One evening, the storm raged outside, a tempest of nature's fury. Thunder roared like a beast unleashed, shaking the very foundations of the manor, while lightning split the sky in jagged streaks. The rain hammered against the windows, a relentless drumbeat that drowned out all other sounds. Most of the household slept undisturbed, accustomed to the occasional fury of the elements. But for one, the storm was one hell of a terror.
Ivan was huddled in the farthest corner of his room, his knees drawn tightly to his chest, his arms wrapped around himself as if to ward off an invisible threat. His breath came in shallow, erratic gasps, and his wide, terrified blue eyes darted around the room, searching for an escape that didn't exist. The storm had triggered something deep within him, the loud crackling sound a memory, a fear, a wound that had never fully healed.
The valet sat beside him, his usually cheerful demeanor replaced by a look of deep concern. He had tried everything to soothe him, coax him with sweetcakes, tea, and gentle words, even brought the kids over but nothing worked. If anything, Ivan's anxiety had only worsened, his trembling growing more violent with each passing moment. It was heart-breaking to watch, and he felt utterly helpless.
"Ivan, please," he pleaded softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. "It's just a little storm. It'll pass. You're safe here."
But the man didn't respond it seemed that he was not present not at the moment. His mind was elsewhere, trapped in a place Verisha couldn't reach. The valet sighed and rose to his feet, his expression grim. "I'll be back," he said, though he wasn't sure whether Ivan even heard him.
Verisha found his employer in his study, the master of the manor seated at his desk, a book open before him drinking his tea. The valet hesitated for a few moments before he spoke. "My lord, it's Ivan. He's… he's not well. The storm has done a number on him... I couldn't calm him down."
Igor looked up, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly. Without a word, He placed the teacup in his study closed his book and stood, following Verisha to Ivan's room. When they arrived, Igor instructed Verisha to wait outside, his tone leaving no room for argument. The valet nodded and stepped back, his worry evident in his eyes.
Igor opened the door gently, stepping into the dimly lit room. The sight that greeted him was of Ivan curled into himself like a cornered animal, his face buried in his knees, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. His breathing was erratic, each inhale a struggle, each exhale a shudder an onset of a panic attack. The storm outside seemed to mirror the turmoil within him.
Igor closed the door softly behind him to make sure that he won't get scared and approached him with measured steps. He knelt before the trembling young man, his presence calm and steady. For a moment, he simply observed, his sharp gaze taking in every detail—the way Ivan's fingers dug into his arms, the way his body flinched at every clap of thunder, the way his breath hitched as if he were drowning.
"Ivan," He said, his voice low and gentle, a stark contrast to his usual curt and dominating tone.
When he didn't respond and his breathing got much worse he immediately crouched down to his level "Fuck! Ivan look at me!" The fear too overwhelming for Ivan to process the words. But then, slowly, he lifted his head, his tear-streaked face pale and drawn. His blue eyes, usually so bright, soft and expressive, were clouded with not simply fear something much…. much worse was in it. When he saw him, he flinched, shrinking back even further, as if expecting something maybe some sort of rejection or something even worse. Sensing that something is amiss he didn't give him the chance to retreat. Igor closed the distance between them, his movements deliberate but not threatening. He reached out, his hands firm but gentle, and cupped his face, forcing him to meet his gaze. Their foreheads touched, a gesture of reassurance that was wholly unexpected.
"Breathe... Just breathe" His master murmured, his voice a soothing balm against the storm's chaos. " that's it... Ivan breathe. You're safe here. Nothing will harm you." Ivan hitched, his body started trembling. He tried to push Igor away, his weak arms barely making an impact. But Igor didn't budge. Instead, he pulled him into an embrace, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other rubbing slow, comforting circles on his lower back. Ivan struggled even more violently trying to wrestle himself away from his masters hands his embrace seemed to leave a brand. His master immediately used his strength to subdue him and Ivan found himself being embraced by this man again.
" It's alright you can Let it out," Igor whispered, his voice barely audible over the storm. "You're not alone anymore."
"No... no.....no let me go please...." he trembled in his hold as he vehemently protested on his hold. Ivan did not like this. He wants out, he wants to get out! He didn't want this.... this warmth, security whatever this was since for the very first time in his wretched life, he felt a sense of security that he hadn't known was possible. The warmth of his master's embrace, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the quiet reassurances murmured against his ear. It felt so nice.... It shouldn't feel this nice and safe and warm. Everyone was cruel to him.... why is he even doing this to him? Ivan's mind was a complete mess. His struggles soon weakened as exhaustion crept into his senses. the trembling subsided, his breathing evened out, and the tension in his body began to melt away.
He didn't understand why Igor, his employer a man of few words and even fewer emotions, was doing this. It defied all logic, all propriety. But in that moment, Ivan didn't care. He gave in to the comfort, leaning into Igor's firm chest, his eyelids growing heavy. The storm outside faded into the background, replaced by the steady beat of his heart.
Everything feels so nice and warm... safe....
His master continued to murmur soft, incomprehensible words, his voice a baritone sung a lullaby that lulled him into a deep, peaceful sleep. When he was certain Ivan was asleep, Igor carefully lifted him and carried him to the bed. He tucked the young man in, wrapping him snugly in blankets, and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. For a moment, he hesitated, his hand lingering on his cheek. Then, almost imperceptibly, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead.
He stepped out of the room, his expression unreadable but his eyes softer than usual. Verisha, who had been waiting anxiously outside, looked up at him with a mixture of relief and curiosity.
