The automatic doors of the store slid open, and I stepped out into the stifling city. Ignoring the dusty street that had already safely fallen into unconsciousness, I looked up. Squinted. The sky, like an endless television screen, was broadcasting sunlight across its entire surface, diffused by a thin veil of clouds. An empty bright gray mass with neither beginning nor end — today God decided not to see us. And not just God, even the birds refused to fly. Though maybe it wasn’t the whole city’s fault, but just someone alone, or a couple of its residents. Maybe it was because of me..?

At that moment, not letting me finish the arrogant thought, someone jabbed me painfully in the back. “Why are you standing like a statue in the middle of the road! Move it!” croaked some woman in a smoker’s voice. “Yeah, right, imagining myself to be God knows who,” I thought, watching the creature in an oversized women’s pantsuit, which had lost its primary sexual characteristics, walk away. Not waiting for another “reminder”—or worse, a punch to the face—I took one more quick glance at the universal retransmitter and headed toward the pedestrian crossing.

A world deprived of direct sunlight had become flat and pale. After yesterday, my body was still in revolt, and even simple movements came with difficulty. I moved past others just like me—shadowless, ordinary ghouls—dragging themselves across the countless, long-useless tram tracks of the turning loop. There were still about ten meters of uneven asphalt ahead, striped with rusty steel rails. As good a reason as any to push reality to the back of my mind and return to thoughts of the eternal.

However, whether I was having trouble concentrating, or the eternal itself was not in the mood today and resisted even the slightest thought of it… The first thing I saw was a sizable clot of saliva flying in from the left. At first, I even thought it was a snowball, packed from the first snow by small children’s hands.

What followed lasted only a fraction of a second, but the unique human brain, even somewhat slowed by a week-long exposure to alcohol, unfolded that instant into an entire sequence of events. It is strange that such revelations occur not on important occasions, but in completely trivial, I would say everyday, situations.

Then, out of nowhere, an old man appeared in my field of vision—the very one who had set the chain of events in motion with his rather uncultured act. Dry, short, frail. Decently dressed. Probably the same age as my parents, maybe even older. A series of associations ran through my head: the most delicious ice cream in the world, cheap buns, a joyful childhood, and tall trees.

Next, in my imagination, orderly columns of beautiful young people formed—the most well-read and spiritual in the world. On each of their chests, badges in the shape of a red banner shone proudly. In their hands, the young men and women carried the same red banners. The columns marched into eternity. One, two, left! One, two, left! And then they were gone, and only the old people remained. Abandoned by the dream.

Last came a white pigeon, peacefully walking nearby. The spit of the elderly carrier of rotten ideas of equality and brotherhood landed softly on the feathers on the bird’s back, right between its shoulder blades. The winged rat only flinched slightly and continued searching for food. But for some reason I thought: “Poor bird.”

I don’t really like pigeons, and I don’t care much for seagulls either. But suddenly I felt so sorry for all the defenseless creatures that had suffered from the actions of these upright Neanderthals. As if for a moment I had become a vessel for all the pain that humanity had inflicted on weaker members of the animal world, as well as on its own kind.

Then I thought: “What if I’m the same?” I am abandoned too. And hatred flooded me to the brim, pushing out compassion. My fists clenched on their own, growing unbearably heavy. Nails, grown indecently long, dug into my palms, causing pain.

“Leave him, don’t pay attention — you are better, you are above,” she said to me, my traitor angel.

“Yes, you’re right,” I answered the imagined image in my head. “Right, as always. And even though I’m still angry and full of hatred, I still believe you endlessly.”

“Weak, indecisive, always drifting somewhere,” another voice echoed — most likely mine, but coming from somewhere out of the infinite.

I unclenched my fists. Once again, I swallowed my anger. The moment flowed back into the river of time. I checked once more whether my wallet, mobile phone, apartment keys, and, of course, the little bottle — or whatever alcoholics call it — with a strong alcoholic drink were still in place. Alcoholics. Good thing I’m not one of them yet. Not yet: I’ll just take fifty milliliters so I won’t feel sad. I can still come back, and easily. It’s like starting to do morning exercises, day after day, for a lifetime — you just have to decide.

I remember, because I used to do it since childhood, almost my whole life, right up until my angel left me. But now is not the time. Not yet. Though, if you think about it, it’s worth planning when I will return. Somehow, my phone with the calendar app open ended up in my left hand. The index finger of my right, scraping across the screen with a dirty, unkempt nail, began choosing a date. Tomorrow? No, too soon. Maybe in a week? Not enough, in my opinion, but it’s something to think about. What about until autumn? Wow, so many days still left until the end of summer — you could sleep them away in no time! Though a couple of warm months will pass unnoticed.

