- TNP Nation
- Yamantau/The Black Cathedral
- Discord
- merchantofmercy
I've written the stories in this thread to illustrate the darker parts of life in Yamantau, as such, this thread deals with subject matter that not all readers may find suitable.
The Things We've Done
- Thread starter Yamantau Em
- Start date
- TNP Nation
- Yamantau/The Black Cathedral
- Discord
- merchantofmercy
Street Walker
Trina shivered as the breeze caressed her arms, her jacket falling loosely around her shoulders as she stood on the curb, waiting for another customer looking for some quick action. She had never wanted this life, but she had been doing it since she was fourteen, now it was almost twenty years later. She had gotten out for a year or two, even managed to keep the needle out of her arm for a few months at a time here and there, but she always ended up falling back in with the wrong people in the wrong places, and standing back on the closest curb.
She pulled a half smoked cigarette from the crumpled pack she kept in her purse and lit it, taking a few puffs of the acrid, ash smelling thing before flicking it into the street. She dug back into her purse and grabbed a stick of gum; had to get the smell of old tobacco off her breath before the next old perv rolled up. She wandered a little further up the street to talk to a few of the other girls working the corners, seeing how their nights were going, just trying to have some sort of human contact that wasn't in the backseat of a car or behind a dumpster in some dingy alley. After she made her rounds, she returned to her spot, leaning against a lamp post, watching for anyone who seemed interested. She watched as the usual blacked out sedan slowly drove past all the girls. She would know that car anywhere; Milan, the fat sack of shit that ran everything in this neighborhood, he was the one who kept all these girls high as a kite and working the corner. He did constant tours through the neighborhood, making sure all of his girls were where they should be.
Trina looked down at her scuffed white runners as Milan rolled past, careful not to let him see her disgust. She turned her attention to an approaching grey car, and mentally prepared herself for the act.
The car slowly pulled up in front of her, the driver waiting a second before he rolled down the passenger window. Trina watched her reflection slowly descend, replaced with the driver; a younger man who leered at her from behind a pair of polarized aviator sunglasses. She could smell the liquor on him as she leaned through the window.
"Hey baby, whatcha looking for?" she asked, moving her hips as she spoke, eyeing the man up and down with a flirty smile.
"You do backyards?" the man slurred, a drunken chuckle escaping as he asked.
Trina tried not to grimace through her smile at the thought. "I'll do anything you like if the price is right, baby." she cooed.
"Get in." he said coldly.
Trina climbed into the car and settled into the seat, reaching over to put her hand in the customer's lap as he drove. "There's a spot up ahead, just pull into that alley." she told him, pointing to the alley entrance up ahead to the right. Her customer simply nodded and pulled into the alley, and parking halfway down. Both ends of the alley were bathed in the neon glow of the signs that hung out front of the bars and ripper joints that littered the neighborhood, but here in the darkness, Trina began to feel quite alone.
"Its thirty tarkoes for the lip service, sixty for a ride, and eighty for the backyard, hundred and fifty for full service." she told him, massaging his thigh. The man simply reached into his pocket and handed her a wad of banknotes. She quickly flicked through them, counting out a little over a hundred and seventy five.
"Get in the back." he muttered, slowly pushing open the drivers door and exiting the vehicle, and getting in the back. Trina stuffed the bills into her purse and followed suit. Soon enough, she got to work, the customer letting out the occasional moan or groan as she did her job with what limited enthusiasm she could muster up. She tried vainly to keep going as the slurring drunk went flaccid, no longer able to keep it up. He was starting to get frustrated as she sat in his lap, trying everything she could to get everything back on track.
"C'mon, hun, I know you like it." she whispered in his ear.
"Get off me you fucking slut!" he screamed, pushing her off onto the seat. She was too shocked to register that his fist was flying towards her face. The left hand crashed against her nose, sending her into a daze. Two more heavy blows landed on her face before she could collect herself enough to scramble for the door. Another strike landed on her ribcage as she fell from the car. She scrambled from the vehicle onto the pavement before trying to grab her pants from the seat, but the drunkard was lying on top of them. She would have to leave them. She slammed the door as hard as she could, hitting the man on top of the head, which caused him to scream in pain. She threw open the passenger door and grabbed her purse before making a break down the alley, half naked and scared for her life. She just had to make it out of the alley.