"He's asleep," The lord of the manor said simply, his tone leaving no room for further questions. "Let him rest."
Verisha nodded, his eyes lighting up with understanding. He waited until Igor had disappeared down the hallway before peeking into Ivan's room. The sight of the young man sleeping soundly, brought a smile to his face. Satisfied, he closed the door quietly and returned to his own room, the storm now a distant memory.
Ivan's sleep, though deep at first, was not peaceful for long. The storm outside had quieted, but the storm within him raged on, manifesting in the form of haunting nightmares. His brow furrowed, his breathing quickened, and his body twitched as if trying to escape an unseen threat.
He was trapped literally and metaphorically.
The dream began in the cramped, dimly lit house of his childhood—a dilapidated cottage at the edge of a forgotten village where shadows seemed to breathe and the walls absorbed screams like sponges. The wooden floorboards creaked beneath his small feet as the younger version of him tried to navigate the familiar terrain of fear that was his home. Outside, rain pattered against windows clouded with years of grime and neglect, nature's tears for what transpired within.
The air hung heavy with the stench of cheap vodka and simmering rage a cocktail he had learned to recognize before he could even walk. It was the scent of impending violence, the perfume of his nightmares. The flickering oil lamp cast grotesque shadows across the walls, distorting everyday objects into grotesque specters that seemed to jeer at him while he tiptoed in his own house.
His father's footsteps thundered down the narrow hallway, each heavy thud a countdown to confrontation. Fuck.... he could feel him coming his heart hammering against his ribcage like a caged animal desperate to escape. It seems to be that he had committed yet again some perceived transgression perhaps breathing too loudly, perhaps existing at all and now judgment approached with an alcohol-fueled inevitability.
The door swung open with such force that it splintered the already damaged wall behind it. His father's huge hulking form filled the doorframe a mountain of a man whose presence seemed to consume all available oxygen in the room. He was once known to be quite charming handsome even now perpetually contorted by bitterness and his drinks, those obsidian irises bloodshot and vacant of anything resembling paternal love. He swayed slightly, the nearly empty bottle dangling from fingers that had once crafted beautiful woodwork before despair and alcohol had stolen his artistry.
"There you are, boy," he slurred, his voice gravel-rough and dripping with contempt. "Hiding like the coward you are."
The young him wasn't hiding he had been attempting to mend a torn shirt by the meagre light but explanations were futile exercises in his household. Truth held no currency where rage reigned sovereign.
"I wasn't hiding, Father," he whispered nonetheless, the words barely audible even to his own ears.
His father's laugh was a horrible thing a barking, joyless sound that contained no mirth, only derision. "Always with excuses. Worthless, just like your mother." He spat the words like poison. "A burden I never asked for. God's punishment for my sins, that's what you are."
Young Ivan's fingers trembled as they clutched the needle and thread. He had learned early that if he remained still he might sometimes grant invisibility, that perhaps if he didn't move, didn't breathe, didn't exist too loudly, the storm might pass him by. But tonight, the alcohol had dug too deeply into his father's psyche, excavating fresh reserves of hatred.
"Смотри на меня, когда я с тобой разговариваю! (Look at me when I talk to you!)" his father roared, crossing the room in two massive strides.
He raised his eyes, meeting his father's gaze with the resigned courage of a child who had long ago accepted that pain was as inevitable as sunrise. In those bloodshot eyes, he searched desperately for even a flicker of the man who had once bounced him on one knee, who had carved tiny wooden animals for his 6th birthday, who had smiled with genuine warmth before grief and vodka had hollowed him out. He found nothing but contempt.
His father's hand came down, the callused palm connecting with his cheek with a crack that seemed to echo through the small room. The force knocked him sideways, the needle pricking his finger as he fell. A small drop of blood beaded on his skin a tiny red planet in a universe of pain.
"That's for your insolence," his father growled, his breath a noxious cloud of alcohol and rotting teeth. "And this" another blow, harder this time, to the back of his head, "is for reminding me of her with those damned eyes of yours."
The physical pain was sharp but familiar, almost comforting in its predictability. It was the words that sliced deeper, carving wounds that no amount of time could fully heal. Each syllable was a surgeon's scalpel, precise and merciless, excising any remnant of self-worth from his young heart.
"She died because of you, you know," his father continued, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper as he crouched down, grabbing Ivan's chin and forcing the boy to maintain eye contact. "She was perfect before you came along. Beautiful, kind, full of life. Then you started growing inside her like a parasite, draining her, killing her slowly. She would have been better off if you'd never existed."
Tears welled in his eyes, not from the sting of the slap but from the acid truth he had internalized since his earliest memories: he was the architect of his mother's demise, the unwitting murderer of the only person who might have loved him unconditionally.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, the words automatic, meaningless from repetition.
His father's grip tightened painfully. "Sorry doesn't bring her back, does it? Sorry doesn't give me back my wife. Sorry doesn't make you any less of a mistake."
In the dream, as in his childhood, he nodded, accepting the verdict without protest. What defense could he offer against his very existence?
His father released him with a disgusted shove, causing Ivan to topple backward onto the rough wooden floor. "Clean yourself up. The sight of you sickens me."
As his father staggered from the room, taking another long pull from the bottle, he remained motionless on the floor. The single drop of blood from his pricked finger had blossomed into a tiny crimson flower on the threadbare rug one more stain in a house already saturated with the invisible marks of suffering.
