What I’ve Done

"Idiot, idiot, idiot! Fool! God, what a fool! A moron, a clinical imbecile, a spectacular idiot, I swear to god! What have you done?! No—what have I done?"

Shouting these curses at myself at the top of my lungs, I stormed through the apartment, stomping so hard it felt like I was trying to drive the parquet flooring straight through the floor.

I was lucky it was Saturday—meaning I had one more day to figure things out. Incredibly lucky the apartment was empty when I arrived. I burst in like a hurricane, flung my backpack to the ground, growled something incoherent, and began pacing. Back and forth, kitchen to room and back again. I marched and berated myself in every possible variation. The cat, terrified, scrambled under the couch, flinching at every door slam and outburst.

This went on for ten solid minutes. I’d momentarily calm down, muttering under my breath, only to flare up again with fresh venom—hurling increasingly creative insults at myself and occasionally punctuating them with a well-aimed fist to the wall for catharsis.

Finally, the anger gave way to shock at what had happened, bewilderment at myself, and bitter disappointment. On the other hand… I’d actually done something. Something… Christ, sometimes doing nothing is better than doing this! I’d pat myself on the back from the lofty heights of July. Hell, from the heights of tonight. That would come later. Right now, I was faced with the facts.

"How did this happen? How did it even come to this? Most importantly—how did I let it?" I spoke to the emptiness. Yesterday, I’d somehow managed to pick a fight even with myself.

"It’s not like I plucked the idea out of thin air or acted on a whim! No, the idea had been brewing for a while. But you… we… no, I (just stick to first-person singular, for fuck’s—for my—sake!) chose to act on it today! And why? That’s right. A whim. Let’s dig deeper…"

My voice grew quieter, calmer, as if I weren’t just talking to void anymore. "—I’ll take it from here."

"—We fought. I told you to shut up and cut ties," I reminded my internal interlocutor in a flat voice.

"—You never sent me anywhere, and you never could. Because you’re me, I’m you, et cetera. So let’s talk."

"—Here’s the thing," the voice continued, "—you were pushed by a whim. And what triggered it? You were elegantly yanked out of the abyss of despair by your ears."

"—Thanks to Dad?"

"—You can’t even act on your own initiative here."

My nerves were thoroughly frayed. Just when I'd finally calmed down, stopped tearing at my hair, and begun pacing calmly back and forth down the hallway, lost in thought—this bastard breaks free from confinement and won't leave me alone! That damned prosecutor keeps hurling arguments and accusations, pressing with such vile persistence... What kind of judicial fairness is this?

"Let's not lie. I could've chickened out again and said nothing to her."

"And you'd still be berating yourself! No matter what you do—you're at fault! Your mistake, your failure! And you lost the polymers too, by the way."

"What polymers?"

"Doesn't matter. Just a little joke. Stay on topic. Your actions seem wrong to you by default, understand? And if anything in our world is truly wrong—it's the belief that everything in it is wrong."

"Tell me, is today May 7th by any chance?"

"No. The 13th."

"Pity. I think the 7th's a good day. Good enough for something... strange. And unexpected, yeah."

You know, that was the strangest part. In truth, I'd thought everything through carefully—how, what, and when to say. I'd played out dozens of variations of that scene and its possible consequences in my head. And now it feels like one of the most reckless things I've ever done.

The doorbell rang. I startled and glanced in the mirror: flushed face, unbuttoned jacket, shirt untucked. I hadn't even changed. No, I absolutely had to leave now. The company of the cat and that peculiar companion still figuring out his role in my head was tolerable—but not my father's company. Definitely his, because Mom wouldn't be back until evening. Damn it, after yesterday's kitchen conversation, I couldn't even look him in the eye. What would I say when I opened the door?

I quickly threw on the first T-shirt I found in the closet and pulled on some shorts. The doorbell was practically screaming—soon would come the heated accusations. Well, fine. I was already haunted by burning guilt toward him anyway.

The bell turned into a shrill whistle. I flew to the door, asked "Who?"—already knowing I'd hear an irritated "Me!" after making them wait so long.

I opened the door. Yes, it was Dad. Only... he was grinning slyly. His left hand was raised, index and middle fingers extended in a "V" shape, the others tucked into his palm. What the hell is going on in this establishment, esteemed gentlemen?

