They stared at him like he’d lost his mind. With such disbelief and even a hint of fear, as if it had just come to light that Dariy Shargorodsky was a long-wanted serial killer.
“Are you nuts? Why the hell would you do this?” the guys gawked. And Dinka, his chatty, unstoppable, annoying Dinka, was completely at a loss for words.
He brushed off the guys with some half-hearted jokes, tossing out something like “life’s gotten boring” and “I’m a risk-taker.” To Dinka, he just shook his head to stop her from asking questions, whispered “I’ll explain later,” and headed out of school.
Truth be told, he was a bit stunned at himself too. Not because he’d volunteered to check on that weirdo—that part actually made sense. But because he’d so recklessly, so carelessly drawn all this suspicion onto himself.
Of all people, no one expected this from Dariy. Not because he was some pristine prince afraid to get his hands dirty, but because he treated Gerasimova worse than anyone else did.
Sure, no one was friends with her—who’d want to be? She was wild, aggressive, always silent, sulking, glaring at everyone like she was about to pull a brick from under her jacket and smash your skull in. But no one really messed with her either—getting tangled up with that psycho wasn’t worth the trouble.
Back in the day, though, Dar couldn’t stand Gerasimova. Now, he mostly didn’t care, having long since learned to ignore the nutcase, the way you ignore ants underfoot or avert your eyes from homeless folks at the train station—a weird mix of indifference and disgust. But in middle school, she drove him up the wall. She was just too different, too independent, too detached from reality. She showed up to school regularly, was part of the group, but radiated such contempt for rules and anything collective that it made you want to crush her.
It happened more than once: they’d plan to ditch class, and as usual, if you’re skipping, everyone goes together. They’d agree, sort it out, take off—and this idiot would stay behind and ruin everything. She’d end up looking like the good kid, while the rest of them got humiliated and chewed out at parent-teacher conferences.
Or take this one time: their English teacher flipped out for no reason and sprung a surprise test on them, and no one was prepared. Again, they made a solid pact—no one, absolutely no one, was writing that test. But nope—this psycho didn’t care about anyone, didn’t even bat an eye, just scribbled down her dumb answers. And it’s not like she knew the material or was prepared—she still got a C, while the rest of them got Fs slapped on by the teacher.
But the peak of his hatred came in ninth grade. Their homeroom teacher, Tayecha, went on maternity leave, and they got a replacement, a history teacher named Tetyana Oleksiivna. Not only was she a terrible teacher, but as a person, she was completely unhinged. Whether she was born a man-hater or some guy had wronged her, no one knew, but she despised boys with a passion. She deliberately gave them lower grades, set expectations for their knowledge like they were PhD candidates, and watched their behavior like a hawk. The slightest noise or whisper—bam, an F in your planner. It was already tough dealing with her, but when she became their homeroom teacher, she went completely off the rails. The guys racked up failing grades left and right.
Dariy especially. His dad was furious, tearing into him like a madman. He wouldn’t hear a word about the teacher being unreasonable, just yelled his head off, saying he gave Dar everything—trips, clothes, the latest gadgets—and what did he get in return? Embarrassment! Failing grades! For behavior, no less! If anyone found out, they’d laugh him out of town! And to top it all off, the final blow—he canceled Dar’s trip to Austria for winter break. Dar had just bought a brand-new snowboard and had been so pumped for that trip...
Long story short, this situation wasn’t working for anyone, so they decided to get rid of Tetyana Oleksiivna. They wrote a collective complaint to the principal, stating she was a horrible teacher and an even worse homeroom advisor. And everyone signed it. Everyone, that is, except Gerasimova.
At first, they tried to reason with the idiot: the girls pleaded, threw out arguments. Then they got fed up, and the guys started threatening her. Like, if you don’t sign, we’ll make your life hell—you’ll wish you were never born. But she didn’t care: just glared at them with those dark eyes from under her brow, looking at everyone like they were morons, with an almost condescending smirk, not saying a word. Eventually, they gave up on the stubborn sheep and submitted the complaint anyway.