In this moment of the nightmare, He was an active participant he felt the child's pain with the heightened sensitivity of mature understanding. He recognized now what he couldn't comprehend then: that his father's cruelty stemmed not from truth but from a grief so profound it had transformed into malice, that alcohol had not created the monster but merely unleashed it, that the burden of his mother's death was never his to carry.
But such rational insights offered little comfort as the dream continued its relentless onslaught of assaulting him through his buried traumas, forcing him to relive each and every moment of his miserable existence with excruciating clarity. The walls of the cottage seemed to close in, the shadows lengthening, reaching for him with fingers of remembered anguish as the scene dissolved into the next chamber of his personal hell.
The nightmare shifted with the disorienting suddenness that dreams can manage. The dingy walls of his childhood home melted away like wax, reforming into the austere, unforgiving geometry of a hospital room. The transition was jarring from intimate, cluttered squalor to the clinical sterility, yet the atmosphere of dread never wavered it remained constant, merely changing its perfume from alcohol to antiseptic.
He now stood beside a metal-framed bed, his small frame barely tall enough to see over the edge of the thin mattress. The room was bathed in the harsh, unforgiving light of fluorescent bulbs that seemed to drain all color from the world, rendering everything in sickly shades of pale green and washed-out blue. The mechanical beeping of monitors provided a rhythmic counterpoint to the labored breathing of the figure on the bed his mother, his mama, his beacon of support.
In his memories, she was simultaneously familiar and unrecognizable. The woman who had once been the embodiment of warmth and gentle beauty now lay diminished, her once lustrous chestnut hair reduced to limp strands that clung to her sweat-dampened forehead. Her skin, once flushed with life, had taken on the translucent quality of fine porcelain, blue veins visible beneath like rivers on a map of suffering. Her cheekbones protruded sharply, her eye sockets deep hollows that made her closed eyelids appear sunken.
Childish fingers gripped the cold metal railing of the hospital bed his knuckles turned white due to the effort. This was not his first visit to this sterile chamber of slow death, but something in the air, perhaps the absence of the usual bustle of nurses, perhaps the new, rattling quality of his mother's breathing told him that it would be the last This would be the last time he would see his mother.
The adult version of him, trapped in the prison of his child self-wanted to turn away, to spare himself the agony of witnessing this moment again. But dreams (nightmares) like always offer no mercy, no escape hatches from the chambers of hell on earth. He was forced to watch, to feel, to experience anew the most devastating moment of his young life.
His mother's eyes fluttered open, revealing irises of the same startling blue that he had unfortunately inherited. the eyes that resembled the oceans his father had grown to hate for their constant reminder of what he had lost. Those eyes, once bright with intelligence and humor, were now clouded with pain and the encroaching fog of mortality. Yet when they focused on Ivan, a spark of recognition and love illuminated them briefly, like the last flare of a dying star.
"Мой красивый мальчик (My beautiful boy) " she whispered, her voice a dry rustle of autumn leaves. Her hand, painfully thin and marked with the bruises of repeated intravenous insertions, reached for him with trembling determination.
"My beautiful.... beautiful boy how much has you grown...."
He stepped closer, his own small hand extending to meet hers. Their fingers were mere inches apart close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from her fever-wracked body when her expression suddenly changed. Pain contorted her features, her back arching slightly as a spasm gripped her emaciated frame.
"Mama is sorry, mama is so sorry. Live dear.....mama is going to a better place now....Mama is..."
The monitors began to shriek their electronic alarm, the previously steady beeping accelerating into a frantic rhythm before settling into the most terrifying sound he would ever know: the sustained, unbroken tone that signaled the absence of a heartbeat.
"Mama?" The word emerged as a question, small and uncertain, as if by pretending not to understand what was happening, he could somehow prevent it.
Her hand, which had been reaching for him, fell limply to the side of the bed, the fingers unfurling like a flower releasing its last petal. The blue eyes, which had moments ago held recognition and love, now stared unseeing at the institutional ceiling tiles.
"Mama, please," he whispered, his voice rising in pitch as panic set in. He grabbed her fallen hand, shocked by how quickly the warmth was fading from it. "Please don't go. Please don't leave me with him!"
"Пожалуйста...пожалуйста, не оставляй меня с ним!!!"
(Please....please don't leave me with him!!!)
The door burst open behind him as medical staff rushed in, alerted by the monitor's alarm. Hands pulled him away from the bedside, voices speaking words that made no sense to his shock-numbed mind. Someone was telling him to wait outside, someone else was calling for a doctor, but all he could focus on was his mother's face—still and peaceful in a way it hadn't been for months, as if death had granted her the release from pain that life had refused.
In the dream, as had happened in reality, he had opened his mouth to scream, to protest. But no sound emerged. His voice was trapped in his throat, strangled by grief too immense for his young body to contain. He stood frozen, unable to move, unable to breathe, as the medical team worked with methodical urgency, their efforts perfunctory rather than hopeful.
Time seemed to stretch and compress simultaneously in this dreamscape Seconds felt like hours, yet the entire scene played out with the accelerated pace of a poorly edited film. Faces blurred, voices merged into an unintelligible murmur, and all the while, he remained rooted to the spot like a Greek statue, his hand still warm from his mother's final touch.
When his father arrived, summoned by a nurse's phone call, he brought with him the familiar cloud of alcohol. He didn't look at him even once as he spoke with the doctor in the hallway, didn't acknowledge his only son's presence as he signed whatever papers were thrust before him. His grief manifested as anger at the hospital, at the disease that had taken his wife, at the child who stood as living reminder of his loss.
