Death and the Everyday

Данил Гришко

Death and the Everyday

Dear reader!

Thank you for deciding to read my book. I am very grateful for this, and hope that you will enjoy this experience.

This is the first complete story written by my hand, created for many reasons, including entertainment, self-determination and, most importantly, a warning to any of the creators and artists out there throughout the world and times that will pass.

I wish I could leave here the names of many friends and family members for you to read, but the truth is there is none that I could mention. There were of course those who read some of the chapters, and gave their criticisms and comments regarding this story, and I thanked each and every one of them in person. The reason I even mention this is not to receive pity, or to express any inner pain, but to remind to everyone that very often, we have to learn to overcome the trials on our own, or face the negligence and betrayals from those we care for. The important part is to never surrender, and divert your focus to other things and other people, because no matter what, there is much good in the world around us.

That said, I wish you a good fortune and pleasant time with this book and beyond it!

I hope you enjoy the book. Danil Grishko

Obsession.

Control over chaos,

Solitude through pain,

Determination over surrender,

Life over existence,

Obsession…with the dream.

Chapter 1: Sleepless Night

***

Through the fogged-up window, lights are visible, flashing before my eyes one after another. An empty bus hurtles through the night city, completing its final route. I can barely keep my eyes open, my legs feel weak and my hands refuse to obey altogether.

“Keep it together, girl,” I whisper to myself. “Focus. Do not fall asleep. Do not fall asleep…”

It is always like this in the evenings. On top of it all, blindness sets in — a consequence of a hard day's work. This shift took longer than usual, thankfully, my employer gave me money for the bus, and a bag of food, so that I would not have to cook when I get home. A kind gesture, but I doubt that I will get a chance to eat, before collapsing on the bed. The most important thing right now is not to fall asleep, because no one will give me a ride back, and to hobble home on foot means arriving late in the middle of the night, not getting enough sleep, and waking up in the morning with savage fatigue, guaranteeing myself a horrible work day.

Finally, through a wiped-clear part of the glass, a bus stop comes into view. I look at the driver who lazily glances into the cabin via the rear view mirror, and seeing the last passenger getting ready to leave, he begins to brake, gradually pulling off the road. Jumping out through the door, I almost land in a dirty puddle, but luckily miss, and wet shoes do not get added to the list of tomorrow morning's problems. This night feels especially cold, made worse by fatigue and hunger.

I walk the street, barely moving my feet. Drizzle hits my face. But it is of no trouble, because I am nearing the apartments, to my lovely neighbors – either silent and apathetic or loud and unruly. The only friend I have here is Uncle Vasya, who must have gotten drunk – his armchair on the street is empty, and in the evenings, he either drinks in his apartment, or gazes at the night sky, sitting in his favorite chair, so it is clear which one he chose today. That is one of the many reasons I hate cold weather. People shut themselves in their holes, alone with themselves, their own thoughts, pains and failures. These are the last days of the autumn. Within the week, it will be winter, and it will get much colder…

Entering the building, I feel a surge of helpless rage – the elevator is out of order. I climb the stairs to the eighth floor. The anger pushes my legs forward. The climb lasts an eternity. Finally reaching the apartment door, I unlock it and go inside. I close the door and leave the keys in the lock, so I will not have to look for them in the morning. Tossing the bag with food and my work clothes on the floor, I take off my shoes and slowly drag myself to the bedroom, where an unmade bed awaits me. Cool and rumpled, it promises blissful, dreamless sleep. I spend the last of my strength on a trip to the shower. The hot water washes away the industrial smell, the layers of dust mixed with oil, and the flakes of dead skin. All that filth flows down the drain, yet tomorrow, it will find its way back onto my body.

Looking in the mirror, I see a bloated body. I was thinner once, with better proportions – my face was thin, my breasts were smaller yet better shaped, and I had little fat on my belly. The organism adapts to hard labor far too quickly, and as a result, folds of fat appear. Ah, and not so long ago, I could look into it and feel pride, for myself and that time spent in the gym. But that was a different time, the time of student years, a time of expectations and hopes. I cut my hair short long ago, to adhere to safety regulations, dying at the factory was never the peak of my ambition. But I miss the hair, long, black as a crow’s feather. They were beautiful and fitting to my blue eyes. And now, there is grey in my hair and bags under my eyes.

I take my old bathrobe with flowers and walk out of the bathroom. My back, as always, is wet, because when your muscles hurt, it is difficult to dry it properly. Today's shift was truly hard, leaving behind this terrible exhaustion that frightens me. Naive youngsters often believe that fatigue leads to sleep, unaware of the trials of adult life, when overworking can hinder sleep, or rob you of it entirely. As I walk into the bedroom, my eyes immediately fall on the canvas standing in the dark corner. “The Masterpiece” stands hopelessly dormant, and its hibernation resembles a coma. I cannot even remember the last time I worked on it. The brush and palette have long been covered in dust.