And then all hell broke loose...
The principal launched such an investigation that they cursed the day they’d come up with the stupid idea for that complaint. Parent-teacher meetings, interrogations, grilling each student one by one. The principal sat in on their history classes and homeroom periods for a whole month. A counselor came in five times, gave lectures, and once even brought a cop who preached about acceptable behavior in society and responsibility. But the worst part? Tetyana Oleksiivna stayed their homeroom teacher. The principal, with a smirk, explained: well, the vote wasn’t unanimous—one person abstained. Oh, how Tetyana took it out on them after that complaint...
And as if school wasn’t unbearable enough, things at home were a nightmare too—his dad took away his computer, phone, sound system, bike, everything Dar cared about. Locked him in his room for three whole months!
Basically, life became a total dumpster fire, and who was to blame? That’s right, Gerasimova the sheep! If it weren’t for her, none of this would’ve happened! Dar got so pissed that he tried to rally the class, saying, let’s stage a revolt against this brain-dead sheep, show her what happens when you go against the group. After all, if you spit on the collective, it’ll wipe it off, but if the collective spits on you, you’ll drown in it...
But for some reason, the class didn’t back him up. They were all so proper, so goody-goody, so squeaky clean. The guys were mostly straight-A students and athletes, the girls were either soft-hearted hens or obsessed with academics and competitions. And their class was pretty tight-knit, after all: no bullying, no cliques like you usually see, no ganging up against each other (he thought they even got some award one year as a model class). The A-class kids would’ve stoned Gerasimova for a screw-up of this scale, or dunked her head in a toilet, but his class just sighed at her betrayal. Spineless wimps.
Anyway, no one stood shoulder to shoulder with Dariy, so he decided to act on his own: become Gerasimova’s personal nightmare. Man, did he try. He tormented her. No, not with physical stuff or damaging her things or anything cheap like that, but he trolled her hard, came up with such vicious verbal jabs that even the girls in class recoiled in shock—no one had any idea that brainy Dar could be such a ruthless bully.
But this idiot? Didn’t faze her one bit. All the insults bounced off her like ping-pong balls. She didn’t react to a single taunt, didn’t pay him any attention, no matter how hard Dar tried, no matter how low he stooped—nothing worked. Only once did he manage to get a rise out of her, when he’d run out of ideas and went down a nasty path—said something ugly about her dad. That one time—and only that time—she snapped hard: lunged at Dar’s face like a rabid panther, clawed him to shreds, blood gushing from the cuts...
Everyone was floored by her reaction, obviously. Dar especially. Honestly, he nearly crapped his pants, thought the psycho was gonna gouge his eyes out. He decided not to mess with the nutcase anymore—who knows what else might pop into her head. Plus, his dad always held him accountable for any conflicts, never caring who was right or wrong.
So he figured, screw it: life would punish this crazy idiot without his help—she was already living at rock bottom anyway, and he’d just keep his distance. But today, by some twisted, cruel irony, here he was walking down her street. To her house. Walking, and he couldn’t believe it, because this whole thing was some kind of absurd, surreal nonsense.
Man, what was he doing here in this cesspool? The trees were still bare, like even spring had skipped over this pathetic neighborhood. It was almost March, and everywhere else was just slush, but here? A total swamp. Mud up to your knees, trash just lying around between the buildings. And the buildings themselves—crooked, blackened boxes.
He walked cautiously, straining to hear every rustle. Like he was afraid some maniac with a chainsaw would jump out from around the corner any second. Creepy place. Felt like everything here had died, devoured by a horde of zombies, burned to ash.
Disgusting. How could anyone live here?
As he walked, he recalled all the ridiculous rumors that got chewed over at school with relish. About her dad, who was supposedly in a psych ward. About how he allegedly killed his wife. About how he was some freaking pyromaniac who set fire to neighbors’ houses. And his daughter was just like him. Also caught starting fires, even on some police watchlist...