"Let's go," he finally grunted, gripping his shoulder with painful force and steering him toward the exit. He didn't allow the boy a final goodbye, didn't permit a last look at the woman who had given him life. They simply left, abandoning her to the clinical procedures of death in a modern hospital.
The drive home passed in silence broken only by the occasional curse when his father swerved too sharply or braked too suddenly. Ivan sat rigid in the passenger seat, his mind unable to process the enormity of what had just occurred. His mother was gone. The buffer between himself and his father's cruelty had been removed. The one person who had looked at him with love instead of resentment would never do so again.
As the hospital scene dissolved in his nightmare, He felt the full weight of that childhood loss with the compounded understanding of years. He recognized now that his mother's death had not merely been the loss of a parent but the death of possibility the end of any chance for protection, for normalcy, for the unconditional love that forms the foundation of healthy development.
The world around him in the dream blurred, color and shapes melting into a miasma of grief, and he was alone—utterly, devastatingly alone in a way that transcended physical solitude. It was an existential aloneness, a severing from the maternal connection that had anchored him to the world. In that moment, both in memory and nightmare, something fundamental had broken within him—a fracture in his soul that would never properly heal, only be covered over with scar tissue of coping mechanisms and emotional Armor.
The scene faded to black, a momentary respite before the it dragged him deeper into the labyrinth of his past traumas, forcing him to confront the next chapter in his personal mythology of suffering.
The darkness receded, giving way to the austere, imposing façade of the village school a grim, stone building that more closely resembled a prison than a place of learning. In his nightmare, as in his childhood memories, the school loomed larger than its actual dimensions, its windows like judging eyes, its heavy wooden doors the maw of a beast waiting to devour him.
Him now perhaps nine or ten, stood at the edge of the schoolyard, his too-small coat pulled tightly around his thin frame. Winter had laid its icy fingers across the landscape, dusting the ground with frost and painting each breath visible in the morning air. Other children arrived in groups, their laughter creating puffs of white vapor that dissipated into the cold. They moved in their established social constellations friends greeting friends, siblings bickering good-naturedly, the natural groupings of children who belonged somewhere, to someone.
He stood apart, as always. His isolation was both choice and imposition he had learned that invisibility offered protection, yet he yearned for the connection he observed in others. The years following his mother's death had taught him harsh lessons about survival in a world that seemed indifferent to his existence. His father, consumed by grief and alcohol, had descended further into cruelty, treating him as both servant and scapegoat. School offered no respite, merely exchanging one battlefield for another.
He took a deep breath and began the long walk across the schoolyard, eyes fixed on the ground, counting steps in his head—a self-soothing technique he had developed to manage anxiety. Twenty-seven steps from the gate to the main doors if he maintained his normal pace. Twenty-seven opportunities for intervention, for humiliation, for the daily ritual of torment that had become as routine as breakfast.
He made it to step sixteen before they descended like vultures accessing their prey.
"Well, if it isn't that orphan boy," came a voice from his left—Mikkel, the butcher's son, a boy whose cruelty was as practiced as his father's skill with a cleaver. "Wearing the same coat again? Did you sleep in it too?"
He kept on walking, his count disrupted but his determination intact. Just eleven more steps. Ten. Nine.
A foot appeared in his path, sending him sprawling onto the frozen ground. His palms scraped against the rough surface, skin tearing, tiny beads of blood welling up like crimson seeds. His carefully organized stack of books scattered, pages fluttering in the winter wind.
Laughter erupted around him not just from Mikkel but from the circle of spectators that had gathered to witness his humiliation. He remained on the ground for a moment, not from pain but from the practiced calculation of response. Rising too quickly would show fear; remaining down too long would signal defeat. He had learned to navigate these moments with the precision of a tightrope walker.
"Oops," said Karina, the mayor's daughter, her pretty face ugly with malice. "He's so clumsy. Maybe it's because he's drunk, just like his daddy."
More laughter, sharper now, edged with the special cruelty that children reserve for those they deem different. He rose slowly, methodically gathering his books without acknowledging his tormentors. This was a mistake—his apparent indifference only inflamed their determination to provoke a reaction.
Mikkel stepped forward, deliberately placing his boot on his mathematics textbook. "No one wants you here," he said, his voice dropping to a hiss. "No one wants you anywhere. Even your mama killed herself to get away from you."
The words struck with precision, finding the exact center of Ivan's deepest wound. His hands froze in the act of reaching for his scattered possessions, a visible flinch betraying the impact of the taunt. This momentary vulnerability was blood in the water.
"O.R.P.H.A.N that's what you are!!!!! Orphan!!! orphan!!!!" The chant began with Mikkel but was quickly taken up by others, a chorus of cruelty that seemed to echo across the schoolyard. "Nobody wants you! Nobody likes you! Nobody wants you"
He stood up, abandoning his remaining books, his face a careful mask of indifference that belied the storm of emotion beneath. He had learned early that tears were the currency for bullies, that visible pain only purchased more torment. So, he stood, straight-backed and silent, enduring the barrage with outward stoicism while inwardly each word carved another notch in his already scarred psyche.
"What's wrong with your clothes? Did you dig them out of the church charity box?" This from Lise, a girl who had once shared her lunch with him in a rare moment of kindness, now eager to establish her place in the social hierarchy at his expense.
"Or... it could be from the dumpster near the school who knows" Melissa quipped as she stood beside Lise
"Maybe he should just join his mommy," someone called from the back of the group. " tch, really it will Save us the trouble of looking at his face."