“Dreams, covered in dust,” the voice in my head whispers.

I lie down thinking about all that has been happening. I began to work when I left my family behind. I wanted to devote myself to something grand, something that would allow me to claw my way out of this abyss of poverty and achieve my dream. But in time, the work began to take it’s toll, and my sketches brought me no pleasure whatsoever. I could not subject imperfect creations, brought into life without proper work and inspiration, to the world's eyes. And just like that, the idea of The Masterpiece was born. It was meant to be my first ultimate work, one that would shutter the critics and impress all who would gaze upon it. Something that would bring me money, fame and recognition. Something that would give my life meaning, turning mere existence into something more. Something to be enjoyed and celebrated, instead of clung to. Yet, over time, even that idea was not strong enough to fight the exhaustion of flesh, and the weariness of spirit. And just like so many others, I was drawn into working my fingers to the bone, neglecting my dreams in favor of “reality”…

Just like my parents wanted me to.

If there was any strength left in this body, a wave of laughter would have washed over it. The times were difficult, and I had no other places to go. No other places where money, even if little, would come in the same amounts – if it would come at all. Many simple workers were cheated, their salaries stolen, while their work and time were irretrievable. I tried to run away from such a life, and I never wanted to be in sport or to become someone’s secretary. I wanted to be more. Yet if I were to return to painting, I would have to abandon my work at the factory – something I have thought of many times, yet never gone through with. Because it is impossible to create when your mind is muddied by the long day, and your body trembles even at simple movements. Still, it is even more difficult to paint when you have nothing to eat. I remain at the failing production facility that once brought money to everyone connected to it. Now wages were delayed, foremen and shop managers are quitting, and all the former directors are constantly looking for ways to make money quickly and disappear into the sunset.

Sleep will not come. This is one of those nights where you must toss and turn, feeling the heat on a crumpled pillow, until you manage to sleep for one or two hours. Tomorrow is the last day before the weekends. Maybe I can pretend to be busy with intense work activity. Stepanych – the foreman of the factory will surely be drunk first thing in the morning. The main thing is to bother him first, pester him with questions, and he will stop bugging me with his useless tasks himself. In my mind’s eye, I can see his fat unshaved face, wrinkles on his face since he turned fifty, the stench of garlic and alcohol, his lustful smile. Oh, how many times he has tried to get me in his bed, with promises of what a good lover he is, of how it might affect my envelope with money. I remember the anger and disappointment in his face, when I tell him…

“If I wanted to sleep with men for money, I would have chosen someone richer and better looking.”

The old bastard never got over it – the anger and desire for me were still eating away at him. Even after two years of hard labor, after my body became what it is, he still yearns for it.

“He despises you because he is unhappy, and because he doesn’t know the value of labor.”

The Voice is quiet. It sounds like my own, but it is not. I must not answer. Otherwise, the neighbors will hear.

“They managed to get drunk before you showed up and can’t hear a thing anymore. That ugly hag, with her drink-sodden face, is snoring loud enough for the whole apartment block to hear.”

Loud snoring is indeed coming from the next apartment. It is her, because her latest “intended” is a scrawny guy unlikely to have such large lungs.

“And the quiet old lady downstairs is sleeping like a baby. She never makes any noise. Doesn't even watch TV. I wonder what she does at home all day? Stares out the window? Watches how happy others are, while trying to feel at least a fragment of their joy?”

“I need to sleep,” I say quietly, so that none will accidentally hear the conversation.

“No,” the voice responds, harshly. “You need to think. You’re tired and sleep won’t come. Why is It standing there abandoned?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know What I’m talking about. The Dream. The Way Out. The Promise of Paradise. The Masterpiece. You think about it every day, and yet you do not act upon these thoughts. How much suffering will this existence provide before you see that only through work, through emotion, can you break these rusted chains of slavery?”

“I’m tired. I need to sleep. Please, let me sleep.”

“You want to rest before work, where you are a nobody, where they pay you scraps of what they make, where you must endure a despotic alcoholic, who has you naked in his filthy sweaty head. You need to wipe the canvas and brush, buy new paints, and show everyone what you’re capable of. But most importantly, you need to free yourself from the shackles of poverty that bind the unworthy! Look upon it! Look upon your work!”

I sigh and get my feet on the cold wooden floor, taking a few steps towards the painting. There is so much missing here. It is merely started. Yet, here is passion, an idea, the colors of red that are reflected in the moonlight that is coming from the window that is behind me. This painting is beautiful.

“It has such promise. Just like you.”

“Yes. But it needs more work. Lots more work… And I’m not ready. My mind is dulled and swelling with anger.”

“EXCUSES. You keep running, but is death in poverty really better than falling from the skies?...”