"What's that?" I asked wearily.

"V stands for victory."

Then he poked me in the shoulder with his right hand and asked cheerfully:
"You won, didn't you?"

I didn't share his cheer. With every passing minute, I understood less. What did Dad have to do with this?

"No. Today I lost. I'll win... another day, in another game, with another person."

I squeezed past him and the wall, stepping out onto the landing.

"Wait! Let's talk, come back up." I turned and shook my head.
"I'd rather go. Take a walk," and I bolted down the stairs.

Dad shouted something after me, but I kept running down without listening. My mind was a complete mess. I refused to believe my confession had been the result of some cunning plan of his.

I stopped on the second floor to catch my breath. Everything went quiet upstairs, and I leaned my back against the wall, closing my eyes and trying to steady my breathing.

Well then. It turns out that while I fancied myself clever and inscrutable (though any inscrutability had vanished long ago, if it ever existed at all), Dad had read me—my intentions, my hesitations. Funny. He invited me himself, got me talking himself, even shed tears himself. And then inspired me himself. Clever and subtle. Too clever, perhaps?

I stepped outside into the courtyard. Why not take a walk, especially with weather like this? Low clouds obscured the sun, and the wind whipped straight into my face. I trudged slowly toward the avenue, trying to focus on the path and not think. I had the whole evening ahead for deep introspection.

Yes, I'm sad. Yes, all the fantasies I never considered unrealistic have now become just that. Yes, I suffered defeat. Yes, from now on, I'm "just a friend." Unpleasant and disheartening, to say the least. To put it bluntly, I'm torn apart inside by bitterness. Dreams and illusions shattered painfully.

"And soon, you'll start building new ones, I assure you. Hope dies last, right? You'll invent loopholes, shadowy addendums, and convenient excuses, won't you?"

What to do? Nothing—I've already done enough. No, it's unimaginable. All that time spent silent on my lower bunk, and the one time in my life I rise and take initiative, I crash headfirst into disaster.

"But at least the sting of cowardice and inaction doesn't prick you anymore, huh?"

"Some fly of activity bit me so hard I'm practically itching to join the ranks of the passive, you know."

"Won't work!"

"Oh, it'll work! Goes in and comes out! Goes in splendidly, by the way!"

"Speaking of which—" my inner interlocutor changed the subject, "—I liked how casual and offhand you were in that moment. Like you weren’t confessing but asking to borrow a sheet of paper. Well done. Approved. A nice element of surprise."

"I think I overdid it. That’s the thing—it was a serious moment. I was, you could say, drawing a line under these four months."

"Ah, come on. Lines, conclusions. Feeling is normal. No need to build cults, summon tremors, whispers, or pathos. It's not worth it. And most importantly—it was honest and straightforward. On both sides, mind you. Honesty is valuable. Mutual honesty is beautiful. No need to fear or lie. And you shouldn’t do either separately."

"It was too honest and too straightforward, if you ask me. And I wrapped it all in this air of nonchalance. But this—I repeat—was serious. 'I just said it'—what kind of nonsense is that?! If you're going to say it, then say it properly, damn it! I didn’t 'just say' anything, because nothing ever happens 'just because.'"

I was slipping back into despair. The cosmic stupidity of my final words was slowly dawning on me. I even eyed a pile of sand meant for the construction of yet another two-story concrete box, half-tempted to pour it over my own head. How pathetic. Humiliating to the point of tears.

"It was honest. Period."

What a comfort. I stepped toward a shoe store display to avoid stopping mid-sidewalk. Sweating like a dog. Calm down.

"Slooow, careful movements..."
"My personal clown. For the sake of all that’s good in the world—shut up."

I realized I was standing near the theater. The building, erected in the 1970s—the Empire’s golden age—was a stunning example of monumental imperial architecture, a city landmark. It had survived the revolution and two decades of decline. From the outside, it resembled a museum more than a theater, with columns and a grand three-tiered staircase framing the entrance. Posters hung in the shaded alcoves between doorways. I headed straight for them. Who cared what was playing tonight? The important thing was that the shows went on.