Something in him snapped at this—a tether of restraint that had held him back through countless similar encounters. With a cry that seemed to come from somewhere outside himself, he launched at Mikkel, his small fists connecting with the larger boy's surprised face. There was no strategy to his attack, only the blind rage of accumulated injustice seeking outlet.
The fight, if it could be called that, was brief and one-sided. Mikkel recovered quickly from his surprise, and with the assistance of two friends, subdued him with embarrassing ease. They held him down, one boy on each arm, while Mikkel delivered calculated blows to his stomach—hard enough to cause pain, controlled enough to leave no visible marks that might attract teacher intervention.
"You're nothing," Mikkel spat, punctuating each word with a punch. "Useless. And good for nothing just why do you come here anyway?"
"I hope he jumps from the school building it would be quite fun to watch" another muttered.
"He looks so ugly like a pug...."
"Why can't you just go away?"
"Ew....stay away from me"
When they finally released him, the school bell had rung, and the yard was emptying. He remained on the ground, curled on his side, the cold of the earth seeping through his thin clothes. He couldn't cry—wouldn't allow himself that release—but his body shook with suppressed sobs. The physical pain was secondary to the soul-deep ache of rejection.
Eventually, he gathered himself and his scattered belongings, brushed the dirt from his clothes as best he could, and made his way into the school building. He was late for class, earning a sharp reprimand from the teacher who neither noticed nor cared about his dishevelled state or the barely concealed winces when he sat down. This too was part of the routine—the institutional indifference that mirrored the broader world's disregard for his suffering.
In the dream, He watched this scene with the complicated empathy of one who has survived such ordeals. He recognized now the dynamics at play—how children, sensing weakness like predators, had targeted him not out of pure malice but from the instinctive fear of contagion, a disease, as if his misfortune might spread to them if they showed him kindness. He understood that Mikkel's cruelty likely stemmed from violence experienced at home, that Katrina's barbs reflected her own insecurities, that the teachers' blindness was born of overwork and underpayment rather than deliberate neglect.
But such mature insights did nothing to soothe the remembered pain, the way those experiences had shaped his developing sense of self. Each taunt, each shove, each moment of exclusion had been another brick in the wall he built around himself, another reason to distrust connection, another confirmation that he was fundamentally unworthy of love or belonging.
As the scene dissolved, merging into the next tableau of his tortured past, he felt the cumulative weight of these childhood experiences pressing down on him. The words had sunk into his soul like poisoned arrows, planting seeds of doubt and self-loathing that would flourish in the fertile soil of adolescent uncertainty, growing into the choking vines of adult insecurity and fear of intimacy.
The nightmare continued its inexorable progression, dragging him deeper into the darkest corners of his memory, forcing him to confront each painful milestone on his journey towards the broken man he would become.
The schoolyard faded, the children's taunts echoing into silence as the dreamscape shifted once more. He now found himself in a cramped, windowless office that seemed to absorb all light and hope. "NO! NO! NO! of all the shit I am facing right please not this!!!!!" He shouted in visceral horror as the scene unfolds before him.
The air was thick with cigarette smoke that hung in lazy blue coils, illuminated by the single bare bulb that dangled from the ceiling. The room smelled of stale tobacco, cheap cologne, and the particular mustiness of papers left too long in damp drawers.
This was the office of Anton Reznik, self-proclaimed businessman and Ivan's first employer. In reality, Reznik was a small-time swindler who operated on the margins of legality, running various schemes that preyed on the desperate and gullible. Ivan, eighteen and newly escaped from his father's house, had been desperate enough to accept any employment, lacking the experience to recognize the red flags that would have warned more worldly job-seekers.
The older him, trapped in the nightmare's recreation of this squalid space, felt his stomach clench with the visceral memory of anxiety that had been his constant companion during this period of his life. The dream captured every detail with merciless accuracy—the water stain on the ceiling that resembled a screaming face, the calendar on the wall perpetually open to a month three years past, the precarious stack of ledgers that threatened to topple with each slam of the door.
Reznik sat behind a desk cluttered with papers, half-empty coffee cups, and an overflowing ashtray. He was a corpulent man with small, shrewd eyes set in a face that seemed perpetually flushed with either anger or the effects of the vodka he kept in his desk drawer. His fingers, stubby and adorned with gaudy rings, drummed impatiently on the scarred wooden surface of the desk.
The young adult version of him stood before him now, thin and hollow-cheeked, his posture a study in defensive submissiveness shoulders slightly hunched, his eyes downcast, hands clasped before him in an almost unconscious state. He wore clothes that had once been good quality but now showed signs of wear frayed cuffs, a small tear in the elbow carefully mended, shoes polished to disguise their age. His attempt at presentability only highlighted his poverty, like costume jewelry that draws attention to what it attempts to imitate.
"You call this work?" Reznik's voice was surprisingly high-pitched for a man of his bulk, with a nasal quality that made even his rare compliments sound like complaints. He held up a stack of papers—invoices that he had spent the entire previous day organizing and copying. "This is useless. Completely useless."
With a theatrical gesture, Reznik tossed the papers into the air, where they scattered like oversized confetti, drifting to the floor in a chaotic pattern that would take hours to reorganize. It was a calculated act of cruelty, designed to demean and control through the arbitrary destruction of effort.
"I'm sorry, sir," He felt himself responded automatically, his voice barely audible. "I thought I followed your instructions exactly."
