I can't see a single movement. Only blood—thick, viscous, black in the dim light. It spreads across the ground like darkness, rapidly devouring the light. It feels as if the entire world has shrunk to this silence, where the only sounds are the dripping of blood and my own heart shattering with every beat.
And his face… God, his face. Shattered. Swollen. Covered in purple bruises, blue streaks like a stormy sky. But he hasn't made a sound. Not when they beat him with all their strength. Not even when…
I scream. Wildly. Desperately. A feral cry, as if it's the only thing still tethering me to reality. I grab a chair—heavy, metal—and hurl it at them. At those bastards. Hoping I can stop something.
But it doesn't reach them. Just like I hadn't foreseen the consequences. They just laugh. That laughter… it still rings in my ears like a curse. And then—another blow. And another. And another. And I can't close my eyes or look away. Because I know—this is my fault.
Max. My light. My only one. He is the one who holds my hand and never lets go. He laughs even when I have no laughter left. He finds me in the darkness when I hide from myself. He believes I can still crawl out.
And me? I drag him into the abyss with me. And now, as his breath grows fainter, I realize: I've lost everything. Not because he is dying. But because I never deserved him in the first place.
If I just disappeared…
The thought cuts through my mind—cold, precise. Like a knife. If I had never existed, he would be alive. Living, studying, falling in love… But I—I am poison. Slow, insidious. And I infect him.
I collapse to my knees.
"I'm sorry..." a sob. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry..."
With every word, my heart crumbles to ash. I whisper it again and again, praying for just one breath in response. Just one.
And the worst part isn't even that. The worst part is knowing: if he dies, I won't be able to go on.
Tears stream down my face—hot, searing, like acid. I frantically wipe them away with my palms, as if I could scrub away the guilt, the past, everything that led us to this godforsaken moment. My fingers twist into my hair, and I let out a helpless moan, lost. Panic flutters in my chest like a trapped bird. Pain lashes at my cheeks.
I've already thrown that chair at them—a meaningless gesture. It hasn't reached them. I haven't reached them. I can't protect him. Can't stop it.
My poor boy. He lies there, broken and silent, drenched in blood, because I… I thought I had the right to interfere. In other people's business. In other lives. Because I deluded myself into thinking I could control the chaos I created. But the truth is, I destroy his life. With my own hands. My own choices. My poisoned reality.
If not for my self-destruction, my cursed craving for pain, for thrills, for the abyss—none of this would happen. I know I crossed every line long ago, but only now do I understand the price—paid not just by me, but by anyone who dares to love me.
Maxim is the first to be punished—for my past. For my so-called "friends." For the people I call family, who spent years pulling me deeper into the muck.
First Ivan. Then Stas. Then Peter. They are all from the same pit, the same swamp. And I know—know they want me. Not as a person, but as a plaything, a temporary distraction, a living doll. I feel their predatory stares. But I keep going back. Stubbornly. Stupidly. Dangerously.
Ivan—a heartless monster. Stas—a traitor with a smile. Peter—a predator hunting for weakness. I know. But I like it. Like being dangerous. Like living on the edge. When the streets part for me. And now… now he lies there. Broken. Fading.
I know they could do it again… do the kind of thing that leaves you staring at the ceiling in silence. I've been through it before. And still—I walk right back in. Walk the blade like I hope it will stop cutting one day.
And the races. Damn them. One time—and I am on the edge. Speeding into oblivion. Only Grandpa Vi saves me then. The only one who doesn't laugh, doesn't use me, doesn't stay silent. The only real one. The one who believes I can still be human. He begs me: "Enough." He knows how this will end. I don't. I just smirk.
And now…
Now Max lies there. Shattered. Broken. And I'm terrified to imagine what would happen if it were me in his place. Though the ending would be different, of course. They'd have raped and finished me off behind some garage. Or I'd have OD'd and never woken up. Everything I am heading toward—a coffin or a madhouse.
Drugs… Yeah, they are always around. The one thing I avoided for so long. Until summer. Until August. I try. Once. Almost go back for more. Almost.
But then he comes into my life.
So… pure. Real. Warm. Awkward, a little strange, but so… right. Like he's from another world. He doesn't force his way into mine—he just becomes a lighthouse. Doesn't shout, "Quit!"—just lives beside me, shining. And that light pulls me up. For the first time, I want to wake up in the morning. Go to class. Laugh without alcohol. Speak without cursing. Live right.
He's the one who understands silence. Who never demands explanations when I retreat into myself. Who just sits beside me when I'm in pain, and his presence is enough.