Her heart pounded in her chest, she could feel the blood running from her nose and across her lips. She looked behind just in time to see her attacker lunge at her, tackling her to the concrete, the contents of her purse scattering as he made contact.
"I'll fucking kill you bitch!" he hissed, wrapping his hands around her throat. She clawed desperately at his face, gouging at his eyes, but his arms were longer, and he kept her pinned. She wriggled in his grasp, desperately looking for something to hit him with, anything. She could see the small purple handled folding knife she kept in her bag just to her right, she just had to reach it. She stretched as far as she could go, her fingertips just able to touch it, trying to inch it closer, the metal handle scraping along the concrete. Everything was starting to go black.
"Huuuuuuu…"
Trina felt the blood run down her hand as the knife protruded from her attackers ribcage, she pulled it out and tried to stab at his face, striking him through the cheek. She quickly pulled it out again and struck once more, this time her attacker collapsed on top of her, the knife hanging from his neck. Trina turned her head as the blood spurted across her face from the severed artery. She pushed against him, managing to push the man off just enough to wriggle out from underneath him.
"Trina!" a voice called from the end of the alley. One of the other working girls had heard the struggle and decided to investigate. She stood at the end of the alley, her mouth hanging open.
"Get back to work!" another voice shouted, this one gruff and ragged. The girl quickly hurried away as Milan and his bodyguard sauntered down the alley towards Trina, who had braced herself against the wall of the nearby building to catch her breath.
"Aw, Trina, look what you've done…look at the mess you made. Tsk tsk." Milan mused, inspecting the scene. Trina looked down at her bare feet as the blood dripped from her nose down to the asphalt, knowing she was in real trouble. Milan walked towards her, placing his hand on her hip, pushing her against the wall.
"You're a good earner, and a fantastic fuck, but now…you're officially not worth the hassle." he hissed, pulling the .22 revolver from his pocket and pushing it against her temple.
"No, no, no…" she cried. "Please, Milan..please." she begged. Milan paused for a moment. "Goodbye Trina." he said coldly. The little .22 barely made a pop as Milan pulled the trigger. Trina's body slumped down the wall, her head landing between her knees as she fell. Milan let out a sharp sigh as he pushed the revolver back into his pocket and straightened the collar of his cheap track jacket. "Clean this shit up. Throw 'em both in the car. Take it out of town, torch it." he ordered, his lackey nodding before going about his task.
In Yamantau, this was reality. Life was cheap, and only worth as much as another person could make from it. For Trina, her story ends in a dirty alley. Hers is one of many.
Trina shivered as the breeze caressed her arms, her jacket falling loosely around her shoulders as she stood on the curb, waiting for another customer looking for some quick action. She had never wanted this life, but she had been doing it since she was fourteen, now it was almost twenty years later. She had gotten out for a year or two, even managed to keep the needle out of her arm for a few months at a time here and there, but she always ended up falling back in with the wrong people in the wrong places, and standing back on the closest curb.
She pulled a half smoked cigarette from the crumpled pack she kept in her purse and lit it, taking a few puffs of the acrid, ash smelling thing before flicking it into the street. She dug back into her purse and grabbed a stick of gum; had to get the smell of old tobacco off her breath before the next old perv rolled up. She wandered a little further up the street to talk to a few of the other girls working the corners, seeing how their nights were going, just trying to have some sort of human contact that wasn't in the backseat of a car or behind a dumpster in some dingy alley. After she made her rounds, she returned to her spot, leaning against a lamp post, watching for anyone who seemed interested. She watched as the usual blacked out sedan slowly drove past all the girls. She would know that car anywhere; Milan, the fat sack of shit that ran everything in this neighborhood, he was the one who kept all these girls high as a kite and working the corner. He did constant tours through the neighborhood, making sure all of his girls were where they should be.
Trina looked down at her scuffed white runners as Milan rolled past, careful not to let him see her disgust. She turned her attention to an approaching grey car, and mentally prepared herself for the act.