"You thought? You FUCKING THOUGHT?" Reznik's laugh was as unpleasant as his voice, a wheezing chuckle devoid of mirth. "That's your problem right their young lad. I don't pay you to think. I pay you barely, I might add to do exactly as you're told. Nothing more, nothing less."
He nodded meekly, swallowing the impulse to defend himself. He had learned through painful experience that explanations were interpreted as excuses, that any attempt to clarify misunderstandings only prolonged and intensified Reznik's displeasure.
"Do it again," Reznik continued, lighting a fresh cigarette and blowing smoke directly into Ivan's face. "And this time, try not to mess it up. Although why I expect competence from someone like you is beyond me."
The "someone like you" hung in the air between them, laden with implication. He knew what Reznik meant—someone poor, someone desperate, someone without connections or education or family to fall back on. Someone expendable.
"Yes, sir. Right away, sir." He knelt to begin gathering the scattered papers, his movements careful and methodical despite the humiliation burning in his chest.
Reznik watched him for a moment, then rose from his chair with surprising agility for a man of his size. He circled the desk and stopped directly in front of him, who remained on his knees collecting papers. Without warning, Reznik's foot shot out, connecting with Ivan's ribs with enough force to send him sprawling.
Pain blossomed on his side, sharp and immediate. He gasped, instinctively curling around the injury, papers forgotten as he struggled to breathe through the shock.
"That's to help you remember to do it right this time," His boss said casually, as if commenting on the weather. He returned to his desk, seemingly bored with the interaction already. "Have it on my desk by morning. And clean up this damn mess before you leave tonight."
The scene shifted, Days turned into weeks then into months compressed into a montage of similar humiliations. Him delivering coffee only to have it thrown back at him for being too cold or too hot. Him staying late into the night to complete impossible tasks, then being berated in the morning for some minor oversight. Ivan standing silent and stone-faced as Reznik mocked his shabby appearance, his intelligence, his very existence.
Through it all, he endured. He had nowhere else to go, no other prospects. The meagre salary Reznik paid was barely enough for the tiny room he rented in a boarding house, for the simple meals that kept him from starvation. He clung to the job with the desperate tenacity of one who has glimpsed the abyss of true despair and fears it more than the daily degradation he faced
But as always everyone has a breaking point, and his came on a gray Tuesday afternoon when Reznik, drunk and in a fouler mood than usual, accused him of stealing from the petty cash box. It was a transparent lie. Reznik himself regularly pilfered from the business funds to support his various vices but it provided a convenient pretext for what followed.
"I've overlooked your incompetence," Reznik railed, his face mottled with rage and alcohol flush. "I've been patient with your stupidity. But theft? That I will not tolerate."
"I didn't take anything," he protested, breaking his usual pattern of silent acceptance. "I would never steal."
"Are you calling me a liar?" Reznik's voice dropped dangerously, a predator's growl before the pounce.
"No, sir, but there must be some mistake. Perhaps you used the money yourself and forgot—"
The blow came without warning, Reznik's ringed hand connecting with his cheek with enough force to split the skin. Blood trickled warm down his face as he staggered backward, more from surprise than the impact itself.
"You're fired," Reznik spat, his small eyes glittering with malicious satisfaction. "Get out. Now."
Ivan stood frozen, the reality of his situation crashing over him like icy water. Without this job, however demeaning, he had nothing—no safety net, no references for future employment, no means to pay for even his humble lodgings.
"Please," he began, pride crumbling in the face of desperation. "I need this job. I have nowhere else—"
"NOT. MY. PROBLEM," Reznik cut him off, already turning away, already dismissing him from his consciousness. "You should have thought of that before you decided to steal from me."
"I didn't steal anything!" his voice rose, a rare display of emotion breaking through his carefully maintained facade of submission.
Reznik turned back, a dangerous smile playing on his fleshy lips. "Prove it," he challenged. "Who would believe you over me? You're nothing, boy. A nobody. A failure who couldn't even keep the simplest job. Now get out before I call the authorities and have you arrested for theft."
Defeat settled over him like a shroud. Without another word, he gathered his few personal items—a worn notebook, a pen his mother had given him long ago, a threadbare scarf—and walked toward the door. As he reached for the handle, Reznik's voice stopped him one last time.
"You'll never amount to anything, a useless stick in the mud" the man said, his tone almost conversational now, as if delivering an objective assessment rather than a calculated cruelty. "You're a failure. Always have been, always will be."
The words followed him out into the street, where rain fell in a dismal curtain that matched his mood. He stood for a moment, uncertain which direction to take, the reality of his situation too overwhelming to process immediately. In his pocket were a few coins—enough perhaps for one night's lodging, one meal. After that, nothing.
In the dream, as in reality, this moment represented a pivotal juncture in his life—the point at which the last fragile structures supporting his existence collapsed, sending him into a free fall of true despair. It was the culmination of a lifetime of rejection, abandonment, and cruelty, the final confirmation of what he had always suspected: that he was fundamentally unworthy, unwanted, unnecessary to the world.
The scene dissolved once more, the rain washing away the office, the street, Reznik's sneering face, leaving only the hollow feeling of absolute failure as the dreamscape reconfigured itself into the final tableau of his personal hell.
The dream landscape shifted one last time, transforming into the cold, unforgiving streets that had been his home after his dismissal from Reznik's employment. The urban setting materialized in the muted palette of—buildings towered like indifferent monoliths, their windows reflecting nothing, absorbing everything. Streetlamps cast sickly yellow pools that failed to provide warmth, only highlighting the grime and decay.
