Lounge Act

Have you ever had that oppressive feeling of impending doom? When everything seems fine, no problems or hardships on the horizon, yet you’re restless? That’s exactly how I’d felt since morning. I hadn’t burned my tongue on hot tea, or slipped on the cold bathroom tiles, or tripped on the street, or stumbled into any of those embarrassing situations that make you cover your face in shame. I’d even say today was a good day. Why not call it good? The scent around me seemed a little sweeter, my gaze a little brighter, and I — a little more confident. So I walked home from school in high spirits, even the gnawing tension between my heart and stomach finally quiet.

The weather was decent, too. No wind, just a light overcast. The mud was drying, the last remnants of snow slowly melting. Some tune looped stubbornly in my head as I approached the building. Even the stairwell and elevator seemed cleaner than usual.

I stepped inside the apartment and listened. Silence. Great, no one’s home. I peeked into the room. The cat, as usual, was sprawled on the couch. I walked in slowly. It immediately locked eyes with me, tensing up, ready to bolt at the slightest hint of danger. Two cautious steps forward. The cat warily rose but at least didn’t arch its back or hiss like before. I reached out, hoping to pet it. And it bolted. Vanished into the gap between the couch and the wall, nothing left but a streak of tail. I just shrugged. Some things can’t be fixed. Then again, there are plenty of incurable syndromes and diseases, and this one’s among the most harmless. Time: 13:09, by the way.

After lunch, I melted into my chair in front of the monitor. Hello, internet. Hello, forum. Hello, so-called "bar." Four years of life, archived here. Four thousand messages on every topic imaginable. Free exchange. Only recently had I begun to realize how much more revealing this was than any diary — not just a retelling of events, but a distillation of my inner self. My manner of speech, the subjects I discussed, my views, my preferences — all of it was here. I’d built a dossier on myself.

"A dossier? Well, we’ve already seen your trial. Remember when the prosecutor and defense attorney decided to have tea instead?"

"Oh, I remember. I actually liked that. By the way, I am planning to start keeping tabs on myself."

"Hooray?"

"I mean… stalking. I’ll chase my own shadow with a flashlight. Corner myself in an alley and interrogate me under a bare bulb. Maybe one day I’ll catch myself red-handed."

"You’re under arrest. For speeding."

"But there aren’t even any road signs here!"

"No, but there’s the Republic. And it’s above speed."

"Fine, you win."

"Wow, look at you. Now you’re losing to yourself."

"That’s it, I don’t want to talk to you anymore."

"And what’s there to talk about with someone who spent most of his life thinking 'Dossier' was a city?"

"Blame the news reports. They messed with our heads. If a word’s used like a city’s name, why wouldn’t you assume it is one?"

"…"

"You still there? Whatever. One day, I’ll be old, sitting in a chair, rereading my entire forum archive, squinting through glasses and coughing from chronic bronchitis."

If I even live to grow old. I’ll be eighteen soon. A free ticket to the next oil-and-gas war is already waiting for me. The Republic always needs fresh… meat.

I don’t know what I’ll do after school. All I see is a colossal question mark, painted in thick white paint on cracked gray asphalt. But it’s not scary. I won’t have a choice anyway.

"Oh well. Remember what they say about fighting fire with fire? Buck up, embrace healthy apathy. Drop the anxiety. Here’s what I mean: there’s a person. Say, you. There’s a state, say, the Republic. And that’s it. No homeland. No fatherland. They tell you to die for the state—they’re telling you to die for nothing. The only thing worth dying for is another life. There are no values worth taking lives for. That came out messy, but I hope you get it."

"Yeah. Thanks."

The computer’s hum was drowned out by the shrill doorbell. Then four heavy blows against the metal door. And honestly? I’d rather have face-planted in April’s mud.

My insides clenched tight. My pulse spiked by half. I practically sprinted to the door.

"Who is it?"

"Meeeee!" — God, that voice made my skin crawl.

I opened the door. There stood Batya. Why "Batya"? Because he was wasted beyond reason. I’ve never met anyone alcohol transformed so completely. Some get kinder, some turn jovial, some just pass out, some stay almost coherent. With him, everything changed —appearance, behavior. Now I was staring at a bloated, unshaven face with utterly deranged eyes.

A body swaying on its feet, a stench that made you want to flee and lose your sense of smell forever, and the deadliest weapon in his arsenal — a tongue utterly unbound, paired with a brain that had ditched all filters. An insatiable urge to talk, to explain to the ignorant, to convince the dissenters. Welcome home. Never mind that you’ve been gone a week and a half — work, I get it. Just don’t talk. Not to me, not at all. Just sleep. For at least the next 24 hours.

Know the worst part? Batya wasn’t drunk enough to just pass out. Nor was he at that eerie "tipsy" stage where you play detective, spotting hints of his fogged mind beneath otherwise-normal behavior. No, he was drunk just enough to say whatever popped into his head while keeping his thoughts eerily coherent.

Of course, Batya had no intention of sleeping. He staggered to the kitchen and slumped at the table. Then jabbed a finger at the chair beside him.

No. Not another monologue. Please. Anything but this.

I’d never actually say "Please" to him. Not out of pride —he’d kill me on the spot for such a groveling plea.

Honestly? I’d rather he hit me. Came at me with a knife. At least then I could knock him out. Self-defense.

I sat down. What else could I do?

A heavy stare. A deep breath. Lips pressed tight.

"So… how’ve you been? Everything okay?"

"Yeah, fine." — I kept my voice as neutral as possible.