The car slowly pulled up in front of her, the driver waiting a second before he rolled down the passenger window. Trina watched her reflection slowly descend, replaced with the driver; a younger man who leered at her from behind a pair of polarized aviator sunglasses. She could smell the liquor on him as she leaned through the window.
"Hey baby, whatcha looking for?" she asked, moving her hips as she spoke, eyeing the man up and down with a flirty smile.
"You do backyards?" the man slurred, a drunken chuckle escaping as he asked.
Trina tried not to grimace through her smile at the thought. "I'll do anything you like if the price is right, baby." she cooed.
"Get in." he said coldly.
Trina climbed into the car and settled into the seat, reaching over to put her hand in the customer's lap as he drove. "There's a spot up ahead, just pull into that alley." she told him, pointing to the alley entrance up ahead to the right. Her customer simply nodded and pulled into the alley, and parking halfway down. Both ends of the alley were bathed in the neon glow of the signs that hung out front of the bars and ripper joints that littered the neighborhood, but here in the darkness, Trina began to feel quite alone.
"Its thirty tarkoes for the lip service, sixty for a ride, and eighty for the backyard, hundred and fifty for full service." she told him, massaging his thigh. The man simply reached into his pocket and handed her a wad of banknotes. She quickly flicked through them, counting out a little over a hundred and seventy five.
"Get in the back." he muttered, slowly pushing open the drivers door and exiting the vehicle, and getting in the back. Trina stuffed the bills into her purse and followed suit. Soon enough, she got to work, the customer letting out the occasional moan or groan as she did her job with what limited enthusiasm she could muster up. She tried vainly to keep going as the slurring drunk went flaccid, no longer able to keep it up. He was starting to get frustrated as she sat in his lap, trying everything she could to get everything back on track.
"C'mon, hun, I know you like it." she whispered in his ear.
"Get off me you fucking slut!" he screamed, pushing her off onto the seat. She was too shocked to register that his fist was flying towards her face. The left hand crashed against her nose, sending her into a daze. Two more heavy blows landed on her face before she could collect herself enough to scramble for the door. Another strike landed on her ribcage as she fell from the car. She scrambled from the vehicle onto the pavement before trying to grab her pants from the seat, but the drunkard was lying on top of them. She would have to leave them. She slammed the door as hard as she could, hitting the man on top of the head, which caused him to scream in pain. She threw open the passenger door and grabbed her purse before making a break down the alley, half naked and scared for her life. She just had to make it out of the alley.
Her heart pounded in her chest, she could feel the blood running from her nose and across her lips. She looked behind just in time to see her attacker lunge at her, tackling her to the concrete, the contents of her purse scattering as he made contact.
"I'll fucking kill you bitch!" he hissed, wrapping his hands around her throat. She clawed desperately at his face, gouging at his eyes, but his arms were longer, and he kept her pinned. She wriggled in his grasp, desperately looking for something to hit him with, anything. She could see the small purple handled folding knife she kept in her bag just to her right, she just had to reach it. She stretched as far as she could go, her fingertips just able to touch it, trying to inch it closer, the metal handle scraping along the concrete. Everything was starting to go black.
"Huuuuuuu…"
Trina felt the blood run down her hand as the knife protruded from her attackers ribcage, she pulled it out and tried to stab at his face, striking him through the cheek. She quickly pulled it out again and struck once more, this time her attacker collapsed on top of her, the knife hanging from his neck. Trina turned her head as the blood spurted across her face from the severed artery. She pushed against him, managing to push the man off just enough to wriggle out from underneath him.
"Trina!" a voice called from the end of the alley. One of the other working girls had heard the struggle and decided to investigate. She stood at the end of the alley, her mouth hanging open.
"Get back to work!" another voice shouted, this one gruff and ragged. The girl quickly hurried away as Milan and his bodyguard sauntered down the alley towards Trina, who had braced herself against the wall of the nearby building to catch her breath.
"Aw, Trina, look what you've done…look at the mess you made. Tsk tsk." Milan mused, inspecting the scene. Trina looked down at her bare feet as the blood dripped from her nose down to the asphalt, knowing she was in real trouble. Milan walked towards her, placing his hand on her hip, pushing her against the wall.