Rain pattered against cobblestones, each drop a tiny, frigid needle. He hunched deeper into his threadbare coat, the fabric so worn it had lost any pretence of protection. His breath formed ghostly clouds before him, ephemeral reminders that he still lived, though for what purpose he could no longer say.
A woman clutching a fine leather purse crossed to the opposite sidewalk when she spotted him approaching. Her eyes never met his he had become something to avoid, not someone to acknowledge. The slight adjustment in her path spoke volumes about his fall from humanity's ranks.
Night descended with cruel swiftness, the temperature plummeting as darkness claimed the city. He shuffled toward the bridge where he'd spent the previous three nights. The stone archway offered minimal shelter, but the alcove beneath it blocked the wind from at least one direction. He'd learned to appreciate such small mercies.
The space beneath the bridge already housed two other men. They nodded at his approach a silent fellowship for the forgotten. No names were exchanged; identities seemed pointless luxuries when existence had been reduced to the brutal arithmetic's of survival. One man shifted slightly, making room in their meagre sanctuary.
Ivan sank down onto the damp ground, his joints protesting with pains that belonged to a much older man. He arranged his few possessions—a frayed blanket, a plastic bag containing a half-eaten sandwich salvaged from a café's outdoor table, the pen his mother had given him, now kept as a talisman rather than a tool.
"Bad night for it," muttered one of his companions, a bearded man with one clouded eye. "River's rising. Might flood here."
He nodded but made no move to leave. Where else could he go? The shelters would be full by now, their doors closed against the night and those too late to claim one of the precious cots.
Sleep came in fitful bursts, interrupted by the rumble of carriages overhead, the occasional shout of revelry from late-night patrons of nearby taverns, and the persistent, bone-deep cold that no position could alleviate. Each time he drifted toward consciousness, the reality of his circumstances crashed over him anew—a recurring nightmare from which there was no awakening.
Dawn broke with grudging reluctance, the sky shifting from black to leaden gray. Benedikt rose, his limbs stiff, his stomach a hollow cavern. The other men had already departed, seeking whatever opportunities the morning might offer.
He made his way to the town square, where merchants were setting up their stalls for the day's market. Once, he might have offered to help, hoping to earn a few coins or perhaps a meal. Now, he knew better. His appearance—the gaunt face, the filthy clothes, the desperation that clung to him like a second skin—marked him as undesirable, a potential threat to business.
Instead, he positioned himself near the back of the baker's stall, waiting for the moment when unsold bread would be discarded. It was a strategy born of observation and necessity, one that occasionally yielded enough sustenance to quiet the worst pangs of hunger.
By midday, the sun had emerged, offering the illusion of warmth without its substance. Benedikt had managed to secure half a loaf of bread, slightly stale but otherwise perfectly edible. He retreated to a quiet corner of a public park to consume his prize, careful to eat slowly, to make each bite last. Around him, people enjoyed their leisure—children playing, couples walking arm in arm, old men engaged in chess battles. Normal life continued, utterly indifferent to his existence on its periphery.
As afternoon waned, a familiar craving began to assert itself, not hunger this time, but a different, more insidious need. His hands trembled slightly, his thoughts turning inexorably toward the bottle. Alcohol had become his refuge, his escape, the only thing that could temporarily dull the sharp edges of his reality.
He counted the few coins in his pocket—not enough for food and shelter, but perhaps enough for a bottle of the cheapest spirits. The calculation was simple and devastating: physical comfort versus oblivion. Oblivion won, as it increasingly did.
The shop was small and dingy, tucked away on a side street. The proprietor's eyes held no judgment as he placed his meagre coins on the counter—just the flat acknowledgment of a transaction completed countless times before. The bottle, when it was handed over, felt like both salvation and damnation.
He waited until dusk before opening it, finding a secluded bench in a forgotten corner of the park. The first swallow burned, caustic and familiar. The second went down more easily. By the third, warmth began to spread through his chest, a counterfeit comfort that nevertheless felt like grace.
As the level in the bottle decreased, the sharp contours of his life blurred. The cold receded, the hunger abated, the crushing weight of failure lightened. In this liquid sanctuary, he could almost remember what it felt like to be human, to have worth, to believe in possibility.
"Hey! You can't sleep here!"
The voice cut through his alcohol-induced haze, a park attendant, face twisted with disgust. Ivan struggled to focus, to form words of apology or explanation, but his tongue felt unwieldy, disconnected from his intentions.
"Get up! Move along before I call the authorities!"
Hands roughly shook him, forcing him to his feet. The bottle still containing a precious inch or two of escape fell and shattered on the pathway. He stared at the spreading puddle, watching his comfort seep into the earth.
"Did you hear me? Go on, get out of here!"
He stumbled away, one foot before the other, no destination in mind beyond "away." The park gates loomed before him, then the street beyond, each step a negotiation between intention and capability. The alcohol in his system made the world tilt and sway, buildings leaning at impossible angles, the ground rising to meet his faltering steps.
Night had fully claimed the city now, the temperature plummeting as stars emerged in the clear sky. Beautiful, he thought distantly, tilting his head back to observe their cold, distant light. Beautiful and utterly unreachable, like everything else worth having.
He found himself in an unfamiliar alley, narrow and rank with the smell of garbage. His legs, finally refusing further commands, buckled beneath him. He slid down a brick wall, the rough surface catching at his coat, until he sat on the frozen ground.
The cold penetrated his thin clothes immediately, but the alcohol in his system created the dangerous illusion of warmth. Part of him, the part still capable of rational thought recognized the peril of falling asleep in such conditions. But that voice grew fainter with each passing moment, drowned out by exhaustion and the siren call of unconsciousness.
