Александр Чечитов
The diary of a dreamer who loved collecting souls

August 16, 1984.

The captivating fragrance of the flowers opened to the sun, just swirled in the soft, moist air, gently tickled the nose. The sky was sad, covering young green forests, frisky mountain streams, and endless nomadic steppes with silver water droplets.

In front of me, on a rural road, in a mess of earth broken by many feet, shoots of new plants are slowly making their way. Deftly throwing off clods of black soil from young leaves, they strive for the blue sky. Closing my eyes for a split second, I open them and don't believe it. Blue, green, and purple roses, taking on human faces, seem to peer into my very soul. A mighty primordial force of nature lurked in them, which did not allow one to tear away the admiring gaze. Even the magic that was happening did not allow him to move a little, so everything inside was trembling with sweet excitement.

The fire of desire burns inside. The electrical tension that causes every cell in my body to shake in ecstasy increases, giving rise to convulsive chaotic movements. With ferocious jerks, I begin tirelessly tearing off the green stems, tearing out the young shoots from the base. I want to get my hands on everything that covers the restless gaze, the throbbing pressure in my temples is increasing. A moment later, I'm already watching myself from the side, my eyes bulging to the extreme, fixed on only one goal. My adam's apple rises frequently, leaning forward, and I swallow the viscous saliva. The skin of the thin white fingers, torn by thin, sharp thorns, is stained with bloody, hot porridge, dripping from the brushes onto the fallen, withering petals. A sharp pain penetrates from the top of the head to the toes, torturing the spirit. The broken flowers burn up one by one in his hands, like a handful of gunpowder, burning painfully, turning into dark, lifeless ashes. There remains a single whole rose, the graceful, haughty queen of all that is beautiful. Trying to reach out, I strain my muscles to the point of spasm, probably an invisible barrier has passed between us forever. I stumble and fall, unable to lift my heavy head, pinned down by an invisible force. Roughened, bony palms, rapidly protruding from the muddy soil, like a bear trap, cut hard into the ribs protruding far forward. Tearing the fragile skin on his chest, firmly grasping his naked, wet, fluttering heart, they pull him down. Cold sweat broke out, giving his chilled body chills. Convulsing, gasping for air for a second with lungs petrified by fright, I woke up.

September 28, 1984.

I saw her for the first time today! Damn it, how pretty is a beauty! The light scent of perfume pleasantly made my head spin when small heels tapped past me, along the wide corridor of the university. The smooth curves of her fresh body, neatly wrapped in a fashionable white coat, caught the eye, stronger than iron, ringing fetters. A light spring breeze, if it could, would whisper incessantly about the virtues of this devil. Her eyes were like two oceans: deep, clear, in which a ship would gladly sink, and under the proud name of a man's heart, they shone brighter than precious diamonds. A confident, perky smile that forms shallow, delicate dimples at the corners of my mouth, these are skillfully placed snares that captivated my will like the most insidious trap. Freshman Lena, that was her name, was almost a month late for the start of classes.

October 3, 1984.

I've been watching Lena for several days now. A fiery flutter in the chest gives rise to pleasant waves. Running through the veins, they resemble swift mountain streams during the melting of snow on the rugged peaks, when their shape becomes almost perfect, and their strength is so limitless, sweeping away any obstacles in their path. Having come home for three hours now, I have been drawing it, allowing the lines carefully drawn with colored pencils on snow-white paper to take on the image of my cherished dreams.

The small shreds left over from the paintings, like January icy grits covering the quiet, gray streets of the old city with a carefully dense layer, covered the floor of my colorless, dim room. Having fallen into the quagmire of oblivion, I freeze in the vastness of despondency and begin to create again.

A warm, honey-like tremor comes, like a swell that suddenly appears on the surface of water, when I tear up canvases, tearing off piece by piece. Starting with the well-drawn head, I descend to the remaining parts of the figure, savoring every second of the fascinating mystery.

I felt similar sensations when I was about seven years old. Wiping green snot on the sleeves of an unsightly, threadbare jacket, I sluggishly ripped open the belly of a neighbor's cat. He lured me with a sausage he stole from home, which he took for himself. He stole a tiny sharp knife from someone else's rickety shed in the neighboring area.

It was Friday, I remember exactly. My mother, exuding a stench, staggered into our squalid apartment and, entangled in a pile of old things piled on the floor, fell like a shapeless sack. I lay down a little.

In the afternoon, twirling the bottle in her limp hands, she cooed with her boyfriend. Finding another minor excuse, my mother began to whip me with a belt. She hit me anywhere. I think her goal was for me to run outside as soon as possible. I must say, she succeeded very well. The reserves of my peace of mind have been depleted and left behind a painful void. I don't understand how it all worked out. Grabbing a bottle of cloudy liquid from a greasy, peeling cabinet, I swung it backhandedly. The glass of the vessel burst and split open the forehead of the mother's lover, releasing a decent portion of red splashes that fell around us.

