"I'm pregnant!" she said. She blurted it out in one breath, having been preparing for it for a long time. Fragile and petite, she might seem defenseless and inexperienced. And yet, a whore for money. Experienced. Shapely and dainty. That fetched a higher price. She was caught. Fuck! They forgot about protection! She got carried away by the moment, and now she regretted it. Regret after the fact is the most pathetic. Him? A businessman, two children, a mansion... He didn't give a damn about any whores he fucked. His reaction was predictable... He was irresponsible. Or rather, he wasn't responsible for her. Sure, he cared about his family, about raising his children properly. But not her. She didn't exist. She couldn't expect anything from him. She knew... He was irresponsible, but he paid well for it. They forgot about protection... A slip-up. Not his slip-up! It was her slip-up and hers alone. Hers. Not his. He had nothing to do with it. The fault was hers, he had nothing to do with it. And everyone knew it. Wherever she went, she would learn the same thing. She should have stopped whoring without protection.
A blow. Her face hurt, her pride hurt, her heart ached? Does anyone like that still have a heart? A teenager drained of knowledge—heartless. Such people can't have hearts. (God! Do you hear? Comforter of the afflicted...!) The kiss gave her a black eye. Automatically, her hand went to her stomach. Her... treasure? Bullshit. More like a problem. A problem.
"It's none of my business, bitch!" That was all, that was all. A few words—bitter, sharp, utterly meaningless—ended her life, the young life of a seventeen-year-old. All that remained was the certainty that she would never see him again. He would no longer sponsor her. He would no longer dress her in fashionable finery, take her to restaurants, on business trips, boast to his friends, or even have sex with her...
She was left alone, completely alone, and had to make a decision on her own. A difficult one. As always. When someone needs you, they're not there. It's always like that. There's no helping hand these days. Unless you're the one who pulls you out of trouble. Oh yes! Pull yourself out of trouble only to get yourself into even bigger trouble... Decisions always have consequences. They have consequences. That's all. Consequences. Have you forgotten? There's such a thing... Every action, every step, everything you've done is important. And you're responsible for it. No matter what she decides, that decision will affect her life, her future. After all, each of us has a future, a damned, gray future with no prospects. But you can always offer comfort, "You have a future ahead of you"—the pointlessness of comforting her. If she kills, it will haunt her for the rest of her life. After all, that little baby isn't guilty of anything... Of course, she's guilty of nothing, nothing except her mother's failure. The failure of another human being. And that's nothing unusual these days. Every day someone passes away, falls into decline, and what about us? We pass by indifferently, just not too close, so as not to become an unwitting witness. So as not to accidentally help... After all, they say death is death. She was superstitious. Perhaps it's silly, but still. And if she gives birth...—no! She can't do that, she's too young, she's incapable of being a mother. And she won't be able to work. If she decides to give birth, who will help her survive those nine months? She'll lose her figure. The cost of living will double. Even those simple numbers appealed to her. Times two... Times two... Times two... No one will support her for those nine months. No one will sponsor her. She'll be alone... alone... saamaa... The words echoed in her head. These days, we're all alone. Alone in the "big city," among people, alone with ourselves. No one will hook up with a pregnant whore. Because that was the only way to put it.
She lived in the attic of an old house slated for demolition. The building was in a terrible state. The roof leaked, and the wind seeped in through every crack. In the summer, however, the heat was relentless. A house, a house. Thousands of such houses, here and there. You can find them everywhere. Neglected, their glory days behind them. Beloved homes of the residents—with a hole in the roof. With a leaky pipe. Slated for demolition. But they are there. And they are... And they will be... Sentiment.
She no longer had her parents. She'd forgotten about them since they'd told her to leave the house two years ago. The fight was terrible, and it was about a boy. Apparently, great love... He left, leaving her in the attic. Pride wouldn't let her return to her parents. At least it reinforced the statistics; after all, one in four children had run away from home at some point, fights were a daily occurrence in almost every home, and disagreements were always present in everyone. And thousands of children—small children—who preferred life on the streets to living under the same roof as their father or mother. Statistics. They're not scary. Not anymore. Was he having a hard time at home? Maybe he'd be better off on the streets. He'd learn to live. He'd get a taste of independence. And then there's belated regret. Fuck you with your regret. Too late. There's no such thing as forgiveness, not after what happened. Too late.
Next parts coming soon :)
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