His eyes drifted closed, his breathing slowed. In that twilight state between wakefulness and sleep, faces appeared before him, his mother, smiling as she had before illness claimed her; his father, not the cruel drunkard but the man who had once carved wooden toys for his birthday; even Reznik, though his features blurred and shifted, refusing to come into focus.
"I'm sorry," He whispered to these phantoms, though whether he apologized for failing them or for allowing them to fail him, he couldn't have said.
The cold crept deeper, claiming fingers and toes first, then advancing inexorably toward his core. It should have been frightening, but instead brought a curious peace. If this was the end, at least it would mean an end to struggle, to hunger, to the daily humiliation of existing as society's refuse.
Snow began to fall, delicate flakes descending like silent benedictions. They settled on his upturned face, on his shoulders, melting at first before the heat of his body diminished enough to allow them to remain intact. Soon a thin blanket of white covered him, nature's shroud for the forgotten.
Through increasingly clouded consciousness, he became aware of approaching footsteps unhurried, deliberate. Perhaps another lost soul seeking shelter, or maybe the authorities coming to drive him from even this wretched sanctuary. It hardly mattered now.
The footsteps stopped directly before him. Through frosted lashes, he perceived a dark figure looming above, features indistinct in the alley's gloom. Not a constable—the silhouette was wrong, the stance too casual. Not another vagrant—the clothing too fine, the posture too assured.
A hand extended toward him, an unexpected gesture in a world that had offered nothing but rejection. Benedikt stared at it uncomprehendingly, unable to bridge the gap between this sudden offer of assistance and the reality he had come to accept.
"Come," said a voice a simple baritone presumably male, cultured, carrying the unmistakable authority of one accustomed to being obeyed. "This is no place for a man to die."
The hand remained extended, patient, unwavering. After a lifetime of learning to expect cruelty, this simple act of kindness seemed more dreamlike than the nightmare from which Ivan was being rescued. Yet it was real the hand, the voice, the presence that had appeared like an impossible answer to an unspoken prayer.
With the last of his strength, he reached up, his frozen fingers closing around the stranger's warm grasp. As he was pulled to his feet, the world spun violently, darkness encroaching from the edges of his vision. The last thing he registered before consciousness fled completely was the sensation of being supported, of weight shared, of no longer bearing his burden alone.
In that moment, suspended between his past and whatever future might await, Ivan crossed a threshold he had believed forever closed to him from abandonment to shelter, from despair to possibility, from solitude to connection. Whether this unexpected salvation would prove blessing or merely a brief respite from suffering remained to be seen, but for now, it was enough that the endless fall had been arrested, that someone had deemed him worth saving.
The nightmare faded, its grip loosening as Benedikt was drawn toward consciousness. The transition was gentle but insistent, like being pulled from dark waters toward light and air.
He woke with a start, his body drenched in sweat, his heart pounding in his chest. The room was dark, but the memories lingered, vivid and unrelenting. He sat up, his hands trembling as he buried his face in them. Tears streamed down his cheeks, silent sobs wracking his body. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder, firm and grounding. He looked up to see Verisha with concern etching his features
"Hey... are you alright? You were trembling a lot, I thought you had a fever...." he said while handing out a cup.
'Tea' he told him
The teacup trembled violently in Ivan's hands, its delicate porcelain rattling against the saucer with each shuddering breath that escaped his lips. The golden-brown liquid inside rippled like a storm-tossed sea, tiny waves cresting against the gilded edges before receding again. Moonlight streamed through the leaded glass window, its pale beams cutting silver streaks across the rumpled bedsheets where Ivan sat hunched over, his spine curved like a bow pulled taut. The storm outside had passed, leaving behind a deceptive calm, but its echoes still reverberated through his bones, rattling his teeth, making his fingers twitch against the warm china.
The scent of bergamot and honey hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang of fear-sweat that clung to Ivan's skin. His nightshirt—once crisp white linen—was damp and crumpled, sticking to his back in clammy patches. The fabric stretched tight across his shoulders as he curled inward, as if he could fold himself small enough to disappear entirely.
Verisha lingered by the bedside, his usual jovial expression replaced by something softer more vulnerable. "You were also screaming," he admitted quietly. "Not just... noises. Words. Names. I thought..." He trailed off, swallowing hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. The candlelight caught the sheen of moisture in his eyes. "I don't know what I thought."
His throat worked as he swallowed. The nightmare clung to him like a second skin, the memories so vivid he could still smell the antiseptic sting of the hospital, still feel the bite of his father's hand and his belt.
"I'm sorry I woke you up," he murmured, his voice raw.
The Valet scoffed, though there was no real heat behind it. "Don't be stupid. You think I'd sleep through that?" He hesitated before sitting on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. "Do you...want to talk about it?"
That question hung in the air between them. Ivan stared into his tea, watching the steam curl and dissipate. How could he explain? How could he put into words the way his father's voice still slithered through his mind, whispering that he was worthless, that he didn't deserve kindness, that he....
A shudder wracked his frame.
Verisha didn't push. Instead, he reached out and carefully pried the teacup from Ivan's white-knuckled grip before he could spill his drink. "You don't have to if you are uncomfortable," he said simply.
Silence settled over them, but it wasn't uncomfortable. The weight of unspoken understanding pressed between them two men who had seen too much, endured too much, and yet somehow kept moving forward.
They have to keep moving forward.....