"You're a good earner, and a fantastic fuck, but now…you're officially not worth the hassle." he hissed, pulling the .22 revolver from his pocket and pushing it against her temple.
"No, no, no…" she cried. "Please, Milan..please." she begged. Milan paused for a moment. "Goodbye Trina." he said coldly. The little .22 barely made a pop as Milan pulled the trigger. Trina's body slumped down the wall, her head landing between her knees as she fell. Milan let out a sharp sigh as he pushed the revolver back into his pocket and straightened the collar of his cheap track jacket. "Clean this shit up. Throw 'em both in the car. Take it out of town, torch it." he ordered, his lackey nodding before going about his task.
In Yamantau, this was reality. Life was cheap, and only worth as much as another person could make from it. For Trina, her story ends in a dirty alley. Hers is one of many.
- TNP Nation
- Yamantau/The Black Cathedral
- Discord
- merchantofmercy
Coming Down
"C'mon man, pleeeease! Just one more, you know I'm good for it, Vova!" Emil whined, scratching at the reddish brown scabs that peppered his arms, his sunken green eyes staring up at the angry young man in front of him.
"Yeah? You're fucking good for it, you fucking junkie? You're into me for a rack last time I counted, and you keep coming back talking about I'll pay you tommorow Vova, I'm going through withdrawals, I just need one more to get through. You're a fucking joke, Emil." Volodymyr mocked him, shaking his head. Volodymyr pulled his sleeves down to cover his own track marks, the kind where you could see the disgusting blackish spiderweb of necrotic capillaries and veins.
"Please bro, please, I'm begging you. Me and Evgeny are gonna go do a job for Skaggs and I'll pay you back triple bro, I swear, I swear." Emil groveled, pathetically petitioning the pusher to let him have one more hit on the house. He gripped at Volodymyr's jacket pleadingly, silently mouthing "Please!" over and over as the thug carefully considered a course of action.
"Fuck man…here…." Volodymyr relented, handing Emil a small plastic bag of off-white, almost brown powder. "But I ain't fronting you no more shit, understand?" he asked rhetorically, pulling back the bag from the greedy hands of his most consistent customer, holding it just out of his reach.
Emil nodded frantically, muttering profuse apologies and feigned promises. Volodymyr reluctantly handed him the flap before pushing Emil off the porch. Emil stuffed the little bag into his pocket and quickly speedwalked down the block, the only thought his addled mind could register was getting back to his bedbug infested hovel so he could get his medicine into his veins.
The neighborhood was busy today, but it didn't have the cloud of gloom looming over it like it usually did, one could almost say the day was alright. Emil hurried along the trash littered streets, keeping an eye on the gutter for any needles that looked like they could be used again; discarded too soon by their previous owners. Emil knew the risks of this behaviour, but his addiction permitted very little in the way of logic. He had smoked his own dried out piss and eaten his own scabs to get high on more occasions than he was proud to admit, and his foray into methamphetamine in the early 2000s had left him with enough teeth to count on one hand. He didn't even know how long he had been living in the old commie block building on Nicolas Street at this point.
Emil ducked down to enter through the shattered glass of the front door of his building, treading over the refuse that littered the floor and stairs, the latter of which had only a thin trail winding up to the top amidst the debris. Emil climbed the stairs two at a time, his sense of urgency quickening as his thoughts focused in only on the little plastic bag of heroin that sat in his pocket. To the roof he climbed, deciding the weather was nice enough to be outside today. Nobody would disturb him up there anyways.
He braced himself against the sunlight after his short venture through the darkened stairways and halls of the abandoned tenement building, making his way over to the makeshift shelter he had built up her some weeks ago when the weather started to warm up. Emil liked to lay under the blue plastic tarp lean-to and watch the stars, fantasizing about aliens from outer space coming to take him away to a better life as the dope dragged him in and out of consciousness.
Getting comfortable on the old mattress he had pulled from the dumpster, Emil laid out his supplies, and pulled the ragged leather belt from his pants, laying it next to his needle, the spoon he had stolen from the diner, and the packet of dope. He pulled a bottle of water from his stash, careful not to swish it around too much in case he disturbed the sediment in the bottom. He took a deep breath, and looked over his set up. It was almost as if a workman had laid out all the tools he would need for the day, everything organized and ready.
Emil stared at the plastic bag of heroin, having a moment of clarity between his drug addled bouts. He began to weep, letting the weight of his decisions crush his soul like a freight train.
"Fuck this." he mumbled, rising to his feet, grabbing the little plastic bag and popping it open. He made is his way to ledge and climbed up, looking down at the street below. Turning his back to the ledge, he poured the packet directly into his mouth, and with outstretched arms, fell back. Down he went.
27th floor.
20th floor.
15th floor.
3rd floor.
Pavement.
Emil's crumpled body lay in the street as onlookers gathered round, the screaming of terrified witnesses piercing the sunny afternoon silence. In one single moment of clarity, Emil had finally found an unfortunate brand of peace.
"C'mon man, pleeeease! Just one more, you know I'm good for it, Vova!" Emil whined, scratching at the reddish brown scabs that peppered his arms, his sunken green eyes staring up at the angry young man in front of him.
"Yeah? You're fucking good for it, you fucking junkie? You're into me for a rack last time I counted, and you keep coming back talking about I'll pay you tommorow Vova, I'm going through withdrawals, I just need one more to get through. You're a fucking joke, Emil." Volodymyr mocked him, shaking his head. Volodymyr pulled his sleeves down to cover his own track marks, the kind where you could see the disgusting blackish spiderweb of necrotic capillaries and veins.
"Please bro, please, I'm begging you. Me and Evgeny are gonna go do a job for Skaggs and I'll pay you back triple bro, I swear, I swear." Emil groveled, pathetically petitioning the pusher to let him have one more hit on the house. He gripped at Volodymyr's jacket pleadingly, silently mouthing "Please!" over and over as the thug carefully considered a course of action.
"Fuck man…here…." Volodymyr relented, handing Emil a small plastic bag of off-white, almost brown powder. "But I ain't fronting you no more shit, understand?" he asked rhetorically, pulling back the bag from the greedy hands of his most consistent customer, holding it just out of his reach.
Emil nodded frantically, muttering profuse apologies and feigned promises. Volodymyr reluctantly handed him the flap before pushing Emil off the porch. Emil stuffed the little bag into his pocket and quickly speedwalked down the block, the only thought his addled mind could register was getting back to his bedbug infested hovel so he could get his medicine into his veins.
The neighborhood was busy today, but it didn't have the cloud of gloom looming over it like it usually did, one could almost say the day was alright. Emil hurried along the trash littered streets, keeping an eye on the gutter for any needles that looked like they could be used again; discarded too soon by their previous owners. Emil knew the risks of this behaviour, but his addiction permitted very little in the way of logic. He had smoked his own dried out piss and eaten his own scabs to get high on more occasions than he was proud to admit, and his foray into methamphetamine in the early 2000s had left him with enough teeth to count on one hand. He didn't even know how long he had been living in the old commie block building on Nicolas Street at this point.
Emil ducked down to enter through the shattered glass of the front door of his building, treading over the refuse that littered the floor and stairs, the latter of which had only a thin trail winding up to the top amidst the debris. Emil climbed the stairs two at a time, his sense of urgency quickening as his thoughts focused in only on the little plastic bag of heroin that sat in his pocket. To the roof he climbed, deciding the weather was nice enough to be outside today. Nobody would disturb him up there anyways.
He braced himself against the sunlight after his short venture through the darkened stairways and halls of the abandoned tenement building, making his way over to the makeshift shelter he had built up her some weeks ago when the weather started to warm up. Emil liked to lay under the blue plastic tarp lean-to and watch the stars, fantasizing about aliens from outer space coming to take him away to a better life as the dope dragged him in and out of consciousness.
Getting comfortable on the old mattress he had pulled from the dumpster, Emil laid out his supplies, and pulled the ragged leather belt from his pants, laying it next to his needle, the spoon he had stolen from the diner, and the packet of dope. He pulled a bottle of water from his stash, careful not to swish it around too much in case he disturbed the sediment in the bottom. He took a deep breath, and looked over his set up. It was almost as if a workman had laid out all the tools he would need for the day, everything organized and ready.
Emil stared at the plastic bag of heroin, having a moment of clarity between his drug addled bouts. He began to weep, letting the weight of his decisions crush his soul like a freight train.
"Fuck this." he mumbled, rising to his feet, grabbing the little plastic bag and popping it open. He made is his way to ledge and climbed up, looking down at the street below. Turning his back to the ledge, he poured the packet directly into his mouth, and with outstretched arms, fell back. Down he went.
27th floor.
20th floor.
15th floor.
3rd floor.
Pavement.
Emil's crumpled body lay in the street as onlookers gathered round, the screaming of terrified witnesses piercing the sunny afternoon silence. In one single moment of clarity, Emil had finally found an unfortunate brand of peace.
- TNP Nation
- Yamantau/The Black Cathedral
- Discord
- merchantofmercy
Costly Mistakes
Mikhail blinked slowly as he watched the Tzarina and her Ephyran bodyguard on the television. The apathy he felt towards her and her murder machine could almost be physically measured, but the same could be said regarding every other subject in his life. He had a menial job, he had been thrown out of school, he was still living in his father's basement, there was no finding brightsides with Mikhail. He shrugged and went back to the gossip rag he had been perusing earlier, flipping through the bullshit laden pages.
"Oh wow, she got yet another boob job. Fucking shocking." he mused, looking over the pictures of yet another blonde, plastic starlet who he assumed had fucked her way to the spotlight. He tossed the tabloid aside and looked out over the near empty laundromat he was supposed to be taking care of. Old Mz. Kurz was shakily adding coins to her machine as she cautiously looked up at the pack of teenagers gathered around out front, smoking cigarettes and playing loud rap music. Mikhail knew the kids were harmless, but Ms. Kurz was convinced that they were going to shoot the place up at any second every single time she came in.
"Ms. Kurz, relax. They're just bored kids." Mikhail remarked, drawing a wrathful gaze from the bitter old wench. Ms. Kurz turned her attention back to her laundry as she shook her head. Mikhail turned his attention back to the TV, the Tzarina still rambling about some public housing project that would be funded by her late father's recently discovered billions. How someone could misplace six billion dollars was beyond his comprehension.
Bing bong!
The chime on the door announced the presence of yet another patron. Mikhail didn't turn from the TV to greet the newcomer, but offered a grunt of acknowledgment. His attention never wavered from the television, even as Ms. Kurz skittered out after the newcomer had a quiet conversation with her.
Mikhail turned to see her look back through the window, a terrified look in her eyes. The kids out front were gone too. He shook his head and looked around. The newcomer was a large man, wearing a black hoodie and jeans, with both of his hands pushed into the pocket of the hoodie.
"The drawer. Open it." the man demanded.
"What?" Mikhail asked, not sure what to do.
"The drawer. Open it up, and give me what's in it. Be cool." the man told him, stepping a little closer. He didn't seem angry at Mikhail, he seemed more anxious than anything.
"No?" Mikhail stated, almost sure someone was playing a prank on him.
The man produced a pistol from the pocket of the hoodie, holding it down by his leg.
"Drawer." the man insisted.
Mikhail sat dumbfounded, staring at the pistol clutched in the man's hand.
The man raised the weapon and drew closer, pushing it against Mikhail's forehead.
"Give me, THE FUCKING MONEY." the man ordered.
Mikhail slowly turned to the cash register, and shakily turned the drawer key. He held his breath as the key sheared off in the hole. He turned back to the man, holding the end of the key, still attached to the pink plastic hair tie.
"I-I can't." he stammered, raising his hands.
The man paused for a second before slamming the grip of his pistol against Mikhail's skull, knocking him out of his seat. Mikhail scrambled against the wall, holding his hand out towards his attacker, who had not leveled the weapon at his head again.
"Wait, wait, wait! Let me try again!" Mikhail begged.
The man looked down at him, then out the window, and back to Mikhail.
"I don't wanna do this you, man. You need to give me the fucking money, or I have to shoot you, and thats my only way in. That's the only way they let me in!" the man urged.
"What?! What the fuck are you talking about?!" Mikhail shouted, reaching up to touch where the man had struck him. He could feel the blood in his hair.
"Get up! Open the god damn drawer!" the man shouted, grabbing Mikhail by the collar and pulling him toward the register.
Mikhail scrambled to his feet and desperately tried to remember how to open the register without the key. Out of desperation, he grabbed the register and slammed it onto the floor.
A loud bang echoed through the room, followed by the soft ding of the cash drawer opening. The smoke from the barrel of the gun rose slowly as Mikhail looked at his killer, who looked back at him with an expression of sadness and shock. Mikhail felt the sharp pain in his chest where the terrified man had shot him, fully believing Mikhail was trying to throw the register at him. Mikhail let out a gurgling gasp as he sat down on the little office chair he had so vainly spent the last six months of his life sitting on.
"I'm sorry." the man whispered, stooping down to collect the blood spattered bills that had fallen from the cash drawer, before dashing out the door, leaving Mikhail to die.
For once in his life, Mikhail actually gave a shit. He fumbled for his phone, and dialed 333.
"Triple three, what's your emergency?" the dispatcher asked.
"I…I'm shot. Laundromat on….Zikov Street. 450 D Zikov. Please." he gasped the words between labored breaths.
"Sir, stay on the line, an ambulance is on its way. I'm gonna need you to keep talking to me, ok?" the dispatcher urged.
"Mhm. Ok." Mikhail answered.
"Sir, where have you been shot?" the dispatcher asked.
Mikhail looked down at the spreading bloodstain on his shirt, right next to his heart.
"In my ch-chest. It f-feels heavy." he answered, his head beginning to nod. The pain in his chest was already turning to more of a feeling of pressure, building inside. He felt faint, and wasn't sure what was happening.
"Ok, sir. The ambulance should be there soon, just hang on." the dispatcher urged him, the alarm in her voice almost enough to convince him.
"Y-yeah…o-o-o-kaaaaaaay….." he trailed off, letting the phone fall from his hand. He was fading. He could hear the sirens in the distance, but he knew this was it for him. He turned to face the TV.
The ambulance did not make it in time to save his life. An officer had to hold Mikhail's father as he wept for his slain son, the victim of a gang initiation. In his final moments, Mikhail had nothing but regrets and anger towards a life left unlived. He was buried next to his mother on a foggy Thursday, destined to never live the life that his family wanted for him.
Mikhail blinked slowly as he watched the Tzarina and her Ephyran bodyguard on the television. The apathy he felt towards her and her murder machine could almost be physically measured, but the same could be said regarding every other subject in his life. He had a menial job, he had been thrown out of school, he was still living in his father's basement, there was no finding brightsides with Mikhail. He shrugged and went back to the gossip rag he had been perusing earlier, flipping through the bullshit laden pages.
"Oh wow, she got yet another boob job. Fucking shocking." he mused, looking over the pictures of yet another blonde, plastic starlet who he assumed had fucked her way to the spotlight. He tossed the tabloid aside and looked out over the near empty laundromat he was supposed to be taking care of. Old Mz. Kurz was shakily adding coins to her machine as she cautiously looked up at the pack of teenagers gathered around out front, smoking cigarettes and playing loud rap music. Mikhail knew the kids were harmless, but Ms. Kurz was convinced that they were going to shoot the place up at any second every single time she came in.
"Ms. Kurz, relax. They're just bored kids." Mikhail remarked, drawing a wrathful gaze from the bitter old wench. Ms. Kurz turned her attention back to her laundry as she shook her head. Mikhail turned his attention back to the TV, the Tzarina still rambling about some public housing project that would be funded by her late father's recently discovered billions. How someone could misplace six billion dollars was beyond his comprehension.
Bing bong!
The chime on the door announced the presence of yet another patron. Mikhail didn't turn from the TV to greet the newcomer, but offered a grunt of acknowledgment. His attention never wavered from the television, even as Ms. Kurz skittered out after the newcomer had a quiet conversation with her.
Mikhail turned to see her look back through the window, a terrified look in her eyes. The kids out front were gone too. He shook his head and looked around. The newcomer was a large man, wearing a black hoodie and jeans, with both of his hands pushed into the pocket of the hoodie.
"The drawer. Open it." the man demanded.
"What?" Mikhail asked, not sure what to do.
"The drawer. Open it up, and give me what's in it. Be cool." the man told him, stepping a little closer. He didn't seem angry at Mikhail, he seemed more anxious than anything.
"No?" Mikhail stated, almost sure someone was playing a prank on him.
The man produced a pistol from the pocket of the hoodie, holding it down by his leg.
"Drawer." the man insisted.
Mikhail sat dumbfounded, staring at the pistol clutched in the man's hand.
The man raised the weapon and drew closer, pushing it against Mikhail's forehead.
"Give me, THE FUCKING MONEY." the man ordered.
Mikhail slowly turned to the cash register, and shakily turned the drawer key. He held his breath as the key sheared off in the hole. He turned back to the man, holding the end of the key, still attached to the pink plastic hair tie.
"I-I can't." he stammered, raising his hands.
The man paused for a second before slamming the grip of his pistol against Mikhail's skull, knocking him out of his seat. Mikhail scrambled against the wall, holding his hand out towards his attacker, who had not leveled the weapon at his head again.
"Wait, wait, wait! Let me try again!" Mikhail begged.
The man looked down at him, then out the window, and back to Mikhail.
"I don't wanna do this you, man. You need to give me the fucking money, or I have to shoot you, and thats my only way in. That's the only way they let me in!" the man urged.
"What?! What the fuck are you talking about?!" Mikhail shouted, reaching up to touch where the man had struck him. He could feel the blood in his hair.
"Get up! Open the god damn drawer!" the man shouted, grabbing Mikhail by the collar and pulling him toward the register.
Mikhail scrambled to his feet and desperately tried to remember how to open the register without the key. Out of desperation, he grabbed the register and slammed it onto the floor.
A loud bang echoed through the room, followed by the soft ding of the cash drawer opening. The smoke from the barrel of the gun rose slowly as Mikhail looked at his killer, who looked back at him with an expression of sadness and shock. Mikhail felt the sharp pain in his chest where the terrified man had shot him, fully believing Mikhail was trying to throw the register at him. Mikhail let out a gurgling gasp as he sat down on the little office chair he had so vainly spent the last six months of his life sitting on.
"I'm sorry." the man whispered, stooping down to collect the blood spattered bills that had fallen from the cash drawer, before dashing out the door, leaving Mikhail to die.
For once in his life, Mikhail actually gave a shit. He fumbled for his phone, and dialed 333.
"Triple three, what's your emergency?" the dispatcher asked.
"I…I'm shot. Laundromat on….Zikov Street. 450 D Zikov. Please." he gasped the words between labored breaths.
"Sir, stay on the line, an ambulance is on its way. I'm gonna need you to keep talking to me, ok?" the dispatcher urged.
"Mhm. Ok." Mikhail answered.
"Sir, where have you been shot?" the dispatcher asked.
Mikhail looked down at the spreading bloodstain on his shirt, right next to his heart.
"In my ch-chest. It f-feels heavy." he answered, his head beginning to nod. The pain in his chest was already turning to more of a feeling of pressure, building inside. He felt faint, and wasn't sure what was happening.
"Ok, sir. The ambulance should be there soon, just hang on." the dispatcher urged him, the alarm in her voice almost enough to convince him.
"Y-yeah…o-o-o-kaaaaaaay….." he trailed off, letting the phone fall from his hand. He was fading. He could hear the sirens in the distance, but he knew this was it for him. He turned to face the TV.
The ambulance did not make it in time to save his life. An officer had to hold Mikhail's father as he wept for his slain son, the victim of a gang initiation. In his final moments, Mikhail had nothing but regrets and anger towards a life left unlived. He was buried next to his mother on a foggy Thursday, destined to never live the life that his family wanted for him.