“It’s not,” I admit quietly. “But what can I do?”

“These weekends. This is your chance to start again.”

“I wanted to rest from it all. I’m so tired. After all, it is my…”

“Is it more important than The Masterpiece? Is resting and celebrating all by yourself more important than your LIFE’S WORK?”

I go back to bed and fall upon it.

“…I need to rest.”

These were the last of my thoughts, before I finally fell into the darkness of my tired and wounded mind.

Chapter 2: Just Another Day

***

Upon waking, the first thing my eyes see is “The Masterpiece.” In the morning’s dim light, it seems somewhat mysterious, as if a landscape surrounded by fog, or an ancient beast in deep slumber. I wish I could dispel the fog, I wish I could awaken the beast. The Voice begins to cackle in my head, as if to mock me for my inaction. Anger fills me, driving away the last remnants of sleep.

The alarm hasn't gone off yet, but that moment is not far away, and an unpleasant anticipation hangs in the air, preventing true relaxation. Images from the past flash in my head: tea parties with friends, watching movies, a picnic by the river with meat and guitar… Things were so good back then. There was laughter, and simplicity. People cared for each other, when they had no obligations and no families. We dreamt together.

Not anymore.

The alarm rings. The workday is waiting. I get up, put on the work pants that are stained with black, oily spots, a t-shirt, and the sweater that is still wet from the washing – but with this cold, it is still better than nothing. While making myself some hot, cheap coffee, I hear something. An unintelligible whisper. Perhaps it is time to think about restarting the course of pills, or I will go insane. I don’t want to consume them. They are expensive, and aside from the intended effects – quieting my thoughts, distorting my artistic abilities, twisting my thoughts and memories – they would bring me some measure of peace. And wash away that ever-present feeling that everything is lost.

I leave my apartment and step out into the cold street. Getting to work in the morning is quite the adventure. The path leads through an abandoned park and railway tracks where wild dogs often run. Seeing them, I always remember Bublik – the dog I grew up with. He always wagged his tail and ran to greet me, even when he got very old, when his hearing dulled and his sick paws wouldn’t let him run. Even through the veil of senile weakness, every dog remains a curious and kind puppy. Tears well up in my eyes, and I start muttering under my breath.

“My friend. My only faithful friend…”

Climbing up the hill, I finally reach the road where the enterprise is located. Nearby is the pharmacy, and it is open. Making sure that no one else is in sight, I run forward, basically storming in. No one saw me, I think. The young girl who stands behind the counter looks at me with her eyes wide. I smile at her to soothe her fear that I might be some drug-addicted filth. Her disposition changes once she sees my smile. I wish her a good morning and ask for the medicine I need.

“Yes, we do have them,” she answers politely, with the same smile. “Could you please show me the prescription?”

I nod and show her the prescription from my pocket. The piece of paper is a bit torn from previous use. She looks at it, then nods, and gives me the pills. I also ask for water, then I pay, and immediately take my pills – those meant to quell all dark thoughts. It will take a couple of days before the blessed silence returns to my head.

“And then what? There will be headaches, the lack of thinking, the inability to finish The Masterpiece. Is it worth it? This life that does not bring you joy or happiness?”

I walk into the large grey building, and walk through it, reaching the dressing room. As I change and look at my body once again, I feel disgust. The anger starts to build within me. When I go out, Stepanych is waiting for me outside, and starts boozing first thing in the morning.

“You better get to work, come on. You come here and wait until it strikes eight? If you started now, you'd get more done. And then you talk about some salary… If you laze about, I won’t mark this shift.”

Anger fills me, and the Voice in my head sneers.

“He walks home along the tree line. There are no cameras there. No witnesses. Scuff the soles, wear shoes a size bigger… THEN STAB HIM! AGAIN, AND AGAIN! MAKE HIM CRY, MAKE HIM SCREAM!... Then take his belongings and go home through the night. No one will know it was you. Another robbery in the times of desperation and need.”

Stepanych is missing a couple of teeth, and those that remain have plaque on them that comes from cigarettes and cheap coffee. He desperately wants to think that he is a man, but in my eyes, he is a pathetic clown and alcoholic who beats his wife and kids, a cheating bastard who would copulate with anyone who'd spread their legs for him.

I walk away from him in silence, and from what started in my head. I will get some water and get to work. Welding is not something I wanted to do in life. Many welders have problems with vision, and that scares me enough to always use the welding helmet, no matter how quick the process might be. I cannot risk my sight – the sight that allows me to paint. And yet there is always a risk here. So why did I choose this? Why do I risk my dream for this? Is it even worth it?

“Those are the best thoughts you’ve had today. Perhaps you will see the error of your way.”

In the welding helmet, I can speak to myself freely.

“I need the work. To eat. To live.”

“This is not living, but existence. You are dying. A slow and rather painful death. Is that what you wanted when you abandoned those who did not believe in you? Is that why YOU were abandoned by those who did not believe in you?”

During the break, I chat with the men from production. At the meeting, the question of raising wages comes up. The classic lines sound: “times are tough,” “no shipments,” “no clients,” “we'll definitely raise it next year.” Then they ask for more loyalty, in response to which Valentin Viktorovich, who works here as a mechanic, shakes his fist, chanting:

“If you want loyalty, hire a dog!”

“Yeah, yeah,” the grinders support him. “You can’t eat loyalty, damn it! We've been waiting for years. How long can this go on? I’ve got a family to feed! My kids need new boots and jeans!”

The scariest thing is that in this city, you can count the enterprises on the fingers of one hand, and the conditions here aren’t the worst… The management knows this, but they also know that a collective revolt is quite likely, because here – there's a real brotherhood of workers, which, despite many attempts, no one has managed to break. Finding a replacement would be problematic, because Stepanych already tried that, and those he found were beaten in the night. Badly. The workers here are strong and desperate men. They carry the factory on their shoulders and will not let anyone else take their place. And so, the management has no choice but to make concessions: paid days off, and other joys. The proletariat resumes work, and the bourgeoisie retreats into the shadows, into their high offices, probably thinking about how to save more money.

Being an assistant at the metalworking bench, I had to learn little by little what Uncle Lyosha does. A gray-haired man in the sunset of his years, he drills, cuts, and shapes metal into a great many pieces of machinery. Even though his hands and face are covered in industrial oil, he feels no discomfort. On the contrary, he laughs, jokes, tells anecdotes that inevitably bring a smile to my face. Respect for him and the other men appeared almost from the first day of my work here. A sense of brotherhood, and the fact that each possesses a set of unique skills, gives at least some meaning to being here.

“Here, where? In that place where you are not valued? Or on this Earth, where you are also not valued?”

It has been going on for half a year now. The frustration grows, and the Voice is getting louder. And all these six months, I refuse to go see a doctor. The patient rarely admits that he has a problem, but I am afraid of something else – a certain diagnosis could cost me my job and my life. Being locked up in a medical facility, where I would be made into a vegetable and a toy for the staff. Or if the diagnosis is not that bad – becoming homeless, wandering the streets, because no one would want a “crazy” person at their workplace.

“You are correct. People don’t forgive. They don’t seek to understand those near them. And the ‘correctional’ system punishes and tortures. They don’t have patients. They have victims. Want to know what else is funny? They don’t even promise healing.”

“Indeed they don’t.”

“You saying something?” asks Uncle Lyosha.

Get a grip, you fool! These people are not your friends. They will betray you the first chance they get! Focus, Nastya! Breathe in, breathe out. These are just your thoughts. The others do not hear them.

“Nothing, Uncle Lyosh. Just thinking out loud.”

“Ah. Well, get on with it, I’m basically done already. You can clean up the place and go get changed.”

“Are you sure you don’t need any help?”

“I’m fine, dear. Go home and have a good nap, alright?”

Uncle Lyosha is a good guy, and I do need to clean up. A workstation is a reflection of the person and the worker. But why then do I feel anger? Not at him, but… At what?

“You were deceived with promises of a better life. Deceived by the necessity to study. But even after going through that path, you ended up in the same place as these wretches. You are similar, with one exception: you cannot accept it. You cannot hide or run away. This understanding is always with you. It devours you along with your rage.”

The hour passes, and it is time for another break. I never liked smoking, never tried doing it, yet I stand there, breathing air tinged with cigarette smoke. I feel Stepanych’s look on me, thinking of what to say. Why do fools always rush toward death and conflict?

“He sees you as a lonely girl. His wife is passive. He’s lost all interest in beating her or mating with her. You are a refreshment to him. A new body, to slam. A new spirit to break. He doesn’t know how far he missed...”

“So, Nastya, when are you going to leave? You’re a painter, right? Go paint something.”

I remember the day I spoke of this to them, and I regret it still. Most of them didn’t care at all, never sought to ask me about it, as if painting is something that anyone can do. And then there was Stepanych…

“Leave her alone, asshole,” Uncle Lyosha’s words are sharp. “Or I’ll bash your head with a wrench.”

“Yeah? You actually like working with her? I know a dozen boys who would do anything to be in her place.”

I feel my heart squeeze and my muscles tense. And yet I look at him and smile.

“Does your wife know about them boys, Stepushka?”

The men laugh, and the foreman’s face becomes red.

“I’d wash your tongue with soap, you lazy cow.”

“Maybe you should wash yourself. Then there will be more of them boys you like so much.”

The men laugh again. Stepanych becomes erratic. He cannot hide his anger, like I can. He may be a man, but he is weak. A drunk who got his job only because of his friendship with the factory’s owner.