Yeah, people loved making up all kinds of garbage and then believing it. Though, who knows, maybe it was true: you could expect anything from Gerasimova, maybe her dad was just as unhinged...
When he raised his hand to knock on the door, he was practically shaking with nervous chills. But Gerasimova’s father, as it turned out, didn’t look like a psycho at all.
There was no doubt the man who opened the door was her father: the same light brown hair, the same sharp-chinned face shape, the same big, dark brown, almost black eyes. His gaze was questioning and slightly wary, but without the open hostility his daughter always showed. He opened the door wide, as if to show there were no horrors hidden in his home, and kept his hands visible, palms forward, so the dumb fear that he might pull a screwdriver from behind his back and stab Dar in the eye quickly faded on its own.
“Can I help you?” His voice was soft too, even with a hint of friendliness, and Dariy allowed himself to exhale and relax a little.
Alright, one hurdle down. Now he needed to see Gerasimova, make sure she was okay, and get the hell out of there with a clear conscience.
“I’m looking for Aurika Gerasimova,” Dar said. He knew he should’ve extended a hand for a shake, but he really didn’t want to touch anything or anyone in this gross place—who knows what kind of crud he might pick up. So he tucked his hands behind his back, rocked from his toes to his heels, and added, “Taye… Taisiya Viktorivna asked me to check if everything’s alright with her. We’ve got a week of tests, and Aurika hasn’t been at school for three days…”
The man frowned, lowered his head, gave a slight nod, and seemed to purse his lips in sadness.
“Yeah,” he drawled reluctantly, “she’s… not quite well.”
“She’s sick?” Dariy tried to keep his voice from sounding too relieved, but it came out as it did. Luckily, Gerasimova’s father didn’t seem to notice his tone. And for Dar, it felt like a weight lifted off his chest. Not quite well—that’s good. Probably just a cold or food poisoning. And that’s awesome, right?
“Something like that,” the man nodded, and Dar couldn’t hold back a sigh of relief.
“Well,” he said brightly—feeling like a concrete slab had just been lifted off him, stepping back from the door—“hope she gets better soon. Tell her… best wishes. We’re waiting for her at school, miss her, all that…”
From the sudden lightness that washed over his shoulders, he felt like spouting nonsense and grinning like an idiot, which he did. Then, out of nowhere, a noise came from inside the house, behind the man, followed by a faint voice:
“Who’s there, Dad?”
And in the doorway appeared Gerasimova.
The dumb grin vanished from his face so fast it was like someone had punched him square in the jaw. First, he saw her thin frame, then her face… and his stomach clenched hard.
Cheekbone, eye, brow, jaw—a palette of blue, purple, and angry red that made him nauseous instantly. The skin on her cheek was scraped raw, literally to the flesh!
Dar felt like someone had stabbed a knife into him and gutted him on the spot. A heavy, painful pressure built in his chest. Images came to life in his head on their own. His brain tried to reconstruct the accident, but now not from his perspective, but from hers—how she must’ve felt, how she must’ve seen it. And it hurt, really hurt, physically, damn it.
He didn’t just hit her, send her flying. He dragged her across the asphalt!
There wasn’t an inch of her that looked unharmed! She could barely stand, swaying, holding herself up with one hand against the wall while the other hung limply at her side. Her brown eyes stared at him with complete confusion, almost shock. Her face was deathly pale, making her eyes, brows, and lips stand out unnaturally vivid on contrast. Terrifying.
Dariy instinctively backed away. He wanted to run. Fast, far, without stopping. He felt sick. So sick that spots danced before his eyes and a horrible, unbearable ringing grew in his ears.
He wanted to scream—no, no, it wasn’t me, I couldn’t have done this! But he opened his mouth and mumbled incoherently:
“I… I’ve… I’ve gotta go…”
And then he turned and bolted.