One poster stood out: black fabric with yellow text. I moved closer, squinting at the ornate script:

"Exhibition of Paintings by A. H. —One of the Greatest Artists of the 20th Century. From June 7 at the Theater, 84 Revolution Avenue."

A.H.?

Say what you will, but at the very least, he was a decent painter. Some even call him great. Personally, though, his work doesn’t sit right with me. There’s something… angry about it, don’t you think? Unsettling, unpleasant. There’s a legend that he barely scraped into art school—that he was almost rejected. Well, I suppose the world would’ve lost a lot had he never become a painter…

I think the tension’s passed. The agitation is gone. Just as slowly as before, I started making my way back. Time to go home. The few people on the avenue look so happy. And all those happy couples holding hands? They just make me sad, with a sharp little burn right below my ribs.

In my rush to escape, I only grabbed my keys—left my phone and wallet behind. Not that I needed them. Fifteen minutes later, I was at the apartment door. The wind had grown furious, howling so loud it echoed in the stairwell.

The door was latched from the inside, so my keys were useless. I had to ring. Dad answered—Mom still wasn’t home, contrary to my hopes. I kicked off my shoes and stepped inside, deliberately avoiding eye contact, just blankly scanning the hallway. Dad, for once, showed wisdom (or was it pity?) and didn’t ask a thing. For that, I’m endlessly grateful.

I went to the bathroom. Washed my hands with soap. Hello, scent—a pleasant memory from yesterday’s joy. Then I splashed water on my face. Walked to my room, shut the door tight, and stripped off my clothes. Pants and T-shirt—where were they? Oh, right, on the chair. Good. I put on my headphones. Music, save me! Time for some good old rock.

Dissolution initiated…

Two or three hours passed—I lost track. I could listen for hours, just pacing back and forth. I took a break when my phone battery whimpered.

Sat on the chair, legs up on the couch. A faint ringing in my ears. Peace. I decided to strike up a conversation:

"You know what I’ll say about music? Real, good music?"

"I’m listening," grumbled my inner interlocutor, who hated questions he couldn’t answer himself.

"Music should pierce your mind and stick there…"

"In the heart?"

"No," I waved it off. "The heart is just a muscle pumping blood. Music should pierce your consciousness, seep into your subconscious, then spill into the farthest corners of memory. That’s the beauty of it. Music is magnificent—in any form, any genre."

"Lies are far less magnificent. And when they stem from trying to dress up victories as defeats? Pathetic. What does it matter what she said? You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. Your confession was a win. A spit in the face of hesitation, if you will."

I shook my head:

No intoxicating triumph left to savor,
Losing feels like losing a hundredfold,
Winning—just once, and never again.

"I disagree! And I’ll keep disagreeing until you ditch this defeatist crap, scrape together an ounce of self-respect, and start loving yourself."

Oh, so now he’s unstoppable. Just because I listened to some music.

"Today was a genuinely good day. Not great—you didn’t achieve anything great—but good. Important. A real shift. Before, I only talked to you about what you thought. Today, it’s about what you did. Has that ever happened? I’m asking: Has it?"

I smirked. He was orating as grandly as I had yesterday in the kitchen. But there’s a difference. First, time and place mean nothing to him, whereas my tongue ties itself into knots without inspiration. Second, he’ll never feel shame. Not about anything.

"And if you’re so hung up on the ‘just friends’ label, ever consider it might be for the best? ‘I need an easy friend,’ to quote the song?"

Well…

"Yes, it's a shift—not some epic inner upheaval, but a good change," according to my inner voice. Well, we'll see. We'll see about that. I hit play. Music crashed over me like an avalanche, flooding my consciousness.

I didn't know how to swim. But as I sank, my arms and legs began thrashing on instinct. The movements were frantic, uncoordinated—yet soon, I wasn’t sinking like a stone anymore. When the air burned in my lungs, I surged upward with everything I had. Meter after meter through the water, toward the surface, toward air.

I broke through.

A deep, greedy gasp. Out. Another breath—joyful, desperate, like my last. Out. And one more, sharp and sobering. Out.

Treading water, I wiped my eyes and looked around. No spiral. No whirlwind. No her. Nothing at all, just faint light rippling on the surface above.

So now what?