The mother's lover, who had not expected such an outcome, gasped, his overgrown, swollen face twisted in an ugly way. Sprawling by the broken, crooked bed, like a shot horse, he fell silent.

A bestial grin appeared on the mother's once pretty feminine face, giving the calloused, flabby muscles of the body an inhuman, bestial strength. Furiously, beating me with her fists, my mother poured out curses, simultaneously trying to quickly free herself from years of accumulated anger and resentment.

This attitude was fully manifested after the father, an explosive, aggressive man by nature, left the family.

Punishment turned into a favorite pastime for my mother and monsters like her, who often visited our dumpster with sooty, peeling walls. A place where it was impossible to find a clean plate, a cluster of bottles and all kinds of junk were carefully covered with a thick layer of dust, filling all the corners. These events are like a splinter, thoroughly stuck in my memory.

That's how it turned out, smearing my tears, I wandered around the neighborhood in the dark of the evening streets, howling and angry at everyone.

Sitting on the swing, I became sad, and large tears flowed down my cheekbone cheeks. After walking aimlessly for a long time, my body, swollen from beatings, ached, not allowing me to forget about what had happened.

When a stray cat passed by, I got him a piece of food, broke off half and beckoned. The starved, exhausted creature, smelling the food, approached. I wanted to share my pain with him. Stroking, I leaned on the front of the cat's body, at the same time dissecting the kicking, elastic body from the rib to the groin. Moustache managed to bite through my hand. He screamed and struggled, but at first I didn't feel any pain. Later, the beast hissed softly, feeling my hand grab and squeeze its slippery, sticky insides.

Pulling out the contents of his belly, I cut off and threw the remains into a nearby river. The blood on my fingers became viscous, drying, and pulled at my skin. After washing myself thoroughly in the greenish, smelly water, I headed for the apartment. I arrived quite late. There was a sour smell of unwashed, sweaty bodies in the rooms. Of course, no one was waiting for me here, but I felt a little better. Even more than that, an anxious joy took hold of me for many hours, giving me a feeling of unprecedented spiritual uplift.

October 18, 1984.

She doesn't pay any attention to me, probably more likely to see the other side of the moon than my admiring gaze. In the student cafeteria, I sit at the next table across from her, looking for opportunities to admire a beautifully groomed young woman. Zero reaction. I'm looking for a chance to talk to her. Either her friends are hanging around her, or something else, it doesn't work out in general. I promise myself over and over again, I'll come up now, after all, I'm not a little boy anymore and I need to be braver.

Why is it that every time she casually looks at me, my gaze drops down, afraid to meet her?! It happened three, four times. One day Lena asked a question about the class schedule, my tongue got heavy, I mumbled something indistinctly and was ready to sink into the ground. I'm a complete, cowardly jerk. I hate myself. Why did fate lavish doubts on me, and almost completely deprived me of determination?

October 28, 1984.

I haven't seen her in a week. I think Lena was going somewhere. Fate is kind to his pitiful slave! I'm incredibly happy, I don't believe it's true. Lena came around behind me after class on Thursday and covered my eyes with her gentle hands as I stood at a bus stop not far from the institute. The smell is the same, a radiant smile with thirty-two white teeth.

Hello! You're funny. She greeted him cheerfully.

Thank you, Lena," he mumbled in confusion. I wanted to make a compliment, but my heart started pounding, drowning out my confused thoughts. And one should ask the question, why would she do that at all? But I have left these thoughts for the future.

I like you, Ilyusha! She smiled even wider. Shall we go to the cinema next weekend?

I shook my head, not sure if it was a dream or not.

We agreed on Saturday at seven o'clock. More correctly, she suggested it, and I, fascinated by the situation, just nodded in response, completely unaware of what was happening.

November 9th, 1984.

It is not easy to walk under the scorching heat, a great thirst takes hold of me. Among the many trunks of faded, dead reeds, I find a rusty narrow bridge that leads across a vast river that stretches right at my feet. I lean towards the stormy stream by the thin, narrow bridge, trying to get a good drink. Clinging to the flimsy, dilapidated handrail, I swallow the life-giving moisture in large portions, and the flooring breaks under my feet, sending my body into the abyss. Having dissolved into muddy streams, I become a wave, an unstoppable energy, carrying a living force. But soon it gets stuffy, and now a huge raging mass of water turns into boiling boiling water. Fish are silent creatures, twitching their entire body, rushing to the bottom. Unable to withstand the red-hot current, they soon die and fall to the bottom in piles. Scales fall off scalded, gray carcasses. Their frozen pupils are directed into the void.

An unusually vivid dream, it gave new hopes and joy. I'm meeting Lena tomorrow! What a blessing that is.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «Литрес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на Литрес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.

Александр ЧечитовThe diary of a dreamer who loved collecting souls

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Александр Чечитов
The diary of a dreamer who loved collecting souls

The diary of a dreamer who loved collecting souls

Полная версия

Другие книги автора: