Creatures of the night
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– Is it to me? – the man asked modestly.
– Like you don’t know! – I grinned.
Having understood what I want, my interlocutor began to spread obediently a tragic story. Having listened to it, I learned the sea of the interesting facts. It appeared that Sergey Sokolov’s daughter not his native. It wasn’t secret. The matter is that the child’s mother, young eighteen-year-old Darya was disgraced by some guy. When Sergey learned about it, found the bastard and punished, but made it accidentally. Court recognized murder on imprudence and sentenced him for five years. When Sokolov was released, Dasha wasn’t alive any more. After violation she became pregnant. It appeared that having given birth to the child, Dasha couldn’t reconcile to that fate which she had to test and committed suicide, having jumped off from the fifth floor. This height was enough that from the young woman there was a big red spot on asphalt. The child’s grandmother on the fatherly line became the trustee of the newborn girl. After releasing from imprisonment places, Sokolov didn’t hurry to take part in education of the girl, or at least to help the mother with it. Instead the man began to drink much. He took out all valuable things from the house. So to speak, he filled with alcohol the immortal grief. Dasha was Sergey’s love, and he loved her very much. He told the friend Valentin more than once about the dreams in which he is visited by dear Dashenka and she calls him with herself.
– And after all, the little girl was young, only eighteen years, – Valentin Mikhaylovich added, having sent a thoughtful look to a floor.
– Were they married?
– Yes, they were. Sokolov was older than the Dashka for ten years. But it’s said, all age are obedient to love.
Later half a year, after Sokolov’s release, his mother got a heart attack which was promoted diligently a grief by the killed sonny, the ungrateful egoist. As a result, the girl lost her grandmother who died directly at home as there was nobody to call an ambulance. The five-year-old child was sent to orphanage. For that time Sokolov was already deprived of the parental rights. And everything ended with that the little girl wasn’t necessary to the only remained native person, on the earth. What to speak, in the world didn’t remain the person whom the child in general somehow interested.
– In which orphanage the girl is?
– I have no concept, – Valentin Mikhaylovich shrugged shoulders. – She was taken away more than three years ago, just when the grandma died.
Looking at the interlocutor, I feel hostility and even hatred to him and to the girl’s father. This indifference, this self-love simply enraged. It is simple to these fiddleheaded alcoholics to spit on all except themselves. But that is already not present in live, he was responsible for the behavior. Now I am not sorry for killing Sokolov Sergey. And that pendent that he so carefully stored, now doesn’t say about anything to me unless how he grieved for the suicide-wife and he dreamed of death.
– Guy, beer ended, – Valentin told and carefree smiled. – Listen, I can tell Sokolov’s address.
The man got the grown old rumpled tram ticket from a breast pocket.
– Is anybody has a pen? – he asked loudly to the visitors of bar. And right there the simple pencil ground to the small sizes departed to its party and fell to it under feet. – Thanks, friends.
Valentin Mikhaylovich lifted a pencil from a floor and scratched something on the ticket. After, I stretched it to me. I didn’t manage to read note contents as on the street the alarm system outside raised a howl.
Having jumped out of bar, I began to look around, didn’t stop a look till I got the car. Before eyes the shocking picture appeared. On a back wheel of brand new Lexus the type which I initially faced before getting in bar started up a stream. On the street still there was that company, and it with pride watched “feat” of the cranky friend.
– What are you doing? – I shouted maliciously to him, then approached and pushed away from the car.
Being unsteady and faltering the offender of my transport jumped aside.
– You went nuts, – he began to roar with a drunk voice.
Meanwhile I inspected a bumper of the car on which there were wet spots too which appeared thanks to this “the pissing boy”.
– I will show you, son of a bitch …, – sounded nearby.
Having turned back, I right there managed to evade from the fist flying to my party. From running start the man fell to the ground and tore apart to himself an elbow about asphalt. He began to roar from pain, talking smut in my address. But I didn’t catch these words as it was occupied with something. His blood! His blood! His blood! The head stopped only on it. I am not hungry, but this liquid simply dements. And his hands are soiled by it.
– You are a freak, asshole, a stupid motherfucker, – hysterical growled the man.
– Hey, you don’t want to apologize? – the female voice shouted. And right there on eyes there was a lady with a mohawk.
There was such feeling as if I am the animal driven into a corner. In total because of the blood which flowed out from a wound of this type. He sat, having grabbed the torn apart elbow, rocking forward, back. I felt as eyes became covered by a black film. You know what feelings I give out it? As if the sharp needle entering more deeply and more deeply sticks into the center of a pupil.
– What’s wrong with you, guy? You are crazy? – the same woman told.
Well, no one called me crazy yet. When there come such moments, I can’t simply control myself and the acts. Don’t think that I am really crazy and the washed-up freak. Get it, I am an animal, a predator.
– What did you say there? – I asked silently.
– The fucking loony, look what you made with him.
– I didn’t even touch him, – quiet and laconically I said, approaching closer.
– Hey, steer clear better, – with an easy fright in the eyes the woman with a freak hairdress uttered.
– And so what? – even more silently as if I was inhaling a smell of rose told and doing it a compliment.
– Zhora, it he that, runs, perhaps on me? – the excited lady opened a dribbling mouth.
– You thrust, – the wounded man said whom now as I understood, call Zhora. He rose from a sitting position, and went to me. Other part of their company silently watched the events, being in a shadow and drinking beer from bottles.
– Is it visible little for you?
– It now won’t seem to you a little.
Everything occurred literally for some seconds. The type again flew on me with fists, and I again evaded, twisted his hands and threw on the earth. He fell and fainted.
– What have you done? – his girlfriend began to yell and jumped up to the Zhora.
– Don’t cry, he’s alive, – I threw, having opened a car door.
Having sat down in salon, I got a piece of paper which to me was given by Valentin Mikhaylovich from a pocket. On it he wrote the address of the house of Sokolov Sergey. Reading a small note took away from me no more than five seconds.