And the strangest thing—I start being afraid. Not for myself. For him. Because I know: if he sees where I come from, if he sees the darkness inside me… he won't run. He'll try to save me. And break.
But he's seen. And still… he stays.
Maxim shows me what it means to be truly alive. Not just to exist. Not just to survive. But to live. I dream that we're together. For real. That he takes my hand—not to pull me out of something, but because he wants to be near me. That we argue, laugh, study. That he gets annoyed if I distract him from exam prep. And I laugh, because I love it when he's serious. We play this game—whoever scores higher on a test gets to plan a date. And I always pick something insane—a hot air balloon ride or a night camping in the woods.
And clubs… Yeah, I wouldn't give them up entirely. But just once every two weeks. Not to get blackout drunk, just to dance, to laugh. To show him that even in the noise, we can still be real.
Turns out, I'm the one who never knew how to have fun before him, not the other way around. Everything I ever called "living" is just an illusion, a funhouse mirror reflecting not me, but my shadow. Max is the first to show me what it's like to laugh for real. Without pain. Without a hangover. Without fear.
But all of that—just dreams. And reality? His blood on the ground. And if he dies… if he's gone… I don't know how to breathe after that.
I try to lunge forward again. One, two—their fists pound into him like hammers, each blow reverberating through me.
"No!" Her voice slices through the air like a knife, fraying into a ragged scream. "Stop! Please!"
I throw myself forward—but the cuffs yank me back, metal biting into my wrists, leaving raw marks. I barely feel it. All the pain is concentrated in my heart.
My chest constricts like it's caught in a vise. What's inside isn't just pain. It's white-hot, splintering, pulsing agony, as if my heart itself is screaming with me. It thrashes wildly—then suddenly seizes, like a bird slamming into its cage.
Tears blur my vision, but not from despair—from the unbearable pressure erupting in the left side of my chest. The air vanishes. My temples pound. The world tilts.
I collapse to my knees, clutching at my ribs, and all I can do is keep screaming. Not from my throat—from my soul.
This moment will stay with me forever. Not just in memory. It will scar my body. My heart will never be the same. I lie on the cold ground, pinned there by my own tears and panic. My eyes stay locked on him—on Max. He isn't moving. Not even a twitch. I can't even see him breathing.
No. No, no, no—
My chest tightens further. I sob harder. Gasping. Choking on each cry, as if I could expel the terror with every sound.
"My love… Maxim…"
I whisper it, refusing to believe this could be the end. Have they really killed him?
"Enough!" Ivan suddenly barks.
I flinch like I've been electrocuted. He crouches over Max, presses fingers to his neck. I stop breathing.
"Your mutt's alive," he spits, with something like disgusted disappointment. "We're leaving. Do what you want with him, but remember: if either of you breathes a word of this… even if I end up in prison, my guys will find you. And they'll finish him."
He looks down at me like I'm trash. Like I'm nothing.
"Not a threat. A fact. Understood?"
I nod silently. Not in agreement—just fear. My heart pounds in my ears, my body shakes, but my mind clings to one thing:
He's alive. He's breathing. My Max is still here.
"Untie his hands. Her legs," Ivan orders. "Give her the phone when we go."
My hands feel like cotton, but I wait for the moment I can crawl to him. I would've torn those chains apart with my teeth if I couldn't do it with my hands.
He just can't die. Not now. Not after everything.
"And she won't call, you know who. I don't wanna get locked up," one of them says in a trembling, hysterical voice, like a kid who just threw a rock through a window.
"Calm the hell down, dumbass. She's not stupid—unlike you. Knows who to call and who not to," Ivan replies with lazy confidence, with that vile calm of people who know they'll get away with anything.
The chains around my wrists loosen, and when I break free, I don't stand up. I can't. My body refuses to obey, as if every cell has sunk into the swampy mire of fear and pain. I crawl. Literally, on my belly, through blood, through dust. Just to reach him. To Max.
My trembling fingers touch his cheek. His skin is cold, slick with sweat and blood. Fresh tears burn down my face.
He doesn't move. But… he's breathing. Faint. Shallow. But alive.
"Can you hear me? It's me… Katrin…" My voice is unrecognizable—hoarse, fractured, trembling like a snapped string.
I lean down and, without thinking, kiss him. His lips are lifelessly warm, tasting of iron—blood. Then my phone thuds onto his stomach. I jerk back.
"Here." Ivan looms over us like some grim judge. "Clean this up yourself. And keep quiet. Or else… You know. I'll finish what I started. Hope we never meet again, Katrin."
My name in his mouth sounds like spit.