It was about seven years ago. I was an average student then, studying quietly and having fun. I had a girlfriend, Yulka. A typical law student, basically.
We lived in a dorm at first, then even moved in together and rented an apartment.
As I said, we led a free, student-like life. And one day, Yulka and I rushed off to a concert. Some little-known band was coming. I don't really remember the name or the repertoire. I remember the guy there was skinny, and a girl singing backup. I don't even remember the club. We went there for the first time. We were walking back from Yulka's parents' house, saw a crowd outside, and decided to go in.
The concert started in the evening, lasted a long time, and we wanted to take a taxi home.
So, that's it. We're standing by the stage, listening, and the crowd keeps piling up, more and more of them. Suddenly, the bass starts playing a calm, playful melody. We move closer and closer to the stage, and the melody gets louder, and the skinny guy is singing, and the girl is backing him up. I stand there, mesmerized, watching, listening. Yulka keeps moving forward. Well, I think she's going to climb up on stage, to the skinny guy.
I woke up to Yulka's steady, steady scream.
I looked back at the sound and saw the roof of the high-rise building next to our dorm. I looked down—Yulka was already lying there, all five liters of her left on the pavement. Then I don't remember anything again.
I finally came to my senses in the ambulance room, under the gun of a nurse with smelling salts.
They didn't save Yulka. No band was coming that day. And what's more, we never even had a club like that.
What happened back then—who knows. The official police report was that I brought her to the roof and then threw her off.
My Yulka, off the roof...
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