“Biii-i-i-i—… —tch!” The owner of a silver SUV, sticking his purple, overfed face out of the side window, joined his car in showering me, an asshole, with the last words he had. He is right—I completely slipped out of reality with this calendar thing. The red little man on the traffic light display stood guard, stopped, and I didn’t.

And here I already sat down on the grass behind an ancient prefabricated five-story building. No point going home anyway — it’s all soaked in emptiness there, and besides, it’s summer. It’s good here. Around me are unkempt bushes — meaning no one will disturb me. And the grass is almost waist-high — even dogs wouldn’t go to shit in such thickets. Along the edge grow a few rowan trees and a couple of very tall birches. Not a grove? Besides, if you lie flat on your back, there’s a great view of the sky from here.

I found this place yesterday. At first, I was sitting on the other side of this building, on a bench located at the edge of a playground. As now, it was approaching noon, but no one was playing in the sandbox, pissed over by neighborhood cats, no one was swinging on the rusty swings, no one was playing in the colorful little house covered in obscene graffiti. And then, when the healing effects of the alcohol I had taken had already begun to work on my wounded soul and motor functions, some local old woman walking her exotic small dog shouted at me. As she left, I shouted back: “So it’s not allowed to sit quietly and relax on a bench, but your damn dog can shit in a playground, huh?”

“Don’t pay attention to her. You can’t fix them,” my angel said again.

It’s strange that she doesn’t say anything about me drinking. Probably she knows that to go on living, I need to heal myself, calm the pain, bring my soul back. She understands everything. She always did.

Today the first little bottle didn’t work. Though, if I think about it, neither yesterday, nor the day before yesterday, nor on other days did it work either. If I were practical and attentive to life, I would have surely, at least today, bought more at the store. But I probably am not meant to. Such is my fate — to wander between what I forgot at the wrong time and remembered too late.

And so, I made the route once again: through the tall grass, across the road, then over the railway tracks, to the store and back.

The fifth or sixth, or maybe even the seventh — damn it, stupid head — the little bottle finally kicked in. Together with the burning liquid inside, my runaway soul returned. Don’t run away anymore, darling, or I’ll end up drinking myself to hell completely!

It became so easy. Easy to be alive. I leaned back, resting on my hands. My eyes, together with my tilted head, stopped at the level of the third floor. On a balcony cluttered with an ancient refrigerator, a shelf full of empty jars, and a carpet rolled into a cylinder, an old man came out and lit a cigarette.

“Just don’t start spitting,” flashed through my mind, although at this point I didn’t really care anymore. A little more and I would become completely indifferent. And for now, with a dulling gaze, I observed the finale of this small story.

The old man took out his phone and started talking to someone. Then he burst into a loud, coarse laugh, breaking the peace of the encroaching haze. From somewhere on the right, a white pigeon flew in and landed on the peeling handrail. The old man immediately drove it away, swearing as if it had led away into oblivion columns of young people, and with them youth and hopes. And then, to top it off, he even took aim and threw a decayed cigarette butt at the stupid bird.

I was already drifting away completely, noticing only events, not causes, and certainly not consequences. A gray cloud rushed onto the third-floor balcony — large, constantly moving. Countless wings were crackling, tearing apart the still, suffocating air. The old man screamed like a madman. Feathers flew in all directions. Another second passed, and a mobile phone fell into the flattened grass near my foot, probably the left one. And the old man was still screaming. Strained and ringing. And the voice did not belong to him, but to a builder of a bright future — a young man with a paper cup of the best, the very best ice cream in the world in his hand.

Making a final effort, I tilted my head back. First floor — a dusty window with turquoise curtains. The balcony with a painting of bears in the middle of fallen trees — the second. The next stop — a shifting gray cloud of wings. The arms that were supporting the upper part of my body gave way. Cool grass through the thin cotton of the T-shirt absorbed part of the warmth, telling the earth that I was still alive.

Fourth floor — a glazed loggia. The earth doesn’t care about the living; after death it will devour us without a trace. Motionless colorful sheets on a drying rack — the fifth. And finally — the screen of the damn sky. Interference through my eyes filled my head, then everything turned white, unbearably bright, but I did not close my eyes. The old man’s screams faded.

And I stretched my arms upward… …and embraced the angel. She, as always, will save me.