"Good. That’s what matters. You know, I’ve been good too. Lots of work —" Batya scratched his prickly beard—"but… you know I do it for you, right? I’ve got no one else. Though—" His throat dried up, and I handed him the water bottle from the table. He took a few gulps—"I’m not sure you get that. Or maybe you do, but just don’t care."

A tinge of resentment seeped into his voice. That never ended well. Batya had a gift for working himself into a frenzy — sometimes without a single word from the other side.

"A week and a half. A week and a half I spent wondering if you were okay, how you were doing, anything. And you didn’t even call. Not once. Hearing your voice would’ve made my day. But you forgot about me, didn’t you? You forgot everything! All you’ve got is that damn screen!"

His voice lurched between wheedling and drunken growls, gaining force. I had to say something. Anything to stop this self-fueled rage machine. Just don’t stay silent. Don’t repeat past mistakes.

"No, I didn’t forget." — I avoided his swollen, squinting eyes, staring past him at the gilded handles of the hallway cabinet.

"Then… what’s the problem? Why didn’t you call?"

Every word was an accusation. Why? Maybe lie, say I tried calling but couldn’t get through? No. Impossible. You can lie to anyone — friends, acquaintances, strangers — you can even lie to yourself. But to your parents? No way. Stay silent, helplessly staring at the table? Worse. That’d only enrage him more. Batya would rant loud and long, escalating to screams. Empty chairs were an audience to him — and a real person was a crowd.

"Why didn’t you call?!" — his shout snapped me out of my thoughts.

Heavy silence. If it were night, with no street noise, we’d hear the clock ticking.

"WHY DON’T YOU EVER CALL?! ANSWER ME!"

That’s it. He’s slurring now.

"I… was scared. That you’d be…" — I forced down the lump in my throat. Damn tears, welling up again—"drunk."

Shit. Well, I said it. Batya deflated for a second. Then leaned in close. His breath reeked of booze. And his teeth hadn’t been brushed in days, at least. Disgusting.

"Scared? Drunk? You —  I —" A short, ugly pause—"Yeah, I’m drunk. So what? SO WHAT? Scared of what? Of who? A heart-to-heart or some fascists? Too scared to call your own father! That’s what it is! And here I thought… I believed in you, thought you’d be a man!"

Ever heard that strange, wheezing shriek? When someone hits their breaking point, raging in frenzy?

"You were scared?! At your age, kids were fighting wars! Marching to their deaths, dying as they marched, fighting and dying, struggling and dying, suffering and dying, DYING AND DYING!!! Without a shred of fear! Proud! With dignity!"

He kicked his chair back. His words dissolved into fragments.

"Disgrace, nightmare, scared, shame, call, impossible, we, nonsense, die, proud!"

Batya glared at me. I sat frozen. Go on, counter him. Yeah, right. I was paralyzed.

"You’re not a man. Just a spineless rag. Not an insult. A constat… constan… a fact."

He wasn’t yelling anymore. If anything, he seemed eerily calm.

"I should’ve drowned you. Would’ve been better. For me. For you. For the country."

Now I was shaking. A familiar feeling. This scene played out at least once a month. But today, Batya outdid himself.

"No, wouldn’t have drowned you."

I stared at the floor. Sweat trickled down my legs.

"Right." — A look of pure contempt —"Shit doesn’t float."

That was below the belt. Hell, below the belt. Something inside me broke. Everything blurred. I stood up. My fists clenched like they’d been glued shut. As if they’d always been that way. A man with fists carved from stone.

His face, full of scorn. I raised my fists, trembling like I was seizing. Tears streamed down. He stood there. Hit my own father? I couldn’t. Not then, not now. I backed away, tripped over the cat’s water bowl, splashing it everywhere. The farther I retreated, the more terrifying he looked. A stone statue in the middle of the kitchen. He didn’t move. Not even a twitch. I was terrified. My back hit the doorknob. Now. I turned and ran.

Those few meters down the hall. Inside, it felt like a pillar had snapped — the one holding up a boulder at its peak. At first, you feel nothing. Then the boulder crashes down. Shatters. Every shard embarks on its own journey. It will land. It will shatter. And it will be noticed.

The boulder landed somewhere around the corner. I slammed into the bathroom. The meaning of his last words finally hit me. Yes, it’s drunk rambling. Yes, he doesn’t mean it. Yes, a normal person would react normally. A "normal person" — meaning not a hysterical rag.

I cranked the hot water and shoved my hand under the stream. Pain. Any physical pain, just to stop thinking, to erase the brand stamped on me at birth. I bit my arm till it bled. Punched my own jaw twice, hard. Slammed my fists against the bathroom tiles till they scraped raw. Focus on the pain. When that failed, I doubled over and just screamed, praying the water’s roar would drown it out. I stood there, scalding myself. No strength left for sobs. A cough racked me.

Only whimpers remained. The fit lasted forever — I’d been in the bathroom nearly half an hour, at least fifteen minutes of it pure frenzy.

Finally, my thoughts reconnected. Where did I go wrong? What did I do? Why did I push him to this? Or maybe it’s not my fault at all? I sprawled under the scalding water. Must’ve been a pathetic sight.

More time passed. I was… fine. Compared to half an hour ago, anyway. I dried off and crept out of the bathroom. Slipped into my room. No idea where Batya was, and I didn’t care to see him. Well, until today, he only thought it— now it’s fact. I collapsed onto the bed. I’d have to process this. At least I’d never touch alcohol. My kids don’t deserve this. If I even have kids. I don’t know. Right now, I just needed to sleep.